A Tuba Player Lives Upstairs

Photo from Pixabay

In my biography that I posted on my website many years ago, there is one white lie. While it is indeed true that I live in the Lower Hudson Valley of New York, I do not have an apple orchard that I tend to. In fact, I live in a 70-year-old apartment building and despite my living space lacking any flora or fauna, there are several large windows that overlook dozens of beautiful tall trees that run along the train tracks across the street.

On days when I’m not at work or out and about, I can see and hear the trains that normally carry thousands of people each day into Manhattan, a mere 29 minutes away if you catch the express. The station is a five-minute walk into our village, which has the distinction of being classified as the “richest town on the East Coast” according to Bloomberg’s 2020 list. Neither my fellow neighbors nor I were included or calculated into that statistic, as we live two blocks outside the official boundary.

The 80 apartment units in my building are occupied by the elderly, several young families, those who are divorced or widowed, and working stiffs trying to keep our heads above water. The wonderful labyrinth of New York rent control laws has allowed many of my neighbors a roof over their heads for 20 years or more, paying far below market value in comparison to others in this area. I moved here almost eight years ago from California, and while I know several of my neighbors by name and we say hello in the lobby, parking garage, or as we pass each other in the halls, there is also a certain detachment that exists. For example, I do not know nor would I recognize the people who live in the apartment above me.

They moved in a year ago, and judging only by sound and schedule, I would guess the occupants to be an adult male and female, with a child I would place in middle school. He or she is a musician, occasionally playing improvisational pieces on an electric keyboard in the living room. Sometime after last Thanksgiving, this person also began practicing the French horn in the bedroom above mine. The same song every night for at least one hour.

It was the Lee Mendelson and Vince Guaraldi tune from A Charlie Brown Christmas holiday special, a show and song I never grow weary of. For a month, as he or she played it over and over, it got better and better. I imagine it was for a school program or concert, as I have not heard it since. And there are times I miss it.

A month into the COVID-19 lockdown, the French horn was replaced by a tuba. As the schools have been closed since March, I’ve not been able to sort out in my mind how a new instrument has made its way into the hands of this young person, let alone the time or space for learning how to play it.

Could it be a once-played instrument that has been resurrected in these troubled times out of boredom or passion? Are there online lessons they may be taking? And although I imagine there is a particular song they practice, the tuba is like a bass guitar. No melody per se, but progressive notes working lockstep with percussion to create the tempo and rhythm. Unless you are Oren Marshall.

I have enjoyed the mystery of whomever is the source, and have zero interest in walking up a flight of stairs, knocking on a door, introducing myself, and inquiring. While I know some might find it annoying and would be banging on the ceiling for them to stop, I have come to look forward to hearing the tuba sessions each day. As someone who is surrounded at this moment by a mandolin, banjo, lap steel, mountain dulcimer, six guitars, and a box full of harps in various keys, and who tries to play for at least an hour each day, I hold in high esteem anyone who chooses to play, practice, or rehearse music.

This week will mark two months of lockdown for me, and like many of you I am missing the concerts and gatherings, the sidewalk buskers, and the chance encounters of incredible talent one finds underground at Manhattan subway stations. I can watch livestreams for hours, yet I find them flat and cold, despite emanating from the warmth of someone’s home. I’ve come to appreciate the dynamic that distance creates between audience and performer in the concert environment, and am fearful I may never experience it again.

For now, I will focus on my own playing and enjoy the once-in-a-lifetime tuba extravaganza each evening, live from the apartment upstairs. I shall leave you with two things: a quote by the late Sir Terry Pratchett, the English humorist, satirist, and author, and a song called “Cakewalk Into Town” by the great Taj Mahal. Stay safe, y’all.

“And the people next door oppress me all night long. I tell them, I work all day, a man’s got to have some time to learn to play the tuba. That’s oppression, that is. If I’m not under the heel of the oppressor, I don’t know who is.”

