by Jessica Furui
There is absolutely no doubt that this year has been a challenging one. For so many, many reasons. And since it’s my month to write the blog piece I’ve decided to share some of my fond memories and experiences from my bluegrass world. A world that seems very, very far away from me at the moment. You see, I opened a small cafe in the North Beach (basically Little Italy) neighborhood of San Francisco in October of 2019. My musical life slowly started to wane in the months leading up to the opening. In fact, in a city notorious for ridiculous permit bureaucracy, our opening was delayed thereby allowing me to go on the yearly exodus that is Grass Valley and the California Bluegrass Association’s Fathers Day Bluegrass Festival.
As a 30-something bluegrass baby, my first bluegrass festival was back in 2012, if I remember correctly. I’d been wrangled in by my best friend to pick up an instrument like she had, less our “relationship suffer.” So I did what I’d always done, gone unabashedly into the unknown to make a fool of myself and bought a cheapo mandolin off the internet. Good ole Frankie. Soon enough, the girl who sang her way through summer camps and karaoke stages couldn’t hold a tune to save her life. So a guitar was bought. My trusty axes followed me wherever I went. At some point someone handed me a bass, and then I had my own personal band. Mediocre at best on all three! Ha!! But oh, the joy, the joy they brought to me.
All of a sudden I’d met a number of people I knew deep down that I’d know for the rest of my life. My world was cracked open like a coconut, finding the nourishment it never knew it needed in the music and community of bluegrass. There’s something magical about vulnerability. And there was something really sweet about being supported and encouraged along the way by these new found friends. I’d always been a ham. The class clown. I played Bessie the Cow in some elementary school play. The costume, complete with udders. I mean, there was literally nothing that scared me. But playing and singing was new territory. And like all things, one needed to practice to become better. Which I was really bad at!! But I found songs I liked, even loved. I found a connection to my paternal grandfather that I’d never met. Apparently he could play every bluegrass/old time instrument. Fiddle was his favorite though.
The striking simplicity of lyrics and music rang so pure and true in my soul. I discovered a music that could explain the heartache, the wonderings and wanderings of a person not yet delivered unto themselves. Someone not yet seated at their own table. I started to remember listening to classic country with my mom. Patsy Cline, Anne Murray. Some Randy Travis and Garth in the 90s. But we didn’t really get into bluegrass.
I remember the singular moment I’d been exposed to bluegrass in my days of youth. It was the sound of the open back banjo ringing down the hallway into my once-thought-of-sanctuary of a room. It was the banjo part of, you guessed it, Dueling Banjos. Oh dear lord, I thought. What in the!!! This was during the folk resurgence in the 80s when my mom tried to take up the banjo. But that came and went almost as quickly as the cheese dogs I was buying at the local mall on Saturdays.
One of the favorite things a mentor said to our core management team, “we aren’t always going to be together. What we have right now is special and it’s important that we cherish our time together as a team and learn as much as we can from each other, because what we have now isn’t going to last.” It’s times like now that I remember those words. Seeing how so many of my friends’ lives have changed. Moved, had kids, married, etcetera. I know how it will be like when in ten, fifteen, twenty years (if I’m lucky enough to get there) at the festivals, I’ll get to reconnect with a friend from my early bluegrass years. These past eight years have been such a journey, more a personal journey of self discovery through the music. Of course we have digital platforms and networks, but it’s not the same.
As this year slowly pulls itself away I think back to the sounds of the dirt under my tires as we pull into the campgrounds. The sounds of distant laughter under the pines. The silly one-liners from the old-timers. The hugs. Oh, the hugs. From friends near and far, coming together through music. Dancing John keeping the dance area damp so as to not kick up dust. Riding bikes after dark, the fun of guessing who the banjo was coming from a particular direction. Midnight hot dogs. The beer booth, selling tickets. “Can I have one ticket please?” “Sure, —a ticket to paradise? Parking ticket? You’ll have to be more specific.” laugh laugh laugh… Singing with my best friend. Watching each other smile while we sing. Crying to songs because of how lonesome they are. Crying watching your friends sing songs because of how beautiful the moment is. Crying knowing you have to go back to the “other world.”
All we have is each other. I hope and pray that we can move beyond these trying times sooner than later. Sending love from California.
