But the latest cassettes have been recordings of mountain folk singing their old old ballads. These Appalachian ballads are sung by old people living in hollows and valleys who I am certain have warm, crinkly kind eyes and richly lined faces and smile lines. But the ballads themselves remind me a lot of Grimm's fairy tales. Meant to teach something moral in a horrifying way. But the latest one was about a man who stuck pins and needles into babies and then drowned them in bath tubs. Not clear what was being taught there.
About seven minutes into the tape, the scream of a little girl cut through the recording. I jumped in my chair, my cross-legged knees banging into the desk.The old woman stopped singing.
"Whachu cryn fer?"
Mumbled, muffled noise. I didn't hear the little girl speak.
More shuffling and the screaming stopped. The old woman began her ballad where she left off. A minute later, the little girl started screaming again. There weren't any giggles. A loud old man voice started shouting. Twenty five minutes of the woman's creepy ballad sung against a backdrop of a child's screams and an old man's shouts.
It was a really eerie thing. I still feel a bit unsettled about it. Listening to that recording reminds me of the weird, contradictory energy of the Appalachians.
The way a fierce, tight brutality runs in these people. It's un-rippable and it's coiling through stone and it's about making a home in an inhospitable place. The same way the relentless whip of the winter wind here scrapes and smacks everything into hard, bent shapes - -
- - these people have roots.
And then there's a summer night like tonight. Walking down King Street. That mountain. The way the light hits the green is incredible and soft. Old people in lawn chairs at the Jones House. Most of them don't have an expression on their face but they clap loudly and holler when the song ends. Their jaws hang open slightly cuz they don't care to stop what their bodies want to do anymore. The air tastes like laurel. Sweet, pressing harmonies that strain, rising for fifteen seconds and then finally finally rubbing up against each other. They make you smile and cock your head and then nod and you say, "damn" in a fragile way.
It was a really eerie thing. I still feel a bit unsettled about it. Listening to that recording reminds me of the weird, contradictory energy of the Appalachians.
The way a fierce, tight brutality runs in these people. It's un-rippable and it's coiling through stone and it's about making a home in an inhospitable place. The same way the relentless whip of the winter wind here scrapes and smacks everything into hard, bent shapes - -
- - these people have roots.
And then there's a summer night like tonight. Walking down King Street. That mountain. The way the light hits the green is incredible and soft. Old people in lawn chairs at the Jones House. Most of them don't have an expression on their face but they clap loudly and holler when the song ends. Their jaws hang open slightly cuz they don't care to stop what their bodies want to do anymore. The air tastes like laurel. Sweet, pressing harmonies that strain, rising for fifteen seconds and then finally finally rubbing up against each other. They make you smile and cock your head and then nod and you say, "damn" in a fragile way.
The band on the corner of Anna Banana's.
We drop our packs because they're doing a folksy version of "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore and somebody has bongos and the weirdness has a great beat. We almost start swing dancing but then the song ends. We thumbs up them and keep walking. Cut through hilly alleyways. A guy on a motorcycle almost runs us over. Speeds up when he sees us. Rudest guy in Boone. But we pushed to opposite sides of the street and laughed and for the next fifteen minutes you lamented that you didn't pull out your camera quicker. Would've made for a great picture. Hell, with this light everything would be a great picture.
We make it to the old venue across from char. Live big band and everything. Swing dance is one of the best things that's ever happened to me. To keep up, there's no room for self consciousness or thoughts. Body wisdom talks to your body wisdom and you kick your heels up and the smoothness is like the rush when you drop real quick on a roller coaster except more fun. It's a boh oh oh oh own thing.
Shuffle and stomp and toss your hair over a shoulder. Ponies. Eventually our hands get so sweaty that we lose our grip but it's okay we'll both just keep spinning and reaching out for each other.
Saxophones and trumpets and a classy lady voice cooes into the mic.
We dance and laugh when we try to make it sexy, try to match that sax that gets in through your toenails and works its way up up up.
Coffee ice cream and lots of water to wash down a really dizzy and stylish night.
Things hold on so tight here that sometimes you forget that a moment and a moment and a moment just happened until you don't.
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