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column. 

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

New Americana and Roots Music: RPM 9

Photo by Pixabay

An occasional series of Americana and roots music videos. Sharing new discoveries, and occasionally revisiting old friends.

I was planning on sleeping in late today since I had the day off. I’ve been telecommuting these past few weeks, which has been keeping me busy and in touch with people beyond my four walls. Between my workmates scattered throughout the country and Canada, as well as my social media friends and connections, I’ve been lucky to remain in almost constant contact via chat, phone, and online conferencing, which certainly helps tamp down feelings of loneliness during these strange times. It’s also given me time to reconnect with folks I haven’t been in touch with for decades, and I appreciate those moments of sharing memories and catching up.

It’s been almost two weeks since I last went out to my local market, and with nothing else to do this early in the morning, and the fact that we older folks have an hour to shop before the rest of y’all can come in, I gloved up, put on my mask, and grabbed the illegible list left on the kitchen counter by my son. Do you know why most 20-somethings can’t spell or write on paper with a pen or pencil? They grew up with autocorrect and keyboards. I don’t really believe that, but doesn’t it sound like something a grumpy old man would say?

Ain’t gonna bore you with the details, but when I arrived at the store there was a line a quarter-mile long because the seniors think that six feet of social distancing really means 15. But things moved fast, and within an hour I was on my way home with $200 worth of stuff in the trunk of my car. I was even able to grab a half-dozen rolls of toilet paper, which I considered for a moment putting on eBay as soon as I got home and selling ’em for $100.

The biggest benefit to working at home, other than not having to get dressed or take a shower every day, is that I’ve been able to listen to my tunes through speakers rather than headphones or earbuds. It’s something I no longer do very often with the exception of when I’m driving, and as the days have passed I have substantially increased my consumption. I’ve also been monitoring a lot of the livestreams that people have been doing, and while that’s not as much fun as a concert, I like to look beyond the players and check out their furnishings and see how they live. Brings out those voyeuristic tendencies, I suppose.

So let me shut up now and share some music. Plenty of new albums have been released in preparation for a summer festival season that has now faded into unlikelihood, so marketing plans and the ability to get the word out is making tough times tougher. And of course I’ve found a few older videos you might enjoy seeing. I’m gonna link to each artist’s website and let the music play. Take care and stay safe.

Laurie Lewis – And Laurie Lewis

An album of duets from the queen of West Coast bluegrass. A champion fiddler who also sings, writes, and plays guitar and other string instruments, Lewis has been releasing albums since the mid-’80s. She has appeared on the Grand Ole Opry and Prairie Home Companion, and her discography is a gold mine. Here’s one with Leah Wollenberg from the new album that they performed last November.

Laura Marling – Song for Our Daughter

Originally planned for a late summer release, Marling actually pushed this forward to April. Her summer tours were suddenly canceled, and speaking on NPR she said, “I suddenly realized that not only was I going to miss performing, but I was also going to miss that opportunity to connect with people in that way, and I hadn’t anticipated feeling like that. I felt like the only thing I could offer was the album.” This is a complete Tiny Desk Home Concert from her living room.

Logan Ledger – Logan Ledger

With T Bone Burnett producing and playing guitar on half the tracks, as well as a stellar band that played on the Robert Plant/Alison Krauss Rising Sand collaboration backing him up, this is a steaming hot debut. I give Ledger all the credit for making this album sizzle, with an amazing vocal range and style.

 

Buck Curran – No Love Is Sorrow

Formerly of the duo Arborea, this is Curran’s third solo album, and this video was filmed and edited by his daughter Shylah. Currently living in Bergamo, Italy, Curran is a luthier, guitarist, singer, songwriter, and producer who has opened my ears up over the years to what one may call “cult-Americana.” This album takes me back to the later-’60s folk era, reminding me of Pearls Before Swine, Tom Rush, Tim Hardin, and the balladry of Marty Balin.

