So, this Southern Journal was published in August 2010,
it's called Staying Tuned,
and it was written by our very own Travel Editor,
Valerie Fraser Luesse.
So, I chose this Southern Journal
just because I connect to it on a personal level.
I can remember my grandfather playing me
what he considered the oldies,
and yeah, I think it's a great story.
Music can be the great generational divide in some families,
but it wasn't that way in mine.
True, Mama and Aunt Joyce never fully appreciated
the subtle nuances of Free Bird.
But let's be fair, that guitar solo does go on a tad long.
On the flip side, my cousins and I went through a phase
when we were way too cool for Wildwood Flower.
We're older and wiser now.
Even in our rocking youth,
we loved gathering around an old upright piano
to sing quartet songs with our aunts and uncles.
On a good day, I can still manage the tenor part
to Heaven Will Surely Be Worth It All.
And the older set at least tried to be interested in
what we were listening to.
I guess everybody just enjoyed
bringing something to the table
and letting the others have a taste.
Daddy taught me how to do the camel walk
to Patsy Cline's Walking After Midnight,
and he introduced us kids to the wonders of Louis Armstrong,
Ella Fitzgerald, and Big Band.
My mother has always loved gospel and Elvis.
Better yet, Elvis singing gospel.
My older cousin Richard was the resident authority
on rock, blues, and soul.
During his Beatles period,
he once came strolling into our grandmother's farmhouse
wearing love beads and a Nehru jacket.
Our mothers visibly shuddered,
and I knew exactly what they were thinking:
What on earth will we tell the preacher
if he tries to wear that hippie garb to church?
Of all the musicians we discovered,
the one I remember best was a young country singer
Richard had read about in Rolling Stone.
I guarantee he was the sole subscriber
in Harpersville, Alabama.
After a cute clerk at a Birmingham record store
sold him the album,
his sister and I huddled around
as he put it on the turntable.
Out of those speakers came the voice of Emmylou Harris,
baby brought me in out off the highway.
The song was Bluebird Wine,
and it was rockin' and twangin' and swingin',
all at the same time.
And we knew what we had to do next, play it for Uncle Bud.
In our family, Uncle Bud is
the undisputed authority on all country music,
and he doesn't waste his time on anything but the best.
We're talkin' Patsy, Hank, Dolly, Cash,
and the Carters, Sara, Maybelle,
as well as June and the girls.
None of this fly-by-night country-pop business.
Uncle Bud believes a great song should tell a great story,
and he maintains that not much worth singing
has ever been written since the Great Depression.
He knows every word to Long Black Veil.
Playing Emmylou for him
was sort of like rubbing pearls against your teeth
to make sure they're real.
We were reasonably certain we had a jewel,
but we wanted the opinion of a seasoned appraiser.
As we played him one song after another,
he went from a sly grin to a foot tap,
to his highest endorsement: "Now, that's a classic."
I'm not sure why we wanted our elders
to appreciate our music, and vice versa.
Maybe they liked the idea of passing down songs to us,
and we liked the idea of showing them
that they had taught us
how to find the good stuff on our own.
Not long ago, I was giving my 15-year-old cousin
a ride home from choir practice,
and he asked if he could choose the radio station.
The next thing I knew, we were driving down the highway
to some of my favorite songs from high school and college.
"You like my music?", I asked in surprise.
Terrific, now I'm the cool older cousin.
"Oh, yeah," he said, "I'm into classic rock."
Correction: Now, I'm a geezer.
(relaxed bluegrass music)
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