t’s 4am our time, 5am local. We’ve just pulled up to a motel some 30 miles from the festival. It took thirteen hours to get here, no chance for sleep, the singer left days before but the rest of us had to stay in town for gigs so we had to take my van.

The guy at the front desk said there were no reservations for us, we’d have to pay for rooms if we wanted them. The banjo player had a credit card (this may be the only time that, in the history of the internet, that sentence appears). So we don’t argue, we just need to sleep. We get to the rooms. I’ll be sharing a room with the dobro player. The air conditioning isn’t on and it’s summertime in Virginia. We turn it on full blast. I haven’t been feeling good on the trip down, so I climb into bed and wrap up, cocoon like, in the blankets.

It’s 11 am and we get the automated wake up call. I’m soaked with sweat, probably have a fever. We need to get showered and dressed, oh yeah, I’ll need to iron my gig shirt. That done, we’re off for breakfast.

The restaurant’s not serving breakfast any more, but we don’t have time to find one that is, so I’ll just have a cheeseburger for breakfast. I’m eating now, just for protein and energy, I don’t feel that good. Now comes a 45 minute trip on backroads to the festival. When we arrive, we find our artist’s table. It’s in the summer Virginia sun with no shade. I realize I’ve left my sunscreen at the hotel. Oh well, the sun will keep away the fever chills. We’re doing the early show at 1pm, then another one at 8pm. Just enough time for a quick sound check.

Skreeeeeeech! Woooooooooo! Hruuuuuuuuung! We can’t hear individual notes, just amorphous ringing and woofing. “PLEASE” the singer says, “For the love of music, just turn off the monitors and try to make it sound good out in the audience.” I’m not sure the sound man could hear him. I’m not sure the sound man could hear. So we start the show. I’m hoping I read the first song on the list correctly, because from the sound on stage, I have no idea what song we’re playing.

The banjo player yells to the sound man, “Can you turn up the bass?” WRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Somehow, we make it through the set. I swore we did an hour and a half, but it was forty five minutes on the nose. Out to the table for autographs. Big afternoon, we autograph close to fifty festival brochures and sell three cds. “Who was the bass player?” a young lady asks, “That was me, ma’am.” I reply, ready to autograph her brochure. “I couldn’t hear you.” she says.

Back to the hotel. The other guys want to have lunch, so I give them the keys to the van and crawl back into my cocoon, ESPN singing me a lullabye.

“Hey, wake up, we’re late!” The guys got back and all napped, no one got a wake up call. I get up and rush to the bathroom. Man, I’m feeling hot. Flip on the light…no wonder. My face is as red as a ripe pepper. “We gotta go.” Well, I slept in the gig shirt, but, hey, people wear crushed velvet, don’t they? A handful of aspirin washed down with a warm coke oughtta do it.

We’re back to the festival with time to spare. Backstage tuning up. “Where’s the setlist?” the mandolin player asks. “Oh, we’ll just wing it. ” says the singer. Up we go, quick soundcheck. Interesting, I’ve never heard high and low feedback at the same time before. After the third song, the singer yells, “Hey lomanski inna foom roph.” and starts playing. “What key? What key?” I’m screaming. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the song before. I’m looking at the guitar player’s hands, he’s got a capo on, maybe, the fourth or fifth fret, but it looks like he’s playing a Bb, or maybe an F thirteenth. I start playing. Gee, it doesn’t sound exactly right, but it’s hard to tell with the feedback. Oh well, there’s only a few thousand people out there.

The set’s over and we’re signing brochures and selling the odd cd here and there. An older gentleman comes up to the table. “Hey Mr. Bass Player,” he says, “very nice bass.” I blush and thank him, “That’s too kind, sir, very good to hear.” “Yep,” he says, “That’s a very nice bass, pretty wood, too bad I couldn’t hear you.”

Finally we’re back at the hotel. I’ve got the shivers, but we’ve got a band meeting. “Look guys,” says the singer, “I need to stay here another couple of days, so you guys will have to go back with Mike.” “OK,” says the banjo player, “but I’ve got a 6pm session tomorrow, (that’s the first time that sentence has ever been in print) so we’ll have to leave in a few hours.”

So it’s a quick nap. A handful of aspirin, then off to find a hot stop that has coffee for the thirteen hour ride back home.

And that was a typical Bluegrass festival.