Eliza Gilkyson – 2020

This is a beautiful new recording featuring a great band of musicians from Austin, where Gilkyson resides. Her website describes the album much better than I could:

“A blend of new and old, reflecting the protests and activism that have defined her generation, including her interpretation of some folk favorites by Bob Dylan, ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,’ and Pete Seeger’s ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone.’ Eliza also adapted a new song, ‘Beach Haven,’ from a letter written by Woody Guthrie in 1952 to Fred Trump, who at the time was his landlord, regarding his segregationist renter policies. Ever the optimist, Woody pleaded to Trump to ‘open your doors’ and ‘rip out the strangling red tape’ that kept the apartment from embracing all races.”

Mark Erelli – Blindsided 

I can’t imagine a more appropriate title for an album released during these times. Over two years in the making, and with a full tour lined up and ready to go, veteran folksinger Erelli turned it up a notch on this project and then got kicked in the gut. I think I have over a dozen albums of his and various side projects, but this one is really special. From his blog:

“Though the reviews have been fantastic, it’s been a very confusing time for life in general, never mind for self-promotion. An album’s release pales in comparison to the real challenges ahead. And yet Blindsided is the culmination of over two years’ hard work, my own and others’, and I will continue to look for appropriate ways to honor this. If you’d like to contribute, the best thing you can do is to buy this record, listen, and encourage others to do the same.

In this challenging time, aside from following public health guidelines and keeping my family safe, it’s difficult to know what to do. Honestly, supporting my wife (who works in health care) and maintaining structure and a sense of normalcy for my boys keeps my plate pretty full. But as Rosanne Cash put it, ‘artists are the premiere service industry for the heart and soul,’ and I’d like to do my part.

So, what do you need? More goofy Instagram story songs? A YouTube Live fan Q&A? Online concerts? Is there a way I could be of service to you right now? How can I help?”

Imagine, he’s asking how he can help us. Here’s three songs from the new album and something he posted to help first responders in his home state, Massachusetts.

 

 

 

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

 

 

Music Without A Trace

 

Photo by Carol Highsmith/Library of Congress

The old Trace movie theater, refurbished (at least inside) into the Westside Theatre nightclub and meeting place in Port Gibson, Mississippi. The Trace burned twice, in 1948 and 1968 — the latter blaze putting it out of business for good. Abandoned theaters and concert halls, clubs left empty. The photo evoked thoughts of the future in the aftermath of the pandemic of 2020. 

It’s week number whatever here in New York and the social isolation experiment seems to be working. They say that thanks to our efforts, we’re flattening the curve. Unfortunately, the death count in this state sadly keeps hovering between seven or eight hundred poor souls each day, so I highly doubt that any friends or family of the departed are experiencing jubilation over this particular flattening episode. People are usually unable to say goodbye to their loved ones, but instead can see a daily video feed of the refrigeration trucks parked outside of hospitals holding the corpses or the mass burials on Hart’s Island.

I’m reminded of a recent Facebook post from a friend of mine that read:

January 1: It’s going to be a great year!!!
March 15: I wiped my butt this morning with a coffee filter.

Despite the spin from a certain somebody who is hawking an unproven COVID-19 miracle drug on his daily infomercial/campaign rally with the slogan of “What have you got to lose?” and receives his consultation from the guys who run wrestling and mixed martial arts extravaganzas, things aren’t looking too good. While some say we’re just days away from reopening the country for business, many government and public health officials are whistling a different tune. For example, this past week both the mayor of Los Angeles and the governor of California have indicated that mass gatherings, such as sporting events and music concerts, are likely not to start up again for at least a year. Let that sink in.

This past month has been a bonanza for livestream and online concerts, with most having no entry cost and a few that offer a virtual tip jar to leave a donation for the performers. I don’t know how that’s working out, but it’s likely not paying anyone’s bills. New albums, which are introduced along with plans for press, publicity, and tour dates, are still being released minus the exposure, support, and revenue. And we still haven’t figured out how the creative participants of the music industry can or will survive the streaming model, let alone with live performance opportunities now taken away.

