DianeB

With the sun at my back, under a brilliant blue sky, once again I crossed the mountain ridge that divides Eastern and Central Time. It’s the most scenic section of eastern I-40. And it goes past quickly when you’re dropping from 2,000 feet. I landed in town in time for a leisurely lunch at a locals’ hangout, Brown’s Diner, a few blocks over from Gruhn’s. Fortunately it was a good day to dine on the patio, because the interior is not meant to attract the tourist crowd; if anything, it’s meant to deter it. But the house specialty burger was a treat, and my waitress was a delight, especially when she explained the intricacies of the latches on the ladies’ room door: “If ya get stuck in there, just give me a holler.” For once I had a free afternoon to hit the Frist Art Museum or the Adventure Science Center, but both are closed on Wednesdays. Sighhh. Brown’s is near the Vanderbilt campus, so I aimed for the little art gallery there, only to be defeated by the medical center/campus traffic. I bailed out and went to my hotel. Barb had just arrived in Mt. Juliet, a suburb an hour’s worth of rush hour traffic east of me. Dave and Keith were already at my hotel. So I met them for dinner at Bonefish Grill: shrimp, steak, scallops, mahi-mahi — dishes we were pretty sure would not be on the menu at Deer Run. Radar indicates Jim, Don, and Gary approaching from the north with a 100% probability of instrumentation at Gruhn’s around 11:00 in the morning. And so we begin, once more.

Six hundred miles behind me, and two hundred more to go. The signs on I-40 now point to Nashville. I’m in Knoxville tonight. The traveling has been smooth and the days mostly sunny so far. The Virginia Blue Ridge was gorgeous. It’s been a repeat of last year’s edition, with two big differences: no Amy with me this time (on the downside) but no car trouble right out of the gate (on the upside). I stopped by Lane Music again today, where manager Derek Harvey recognized me from last year. The purple sweatshirt probably gave me away. We commiserated about the state of the music business while I noodled on some Martins. Then it was off to Calhoun’s once more to lighten their load of smoked barbecue pork. Tomorrow, it’s over the ridge into the Cumberland valley.

Pat returned to Wilmington last night on a stop with his Dream Box/MoonDial tour, one of five consecutive nights in the northeast that will pause at Stern Auditorium at Carnegie Hall on Thursday. He said he was excited at the prospect of returning to Copeland Hall to test the acoustics of the show. Copeland Hall, the auditorium of the Grand Opera House complex, seats 1,140. It was built during Reconstruction, finished in 1876, and staged only one opera, if I recall my history correctly. Over the 40+ years I've been going there, I've heard many artists praise the acoustics. This was the 8th or 9th time I've seen Pat — I've lost track — and the first time purely solo. With no one else on stage, he felt free to chat far more than usual. The compositions were almost all acoustic, featuring his new baritone guitar. Playing solo, he made extensive use of his looper for bass lines. We got a taste of the Pikasso, his workhorse Fuji-Roland synthesizer, his Godin, and the Orchestrion. We expected a two hour show, but Pat just kept going. With two or three encores — people were headed for the door, then returned to their seats — he gave us almost another half hour. I marvel at that level of commitment.

It's a travel piece, but if you're thinking of visiting the mythological birthplace of the blues, CNN's recent visit to Clarksdale, Mississippi might give you the mojo to move. The blues live in this Mississippi Delta town: Clarksdale is No. 9 [in 2025's best towns to visit] thanks to its rich musical heritage, live shows, festival calendar and Southern flavors.

Epilog If one day my fingers are unable to find the notes, I pray that my mind will still find the memories: Sitting on a bench in the early morning calm, watching a doe and her fawn Trading bluesy eights and sassy side-eye with Toby Cutting loose on California Dreamin’ in the night with Denise and Beth Spilling my weary carcass — and my song — into the Frenchman Bay seaweed Casting a musical spell over the room Hanging with my pals at the farewell party This is my good fortune to know and share with you. Thanks for reading. May your musical journey bless you, as well. If you can dream—and not make dreams your master If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it — Rudyard Kipling, “If”

Last chance for the Mystery Symbol! No takers? I wouldn't fret about it, it's rather obscure, and you pay your luthier to worry about such things. Answer here.

