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suitsstandingbeforeold-timeyWSMmicrophonesasiftheywerefrozenbackin the black-and-white ’40s. “If you go, go up and talk to Doc Watson,” Grady said. “I may. I always wanted to know where he got that arrangement for ‘Sitting on Top of the World.’” “He got it off that old record by the Mississippi Sheiks.” “I heard that record. That’s not the arrangement.” “Well, hell. Just go up and ask him. Walk right up to him, he’ll tell you. He’s not stuck up like a lot of them are. He’s a hell of a nice guy.” “Well, he’s blind. Maybe that makes him a little more approachable.” “A blind man can be a prick the same as anybody else,” he said. “He’s just a hell of a nice guy.” EarlyinthemorningofOctober23,1985,Arthel“Doc”Watsonreceivedtheworst newsafathercanget:Hissonwasdead.EddyMerleWatsonhadbeenplowingon a steep hillside when the tractor he was driving overturned and rolled on him. It was a blow that Doc almost did not recover from. It was a blow that resonatedonanumberoflevels :Asidefromtheincalculablelossofachild,Dochad lost a friend and a fellow musician. For a time it seemed he might even lose the music as well, because Merle and Doc and the music were one. In 1964, when he was fourteen, Merle had learned to play guitar while his fatherwasaway.HehadlearnedtoplayitsowellthatwhenDocwentbackonthe road, Merle went with him. That fall they played the Berkeley Folk Festival, and he was all over the place on Doc’s next album, Southbound. They toured and recordedtogetherforthenexttwenty-oneyears,rightuptothatmorningin1985. Merle became a proficient blues guitarist, and some of the albums subtly reflecthisloveforthegenre.Buthecouldpickflattopguitarwiththebestofthem, and he could frail the banjo in the style of country performers like Uncle Dave Macon. When he died he was a few days away from winning Frets magazine’s Bluegrass Picker of the Year award. In what may be one of the few purely altruistic gestures in the music business , a handful of folks decided to do something. A friend of Doc’s, Bill Young, togetherwith“B”TownesandAlaSueWyke,approachedDocwithaproposition. Townes is Dean of Resource Development at Wilkes Community College, in Wilkesboro, North Carolina, and the three of them convinced Doc to play a benefitconcertonthecampus .Thefundsraisedwouldbeusedtocreateamemorial garden in Merle’s honor. Docagreed,andafewofMerle’sfriends,includingthebanjoistTimO’Brien, volunteeredtheirtimeandendedupplayingfromthebedsoftwoflatbedtrucks. That was the first MerleFest, in 1988. By contrast, the festival in 1999, while stillheldonthecollegecampus,wasavastsprawloftentsandstagesandconces126 THE OXFORD AMERICAN 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 126 sionsaccommodatingmorethanahundredperformersandoversixty-twothousand people in the audience. There was not a flatbed truck in sight. The first night of the festival was cold and rainy, but the performances went on inside tents, where hundreds of folding chairs were arranged in rows. When you came out of the tents, the wind would be blowing and the rain would sting your face,butnobodyseemedtomind.Earliertherehadbeenalittlegrumblingwhen theperformerlisthadbeenreleased:HootieandtheBlowfish?SteveEarle?These were not the descendants of Bill Monroe. Earle had been touring with the bluegrassgreatDelMcCoury ,buttherewasaloose-cannonqualityabouthim,andhe was a lot more edgy and confrontational than, say, Ralph Stanley. Butnevermind.Thisaudiencecouldtakeitinstride.Theyhadcometohave a good time, and by God they were going to have a good time. Thereisakindof bondbetweenparticipantandobserver;commonheritage maybe,theunspokenreverenceforcertainvalues:family,home,andthetattered remains of the American Dream. Disparate elements of the audience mingled as easily as Freemasons meeting far from home and exchanging the password. Except here no password was needed. The fact that you were here seemed password enough. The second day was sunny and as perfect as days in April get, and the shuttles were busy early ferrying folks down to the main gate. The parking lot is amileorsofromthefestival,andbusescarryfestival-goersdownawindingroad to the entrance. Watching this potential audience disembark, you are struck by the fact that there seems to be no type, no average, and that many spectrums of America are represented: middle-aged hippies and their new-SUV-driving yuppieoffspring ;farmersandfarmers’wives;factory-workers;thewell-offinexpensiveoutdoorgearfromL .L.Bean;andlonghairedyoungmeninbeardsandfool’s motley who seem determined to be ready should the ’60s clock in again. Andjustasyouareabouttodecidethatthereisnocommonelementamong thespectators,younoticethepercentageofpeoplecarryinginstruments.Guitars andbanjosinhardshells.CasedfiddlestuckedunderthearmandGodknowshow many harmonicas pocketed like concealed weapons. You don’t see this at a rock concert or at the Grand Ole Opry, folks coming equipped to make their own music should the need arise. But bluegrass is widely perceived as handmade music, as opposed to, say, the output of the song factories onNashville’sMusicRow.Thepeoplewholovebluegrassloveitenoughtolearnto play it, and they are intensely loyal—to the music, to the performers, and to one another. That love of music is the common factor, the source of the brotherhood. Wandering past tents and the open-air stages, you hear it...

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