I keep an eye on Chris Griffy’s biweekly ND column Crowdfunding Radar, and many of the recent projects he’s featured have been hitting their rather modest targets in a pre-COVID-19 world. But the question remains if it’s sustainable, and perhaps more important will be the public’s ability or appetite to commit to a monthly donation through a platform like Patreon. Given that we are on the edge of a full-blown depression, I must admit that I am not hopeful of this model.

Every few weeks I enjoy going to The Strand, one of the oldest and largest indie booksellers in the country. It’s three floors of incredible inventory and selection, and the last time I was there it was just a week before it closed down. It was oddly empty; the city’s fear was just beginning to take hold. The store, on the edge of Union Square and the NYU campus, is always bustling with people and now it stands shuttered. I wonder about its future in the same way that I think of record stores. These are tactile environments where we all touch, hold, and check out the product. I don’t think disinfectant wipes will work well on paper or cardboard.

Guess it might be a good time to offer my apology for wasting your time with all this doom and gloom. As is often the case when writing a weekly column, I try hard to seek out a topic of interest that may help expose new musical avenues for y’all to explore. That was my goal when I sat down and flipped open the Mac, but I’ve lost both my will and the way forward.

So here’s what I’m going to do. No Depression is a nonprofit entity and for my services, or lack thereof, I receive a small salary. (I’m reminded that ND’s co-founder Peter Blackstock once said that I was lucky to even be making a cent. Non-working music writers can be found for nearly a dime a dozen.) Anyway, when I get my check this month I’m going to drop it all into a few of those virtual tip jars, or perhaps support a project or two. It’s just a tiny drop in a big bucket, but I don’t know what else to do. I guess I’m helplessly hoping for better days ahead.

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here and at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

My Search For Lesley Gore

Uncredited photo from aftermusiic.blogspot.com

I had a recollection recently from when I was 12 or 13 years old. Some details, such as it being a cool night on a dark street in the Oxford Circle neighborhood of Philadelphia, are crisp, clear, and sharply in focus. Who accompanied me is unknown, although I believe it was either two or three other boys. I don’t know how or why we were miles from home, but I know who and what we were looking for.

Psychology Today describes memory as “the faculty by which the brain encodes, stores, and retrieves information. It is a record of experience for guiding future action.” They divide it into three types: sensory, short-term, and long-term, which is also known as episodic or semantic memory. They also note that “memory is notoriously untrustworthy,” and that “people can be easily persuaded to conjure false memories.”

On this particular night we were walking the streets looking for Lesley Gore’s house.

I don’t why we thought we were walking through Lesley’s neighborhood, because she lived in Tenafly, New Jersey, about 60 miles north. It was a rumor, I suspect, some sort of story in the pre-internet days that was likely manufactured and distorted before being passed around to young boys with nothing more to do than try to meet a pretty recording star. Although I don’t recall hearing it myself, I’ve read that disc jockeys often called her “the sweetie pie from Tenafly.” I wish I had known.

All week I’ve been thinking about Lesley Gore and figured that maybe there was a story there, and that I’d write about her. A young Jewish girl, born in Brooklyn, only 16 when she recorded “It’s My Party” with producer Quincy Jones and it reached number one on the charts. And then she followed it up with what’s known as an answer record.

When her boyfriend Johnny kissed Judy at her own party she was humiliated. But at the next party when she danced and kissed another boy, Johnny jumped up and hit him. Why? Because he was jealous and still loved her. Johnny came back to her, and now it was Judy’s turn to cry. This was serious subject matter in the early ’60s to young boys and girls. It had deep meaning of love, pain, and betrayal, and it stirred up strong emotions. People actually argued during lunch at school about whether or not she should have taken Johnny back.