I wish I could add more about each of my talented fellow campers. Debbe was in a different dorm than I, so we didn't have much chance to get better acquainted. I can say that she is irrepressively positive, almost always smiling, and a joy to be around. She took one of the beginners aside and coached her in the vocals to "Have You Ever Seen the Rain" so our ensemble performance would be better filled out. Yes, a total natural.

Beth on coffeehouse night, Debbe and Eric rehearsing, the dining hall/admissions/library, lunch on the patio, Hamill house — for once in my life, I'm in the party dorm — and a video of long time camp vets Mike Dowling and Debbe on coffeehouse night. Mike Debbe Coffehouse.mov

Work, work, work, she says. Yeah, right. My thanks to Janine and Beth for the pics, respectively.

This is Shawn Persinger’s accompaniment ensemble. IMG_3698.mov

During flashes of lucidity, I did snag a few videos of the Friday afternoon performances. Here’s Ron and Anthony: IMG_3704.mov IMG_3707.mov

And here we are. The final chord is now a collective memory and the farewell party is a wrap. Lively, yes. Fortunately for me, it never rose to the level of “raucous”. This morning, we compressed the lessons so that they could be completed by lunchtime. I had one final hour of blues soloing practice with Toby. The six of us in Shaun’s arranging class rehearsed our ensemble piece, which he calls “Like Glass,” a nod to composer Philip Glass. Last lesson: a few more run-throughs on Toby’s ensemble arrangement. I have not had a minute to rehearse my solo song for tonight, and my tank is now well below “E”. Uh-oh. The weather has been so nice that most of us elect to eat on the patio. As I worked on dessert, my gaze wandered to a blackboard on the wall for college announcements. A familiar — to me — but stunning symbol caught my eye. What is that doing there? I recruited Jim to get a picture of it with me. I leave this puzzle to our music nerds for now. Answer later. Today’s schedule was slightly different than last year’s. The changes were necessitated by that most academic of reasons: to allow more time for the party. So the student performances were moved up from the evening slot to 3:00 in the afternoon. We hauled our gear in early and unpacked as Anthony set up the sound system. Mike Dowling put the order of performers on the blackboard (Another blackboard? I wondered, in a brand new building? This place is full of mysteries, and I’m not even counting the ghosts.) We prepared to go on. Then word arrived that we would have to wait, for that most academic of reasons: the administrators’ meeting upstairs is in progress and they want quiet. A half hour or so passes. I’m not nervous. I am totally, unequivocally, irredeemably exhausted, and now struggling to keep my eyes open. And my solo slot is #12 of 16, an hour or more away. The show starts with Toby’s ensemble, eight of us, including me (I think). Overall, nicely done, but I had to cheat here and there; I wasn’t about to wreck the song. Can I rest a minute? No, because the second number is Shaun’s “Liquid Glass,” and I’m in that, too. Merciful muse, I only have three notes. But it looks like six on the fretboard, because now I’m seeing double. Okay, that came out just fine, too. I sit back to enjoy the solo performances, shooting a few videos. Anyway, I thought I was, because on one, I held my iPhone up for four full minutes on the “Photo” setting. Now I’m just laughing to myself; it’s hopeless. What’s that, Mike? A ten minute intermission? Thank you, pal, that is exactly what I don’t need right now. Finally, I’m up. My introduction goes well enough, but then I start playing. I’m plugged in, but I forgot to turn the pickup on. Start over. I crushed it, and I mean crushed as in beer can. But nothing seriously damaged, except my ego. Anthony and Ian followed me and cleaned up the mess I left. Later, as the sun set over Frenchman Bay, we threw ourselves a little party on the porch. We all laughed off our stumbles, and traded war stories and phone numbers over sodas, beer and wine. I collapsed into an Adirondack chair between Beth and Debbie and basked in their kind words. Then came the hugs and goodbyes. The Maine night blanketed us, and Guitar Intensives 2025 was in the books.

