Testimonial
Why They Play
Lindsay Alf, granddaughter of 86-year-old guitarist James Scott, attended her first music night in Pontotoc, a small community outside of Llano, Texas. Impressed by the experience, she wrote a beautiful piece of prose while listening to the music. Lindsay captures the essence of "Why They Love to Play."
The Roots in Us All
A fiddle and a violin. They’re the same instrument but make completely different tunes. My mother told me it’s all in how you hold it, but it seems more to me that it’s all in the person who holds it. The movement of his hands decides gracefully and flawlessly what sound to produce. Put that fiddle in a small-town community center that amounts to a small wooden room and combine its sound with that of a rhythmic banjo or two, an acoustic guitar, a melodic mandolin and a piano, and you will come up with a room full of people, of whom the youngest was probably in his late thirties or early forties, all enjoying down-home, original country music. They all sit in folding chairs in the middle of the room, most either holding a cup or with their hands placed on their laps, with their feet tapping to the rhythm of the purest form of country ever known. Words do not leave the mouths of the musicians, but the harmony speaks to the mind and heart and fills them with memories from childhood.
The door swings open on multiple occasions and a few late comers wander in. They greet those already present with warm smiles, handshakes and hugs. These people have known each other most of their lives and live in a two-mile radius of red dirt and cactus deep in the beating and alive heart of Texas.
When words flow from the musicians, the audience begins to sing along. These are tunes and songs they grew up with, a good sixty years before my own time. Not much conversation goes on during the performance; they enjoy the music and provide their applause at the end of each tune.
The time I’ve been here, they’ve been talking about waiting until the windows show the darkness outside to play a particular song. As the sunlit sky turned dark, they started Hank William’s “I Saw The Light.” This was a song that even someone as young as I was could recognize. The humor in the timing of the song made me smile.
I smiled again as they began a new song and my uncle and aunt walked in. Our family was now five members strong in the room, and we were all enjoying ourselves. Especially me, a teenager from the city, writing about an event that seems typical for a small country town. I find a sort of beauty in this type of twice-a-month tradition.
The clock on the wall had passed half an hour since the music began, but nobody here is watching the clock. Laughs come in the breaks between songs as the musicians converse with their friends who sit and listen with smiling faces. A song request is made from the back row and out comes a Johnny Cash song. The mixture of gray and white heads in the room moves from side to side and bobs up and down to the beat.
The view outside the windows has darkened so much that not an object outside is discernable, but the brightness in the spirit of the music and the few light bulbs in the ceiling illuminate the room, and everybody’s spirit within.
Lindsay Alf
February 20, 2010
The door swings open on multiple occasions and a few late comers wander in. They greet those already present with warm smiles, handshakes and hugs. These people have known each other most of their lives and live in a two-mile radius of red dirt and cactus deep in the beating and alive heart of Texas.
When words flow from the musicians, the audience begins to sing along. These are tunes and songs they grew up with, a good sixty years before my own time. Not much conversation goes on during the performance; they enjoy the music and provide their applause at the end of each tune.
The time I’ve been here, they’ve been talking about waiting until the windows show the darkness outside to play a particular song. As the sunlit sky turned dark, they started Hank William’s “I Saw The Light.” This was a song that even someone as young as I was could recognize. The humor in the timing of the song made me smile.
I smiled again as they began a new song and my uncle and aunt walked in. Our family was now five members strong in the room, and we were all enjoying ourselves. Especially me, a teenager from the city, writing about an event that seems typical for a small country town. I find a sort of beauty in this type of twice-a-month tradition.
The clock on the wall had passed half an hour since the music began, but nobody here is watching the clock. Laughs come in the breaks between songs as the musicians converse with their friends who sit and listen with smiling faces. A song request is made from the back row and out comes a Johnny Cash song. The mixture of gray and white heads in the room moves from side to side and bobs up and down to the beat.
The view outside the windows has darkened so much that not an object outside is discernable, but the brightness in the spirit of the music and the few light bulbs in the ceiling illuminate the room, and everybody’s spirit within.
Lindsay Alf
February 20, 2010