The morning after John Prine died I woke up and laid in bed. I felt sad and scared. It could have easily been me. And still might be. And in a moment of absolute clarity I sat up and suddenly remembered something extremely important. It wasn’t Lesley Gore we were looking for that night. It was Diane Renay. Thanks, John.

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

In The Days Before His Passing

Official Press Photo from johnprine.com

John Prine passed on April 7, 2020. He died at Vanderbilt University Medical Center in Nashville, Tennessee of complications from the COVID-19 coronavirus. He is survived by his wife, Fiona, two sons Jack and Tommy, his stepson Jody and three grandchildren. I never felt the need to write an obituary or put my thoughts down, as it would have been redundant. I can’t think of many people who were so universally loved and cherished as John, and we each felt his loss in our own way, with our own memories. I wrote this five days before he left us, and it stands as my tribute to the man. 

Perhaps if my kids were a few years younger they might be asking their old man if he’s ever seen anything like this in his lifetime. The daily death count; world shutdown; deserted streets in Manhattan, Paris, and Rome; refrigerated trucks parked outside hospitals; panic buying of toilet paper; the complete failure and incompetency of the American government; and all that other crazy stuff we’ve been experiencing. “Nope,” I would reply, “this is all new to me.” All I have is a vivid memory of standing in line with hundreds of other kids to receive the polio vaccine on top of a sugar cube back in the ’50s, but maybe it was just an injection and I’m mixing things up with a different decade.

Today we are grateful to all the people who are still working each day to deliver us pizza; fill our prescriptions; sell necessities such as food, liquor, cigarettes, and guns; keep us alive; telecommute so the economic wheels don’t fall off; teach the kids; and whatever needs to be done. For many of us, we’re sitting home and looking for stuff to keep us busy. Knock out that to-do list, read a book, find a movie, binge watch Tiger King, stare and share at social media, organize the sock drawer, and if you get totally bonkers you can take a solitary walk outside with your hands in gloves and face covered up. I’m personally switching off using two cowboy-style bandanas, one red and the other blue, so that on any given day I’m either a target for the Crips or the Bloods.

Over the last week a new type of Candy Crush-style mania has taken hold on Facebook that involves challenging people to post what concerts they’ve attended from A to Z. You’d have to be an online hermit to miss this fad, and I personally found it only mildly interesting for about two and a half minutes. It’s boring enough to try and remember my own concert history let alone to get excited that somebody has seen both Queen and X.

Some have taken this challenge to new heights, like the friend who not only listed the musicians alphabetically, but added the venues as well. But after posting it he had second thoughts when he realized it looked so “white.” So he created a second one using only those of color, and failed to complete D, I, N, U, V, X, and Z. He wrote “I’m not terribly proud of what it reveals, and am tempted to come up with a third list limited only to female performers.” Well, he did that too. It was indeed an impressive list, missing only I and Q before he threw in the towel after choosing Lucinda Williams for W.

For my part I’ve been lurking online enjoying those impromptu concerts that so many musicians have been posting. I’ve learned that Larkin Poe do some of the best guitar playing I’ve ever heard, wished that Rufus Wainwright would keep his robe closed a bit more, and never knew that Garth Brooks’ “Thunder Rolls” was originally meant to be recorded by Trisha Yearwood. I’ve also been on the hunt for both new and old music to listen to and sharing it with friends.

Which brings me to John Prine. As I write this on Thursday, April 2, at 7 p.m. — hours past my deadline — I don’t know whether he will live or die. Since his wife, Fiona, shared that he’d been hospitalized with COVID-19 symptoms and was not doing well, social media has brought together his legion of fans and friends. I cannot recall this many people touched by a man and his music in such a tsunami-like outpouring of emotion since perhaps when John Lennon left us. Thanks to the magic of YouTube, I have been revisiting many of his performances and interviews. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, and I am sitting here in both hope and fear. A world without this John will never be the same.

