That was the amusing reply from Peter Rowan when Moondi Klein asked if there was another way he could end the murder ballad.  It was Moondi’s first year in a bluegrass band after leaving the world of opera.  He just wanted to be a 1990’s sensitive guy.  Peter Rowan wasn’t having any of that.  But Moondi’s sentiment wasn’t lost on me.  The tradition of women in bluegrass wasn’t overwhelmingly positive in the songs that were sung, or if you looked at how many women performed on the stages at festivals, or picked in the jam sessions at festival campsites.

A group of my lady friends tended to agree.  We gathered at Linda’s house one afternoon, and under the energetic direction of Dr. Mary we pulled together a band called The Daughters of Bluegrass.  It was well before the professional bluegrass gals Dale Ann Bradley, Rhonda Vincent, and Valerie Smith among others used the name for their 2005 lady band project.

Having an all-lady band was a bit of a novelty in our musical circles.  We improved over time as individuals and as a group.  If a set had 14 songs, each of us got to choose two, along with the opportunity to wing them out at street fairs, First Nights, festivals, and special concerts.

Bluegrass is sprouting new traditions.  You see more lady pickers in the campsites than you did 25 years ago.  There are more female/male bands performing on stage and more little girls joining Kids Academies at festivals.  And it’s thanks to songs like “Caleb Meyer” that we have parity in the bluegrass we hear today: “Ya gotta kill him.”

Fans of bluegrass will probably agree that taking breaks (solos) at lightning speed is a thrill.  It requires coordination of your fretting hand with the pluck/strum of your picking hand, and keeping it interesting by throwing in syncopation, pull-offs, and hammer-ons, all the while maintaining a fast consistent tempo.  It’s quite remarkable to watch up close.  And it’s something I doubt I’ll ever do.

So I knew what I was getting myself into when Mike and I made a deal at the 2004 Shakori Hills Grassroots Festival.  He would enter the banjo contest if I entered the mandolin contest.

One by one I watched my competition… young country boys in overalls who ripped out their amazing licks with speed and force.  But I had a simple tortoise strategy. I picked a haunting hornpipe called “Gilderoy.”  And I played it as slowly and sadly as possible.  Each note was clear. The ends of phrases sustained in the air because I play a fantastic KG mandolin and the sound system was really good.  I won first place!

I promptly donated the $100 prize to the festival shower fund.  Good music at a festival is great, but a hot shower is greater.

As a child, I fantasized wildly of being a concert pianist who played in large halls with huge appreciative audiences.  I took lessons through my elementary years with the strict and sensitive Mrs. Schwartz.  She was great.  No recitals, just me and my imaginary concerts.

When I started college, I returned to piano.  At SUNY-Binghamton I had the phenomenal opportunity to start my first semester studying piano with Mr. Walter Ponce.  From Bolivia, he is a world master!  The grace of his fingers on a keyboard can be compared to an angelic ballet dancer whose power and control lets him leap fiercely across a stage then slowly turn with gentle elegance.  It’s great to hear and watch, especially as Mr. Ponce’s entire frame would shake when he pounded all fingers on the keys.  Ironically, he couldn’t type to save his life and he had a most clumsy manner in handling sheet music.  Anyway, I got to take lessons with this amazing man.

I took it seriously and practiced every day.  In that semester I had my first recital ever.  I can’t remember what I was thinking.  What I do recall is that after finishing my piece and discussing it with the teachers and students I excused myself from the room.  I exited the building and at the nearest shrub I vomited.  My lesson that day was more than piano lessons.  Apparently, a critique of my childhood dream was hard to swallow.

I have many teachers, friends, and strangers to thank for encouragement in my musical life, but Jamie stands out in particular.  He pulled together a band called Mardi, Hub, and the Sprockets around the time I bought an amplifier to plug in a bass guitar.  Before electricity entered my musical world, I played acoustic tunes, mostly bluegrass.

The Americana rock band pushed me into new territory.  We played for friends’ birthday bashes and a wedding, a couple bars, a Philly street fair, Bucks County wine tastings, and even the XPN theater twice as a warm up band!  During performances my nerves were channeled as best as possible, but I always struggled to “get off the paper.”

After years of reading music on paper, the ability to improvise still escapes me.  My journey to overcome this started with the fiddle.  I picked it up figuring that my friends were all playing around a dark campfire and there was no opportunity to see written notes.  Jamie was most often present calling out “get your axe, let’s pick a tune.”  Later I started playing mandolin, figuring it had the same fingering as fiddle so I could use the frets to learn where to put my fingers for all those notes.  But when I began to sing along, I realized I had to get a guitar.

Years later I realized I still didn’t know how to improvise—to take a break on an instrument, calling out the lead melody or a variation of it.  My journey then took me to the bass, figuring I’d have no choice but to play the structure of a song.  And since I had no electric power connection at outdoor bluegrass festivals, I bought a ¼ size stand up Kay acoustic bass.  All of these instruments are my children.  Mostly recently I bought a ukulele.

Can I improvise a break?  Not like I’d like to.  I have moments when notes come together.  I’ll keep trying.