“It’s only Thursday, and it feels like we’ve been here for weeks.” — Instructor Mike Dowling, speaking for everyone How can I claim to be working hard when I’m doing what I love? Maybe if you could see the exhaustion in my face at this late hour, I could be more persuasive. But we have indeed been working. As we set out for breakfast, the sunshine was brilliant, the air slightly salty, breezy, and warm — for Maine. Janine passed the hat for the cafeteria crew and snapped a nice candid of me at my “rest stop”. I took my seat in Toby’s soloing class for today’s workout in pentatonic scales. I managed to keep up; I was a little surprised at how many were unfamiliar with the concept. In Shawn’s arranging class, he came up with a brilliant proposal for something interesting we could play in tomorrow’s student concert. He assigned each of us a simple line, or riff, to layer in one at a time, while varying the dynamics. It’s one of his teaching exercises, and the product is marvelously atonal. We needed something we could work up on a day’s practice, and I think I can remember three notes. It should be cool. After lunch we assembled for our group photo and scheduling updates. There were evening opportunities to go up Cadillac Mountain in Acadia, or take a boat tour in the harbor, or see a show in town. I passed. I’ve been up Cadillac twice, and I’ve been on the water enough to know I could freeze my Asus4 off out there tonight. I decided on more time with Denise at her jam. Jim Nash and I strolled down to the pier for a better view of Frenchman Bay, and we soaked up the beautiful afternoon. Another short siesta, then back to Toby. Our performance project is his custom arrangement — just for us — of “Who’ll Stop the Rain”. I hope someone records the performance, because this thing is tightening up: sliding 6ths, hybrid picking, rhythm playing, melody, hammer ons, and Toby’s harmonics on top of all of us. 75 minutes of almost nonstop rehearsal today — on one tune — but it was crazy good fun. There were short elective sessions on stagecraft, basic blues, and swing. I took a break to keep some gas in the tank for later. After dinner, Beth and I had Denise all to ourselves for two hours, playing whatever we felt like. Denise gave Beth some coaching on singing harmony, and we took off. Pure bliss. Tomorrow, abbreviated sessions in the morning, followed by the finale, the student concert, in the afternoon. Not exactly sure what will ensue after dinner, but the word “raucous” will likely apply.

Wednesday night, and the evening faculty concert still echoes in my ears. Another beautiful day of working our craft, sharing our stories, and coaching each other. I’m sleeping better now that I’ve adjusted to the routine and replaced the sheets of industrial gauze on my bunk with those I brought. Ahhh. The accommodations are somewhat Spartan: spare dorm rooms, shared bathrooms with composting toilets, wonky fixtures. But it’s a tiny college, so all that comes with the ticket. The meals and service are good — tonight was lobster night —and everyone on the college staff I’ve encountered has been helpful to a fault. The instruction is cumulative. Each course generally takes up where we leave off the previous day. In blues soloing, Toby now has us sliding between positions, pulling lines from a blues scale over a 12-bar backing track. In the afternoon, our group rehearsal (for Friday’s performance) now divvied up parts among the students, with melody, rhythm, and harmonic riffs each assigned to two or three of us. Looks like I’ll have melody and vocal duty. Shawn found his footing in our arranging class today, in which we’re exploring how to strip down a song to the essentials and find the elements that need to be in the foreground and background. For my elective, I dropped in on Mike Dowling’s class on basics of slide. I was glad for my handful of prior lessons. There were only four students, and once I was in open D and my slide was armed to fire, Mike immediately sat down with me to tweak my technique. None of us are really strangers to each other anymore. And after the coffeehouse, we’ve mostly heard each other playing whatever it is we like to play, even if it’s just before or after class. Tonight was the faculty concert, and Denise, Toby, Shawn, and Mike just blew the roof off. Pics from today:

The dorm party is over, and a long and memorable Tuesday is in the books. My lessons with Toby and Shawn continued, as we built upon Monday’s work: Blues soloing, arranging, rehearsing a group performance (sliding sixths, here I come), and triad inversions. Shawn is a teaching machine, a human firehose of knowledge that none of us could quell. I could scarcely take notes. After my afternoon siesta, I arrived somewhat groggy for my group practice with Toby and I had to hang on for dear life as the sixths went slip sliding by. I’m not going to get all of them by Friday night, so it looks like I’ll have melody duty, which I can manage. Getting better acquainted with everyone is a joy. We have a heart surgeon and his wife — both starting out on their instruments — and another chemist and former DuPonter. We must emit pheromones. Along the paths to our meals, I had some time with Mike Dowling and Denise. I reminded Mike of how we met last year on the first day, when he was coming down with covid. I’m delighted to see his real self. Maybe I can work in one of his electives. Toby is done with inversions, so tomorrow there will be new options. Some of these are decided at the last minute to accommodate student demand (to the teachers’ chagrin, I should add, as they’ve told me). After dinner, the cafeteria tables were reconfigured for Coffeehouse night, an open mic. All day, the vets like Debbie and Denise were checking in with me, asking, “Are you playing tonight?” “Well sure,” I said, “why not?” “What are you playing?” “Well, this will sound nuts, but it’ll be a surprise as much to me as you! I’ll explain tonight.” Mike Dowling was our emcee. The performers were varied in experience, technique, and genre. We had traditional and pop tunes, killer fingerpicking, sweet instrumentals, and duets with instructors. I was up 12th, of 14. I plopped my chart down on my stand, plugged in, checked the sound, and explained, something like this: As I was settling in Sunday afternoon, I took out the chart of my reasonably well rehearsed song for tonight. As I put it on my desk, some pages fell to the floor. When I picked them up, I was surprised to discover that I had a stowaway. It was a chart I printed just a few days ago to a song I hadn’t heard in ages. I only ran through it once, maybe twice, and it somehow got mixed in with my other things. So I thought, hmm, put it on the desk, and started strumming. By the end of the first verse, the Crazy Lady Who Lives In My Head said, “There’s your coffeehouse song.” Then the Teacher Lady In My Head said, “But I don’t know the lyrics.” “You’ve got a chart.” “I don’t know the finger pattern.” “Strum it!” So, from 1976, and the Robert Altman movie ‘Nashville’, this is by David Carradine…. Within a few seconds, I knew the Crazy Lady was right. She surprised everyone, myself included. Maybe someone got a picture. That moment alone was worth the trip. You never know.

It’s a cool, clear evening Down East tonight as I return to my room from a long day with my teachers. Yes, an intense day of sorts, but all in a good way. I’m back in Bar Harbor among familiar faces and new. The trip up from northern Delaware took two and a half days in mostly beautiful weather. Sunday I left my hotel in Bangor as a front moved in. I avoided all but a light shower, but Jim Nash, three hours behind me, got clobbered in a thunderstorm. Not good on the northernmost end of I-95. Arriving early, I luxuriated in my lunch of lobster roll, clam chowder, and blueberry ice cream at The Chart Room, a full encore of last year, right down to the same table and seat. I had time to visit at length with my server and, almost with my toes in Frenchman Bay, another local. After a brief pilgrimage to Acadia, it was time to check in at the College of the Atlantic. Another good omen: the demon granite boulder that I backed into last year was gone. How my poor Camry suffers for my guitar. As I unloaded, my fellow campers trickled in. There are 22 of us, just shy of capacity, four faculty, and our hostess, Alice Schiller. No longer a newbie, I was on the receiving end of warm hugs and smiles from those who recognized me. Same dorm as last year, but Alice gave me a room upgrade and I’m in the penthouse (3rd floor) in a double occupancy. After dinner we all assembled for welcome, orientation and previews of adventures to come from our faculty: Toby Walker and Denise Adorante have returned, as well as Mike Dowling (this year, covid-free!). Shawn Persinger is new to this camp but a veteran of many others. We’re in great hands. Last year I learned some lessons the hard way. I traded in the guitar case for a gig bag I can carry on my back; I brought overshoes in case of another downpour, and a headlamp for trekking the pathways at night. Today (Monday), I started with Toby Walker’s lesson on basic blues soloing. Next was Shawn’s session on arranging for guitar, and in the afternoon, more and more Toby (“I can’t get rid of you,” he teased. “Yeah, you’re stuck with me, now, pal,” I said) — for detailed work on “Have You Ever Seen the Rain”, then a class on inversions. I’d like to work in a class with Mike Dowling, but he’s more in the deep end of the pool, and Denise is toward the shallow end. I got in some time with Denise tonight at her evening jam, along with Jim and a few military-grade mosquitos. It’s especially sweet hanging out with my dorm mates in our common dining area. We have a full kitchen to stash our snacks and, ahem, beverages for serious musicians, if you get my drift. We generally stay with a particular track of lessons at the same time of day all week. This enables the instructors to build upon the previous day, and find the pace for the class at hand. The final block of the day covers “electives,” which are one- or two-day topics. This gives everyone continuity and some flexibility. By now you know I like to take pictures, but I’ve been crunching my lessons and I’ve hardly had time to shoot. I’ll try to grab more tomorrow.