 

 

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here and at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

King Cotton and The Mississippi Delta Blues

Photo by Carol Highsmith / Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Division

Do you want to know the absolute, honest-to-god truth? I am laying down on my bed, my computer balanced on my thighs, trying to find a topic for this week’s column, and I’ve got no clue about what I’m going to write. All I have is a photograph of an abandoned car sitting on what used to be the Hopson Plantation, outside of Clarksdale in the Mississippi Delta region of America, and a title I made up to go along with it. That’s how it goes sometimes.

I found this picture online at the Library of Congress, where I was just poking around for inspiration. Sometimes when you ain’t got one thing or another on your mind, it’s a good place to ramble and wander. This particular image is one of 100,000 that Carol McKinney Highsmith has donated, the product of a decades-long project photographing all 50 states and the District of Columbia, and her pictures are free for anyone to use.

In a CBS News story about her back in September 2013, she said, “Things are changing for the good and the bad, and so that it’s important to catch that. Now, do I know what will be important? No, I don’t. I’m clueless.” (Note: Like me.) “If people are using my images now, I want them to. But I’m not living for today, I’m really living for 100 years from now.”

You can read Carol’s description of her photograph on the Library of Congress site where the  image is posted, or I’ll give it to you here:

“An old spread on which cotton was picked by black tenant farmers and mules, Hopson became one of the Old South’s first mechanized cotton farms in 1935. After the crops petered out and labor became scarce, the operation shut down for many years, but it was revived as a most unusual motel, the Shack Up Inn, in which guests sleep in some of the old farm cabins, gins, and these metal silos. Also on the grounds, the converted farm commissary is now a jazz club and bar, loaded with antique memorabilia from the region.”

Something tells me that should you be reading this column around the time I published it (March 2020), you probably ain’t all that busy. If you’re like me and a few million other people, you’re at home experiencing the coronavirus pandemic. Streaming movies on your television, listening to or making music, catching up on a book or two or three, helping the kids with their schoolwork, cleaning out that closet, painting, whistling, cooking, praying, and thinking. So consider this a gift: Carol Highsmith’s America is a treat to click on and visit.

Two hundred miles long and about 70 miles wide, the Mississippi Delta is actually an alluvial plain. It’s a flat piece of fertile land created by the sediment from the continuous flooding of the Mississippi and Yazoo rivers. For over 200 years it has been an agricultural region, and the first plantations initially grew tobacco, sugar, and rice. After the cotton gin was invented in the late 18th century, short-staple “king cotton” became the premier crop throughout the Deep South, with over a million slaves forced to leave Africa and work the fields. After the Civil War, the area lured both black and white migrants to work the land as sharecroppers and tenants, and they were followed by the recruitment of Italian and Chinese laborers.

The Delta Blues came out of the poverty and discrimination experienced by blacks in the area. When mechanization came to the farms in the 1920s, the Great Migration to the Northeast and Midwest took place and the music went with it. “Milk Cow Blues” by Freddie Spruell, recorded in Chicago in June 1926, may or may not be the first of this style to be documented, and there were a lot of other “race records” released during the decade.

If you’re looking for some more information and resources, check out this list of books from Acoustic Guitar magazine as a starting point. A lesson plan for students titled “A Snapshot of Delta Blues” is available from PBS. To wrap this up, I’ll leave you with a few live performances. Hope you enjoyed this little ride with me, and together we just made somethin’ out of nothin’. I remain forever clueless. Stay safe.

 

 

 

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both  Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.

Musicians, Fans and Mutual Support

Photo from Pixabay.

Musicians and fans are sharing common feelings in the midst of a pandemic: fear, anxiety, isolation, depression, sleeplessness, and daily visions of what potentially might be the worst-case scenario. And from my daily contacts with friends around the globe, it appears that we’re all waiting for the next shoe to drop. I suggest we let Leonard Cohen soothe our souls for a few minutes before we go forward. Why? Because that’s how it goes, everybody knows.

As a music writer I am in touch with a vast network of musicians, as well as those who run concert halls, clubs, festivals, and house concerts. Please pardon my language, but from all of the communiques and pleas I’m receiving, they’re all fucked. No other way to put it, but the fragile economy and supporting ecosystem of artistic creation in whatever form it takes has been shattered to pieces in a matter of days. From the most popular and successful musicians out on the road with a half-dozen 18-wheelers of equipment and luxury tour buses to the person who barely makes a living playing bar mitzvahs and weddings on the weekend, this viral scourge is completely indiscriminate.

Over the past week my inbox has been filled daily with requests to help support musicians. There are livestreamed concerts popping up with tip jars, websites to donate to money to non-working musicians, and of course reminders that you can and should buy merch. Our editor here at nodepression.com, Stacy Chandler, published a super helpful article titled “How To Help Roots Music Artists” that I would encourage y’all to read. Nevertheless, all of these solicitations and cries for help have left me feeling guilty for my inability to participate. I’ll share part of what I posted on my Facebook page after reading Stacy’s suggestions:

While people who are in the creative community have little or no safety net, there is an assumption that those of us with day jobs have the wherewithal to assist. The reality is that we too are hunkering down, worried if we can pay the rent, if we will get a paycheck next week, can afford food and medical care, and on and on. So I guess that while there are some things I can do — like not requesting a refund to a canceled concert, of which I currently have $350 invested — l simply can’t be made to feel guilty because I won’t buy your T-shirt.

My heart breaks every minute that I get a message or see a social media post from a musician who’s lost all their source of income, lost money on preparing for travel they can’t get refunded, or have invested every dime in a new project set to release when the world is too overloaded with worries on survival. So no answers here, and this article touches on significant ways to at least think about or consider.

If you thought that the headline of this column was insensitive or perhaps simply a grasp for clicks, you’re wrong. The roots music community is fortunate in that we’re small enough that musicians are close to their audience. Years on the road have created relationships and established bonds, and social media opens the door for personal communication. It’s not simply the music that connects us, it’s the spirit of being part of a community. And words matter.

Ana Egge, who recently released an album and had to cancel shows in Texas opening for Iris DeMent, posted this simple message that gave me some perspective as well as some comfort:

“While these are scary and crazy days, let’s not forget that these are also days that we are living to have more of. Especially those of us lucky enough to be stuck at home with the people we love. We can’t let ourselves be overrun by fear and anxiety and miss out on this time that we have together. To love each other and share our lives. If you’re not in the same house or apartment with those you love, call them and tell them.”

Jason Isbell tweeted: “Sitting here thinking of folks who might be stuck in a house that isn’t safe. Maybe if you have a friend who has a potentially aggressive spouse or parent, be as aware as you can right now. Check in.” and he posted the link for the National Domestic Violence Hotline. Brandi Carlile shared a helpful list of things people can do to protect themselves and their community, and Rosanne Cash wrote, “I got home off the road last night & am self-quarantining until the CDC gives the all-clear. I was on a lot of planes & in a lot of airports, hotels & venues. I don’t know if I’ve been exposed, & I don’t want to expose you. Let’s do this together, apart.”

These are just a few examples of musicians using their thoughts and words to help and connect with their audience, and I know there’s plenty more. Personally, it means a lot and touches me deeply when the people who enrich my life with their music take the time to let me know they are thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about them. Y’all have a big voice, and we all appreciate it when you use it in these troubled times. Stay safe.

This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.

Many of my past columns, articles, and essays can be accessed here at my own site, therealeasyed.com. I also aggregate news and videos on both Flipboard and Facebook as The Real Easy Ed: Americana and Roots Music Daily. My Twitter handle is @therealeasyed and my email address is easyed@therealeasyed.com.