The Rhythm & Roots Reunion doesn’t so much take over the small town of Bristol, Virginia/Tennessee (the border runs right down the middle of State Street, up and down which fly Virginia flags on one side and Tennessee flags on the other), as it springs forth naturally from the town, fully integrated and integral. This is the event’s eighth year, and it’s as comfortable and smoothly run a music festival as you’ll find anywhere. The weekend-long schedule, filling more than a dozen stages at both indoor and outdoor venues from one end of State Street to the other, presents a varied, eclectic assortment of musicians, both established names and young artists, including many fine regional bands, all with a grounding in traditional music and all looking forward and carrying on the traditions in new ways, incorporating new influences, creating new sounds from old ones. Much like the music of the legendary spirits who haunt this town, “The Birthplace of Country Music,” where in 1927 Ralph Peer had the amazing good fortune to have Jimmie Rodgers, the Carter Family, and the Stoneman Family, among others, show up one day in response to his call for musicians to record for Victor. Thus was “country music” born, and thus is it perpetuated in Bristol and environs.

Friday night, the end of a set by the Dan Tyminski Band was lively; the New Riders of the Purple Sage seemed tired, uninspired. We found our way to the back patio of O’Mainnin’s Irish bar, though, and discovered the Straight 8’s, a kickass primitive rockabilly trio full of fire and fury who unleashed a tight set full of raw energy and good humor.

Saturday, the great James Hand dropped the full dose of his hard-nosed but tender-hearted Texas honky-tonk into Bristol. I spoke briefly with his bass player, Austin legend Speedy Sparks, at the barbecue wagon (KT’s Southern Cooking, Hickory Smoked Bar-B-Que: excellent!). Speedy chuckled when I recalled that I’d seen him at the Hole in the Wall in Austin a few months back playing with Rich Minus. “Doug Sahm, James Hand, and Rich Minus,” he laughed; “I can really pick ‘em, can’t I?”

That evening, the Hackensaw Boys were a powerful revelation. And finally, we saw Doc Watson, now 85, make a huge crowd in the town square feel like they were all snuggled cozily on the front porch listening to his lovely, subdued set as a cool September breeze blew through the streets and the full moon rose.

On Sunday, we discovered the talented and amusing Old Line Skiffle Combo from Maryland and the amazing Red Stick Ramblers from Louisiana then caught the fantastic Malcolm Holcombe back in the square.

Malcolm is simply and without question one of the best singer-songwriters out there, one of a kind and well worth visiting with a spell any time he comes your way. We headed up the street to catch Ralph Stanley next, and the haunting Stanley Brothers tune “Rank Stranger” sent the chills up my spine; next, the Carolina Chocolate Drops had a very, very good thing going with a big, happy crowd on a beautiful bright early evening playing great, timeless music.

The Shuttle Bus Ladies
by Marsha Hardy

One of the homiest touches the town of Bristol offered was the shuttle buses that ran circuits to the festival from all the motels in the area. Friday night when we checked into the Sleep Inn in Kingsport, Tennessee, the desk clerk said, “We’ll give the driver a shout when you’re ready to go.” And that’s what he did. Within a half hour an SUV pulled up to the front door and Betty welcomed us in. As Bob climbed in the back door, Betty said she’d welcome one of us sitting up front to keep her company, so I took shotgun.

It was 14 miles to Bristol and I was glad I sat up front where I could better hear Betty’s soft voice and lovely Tennessee accent. She told us her husband was a truck driver, her husband’s father had been a truck driver, and her two sons were truck drivers. So driving’s in y’alls’ blood, Bob said, and she said, yep. She said she’d been a school bus driver, now she drives shuttle busses for the Bristol Speedway. She’s at her happiest and most relaxed when she’s driving, school kids or gamblers or tourists or musicians or drunks, it doesn’t matter. Betty told us, when we’ve had our fill of the festival that night, we should just find Linda and she’d look after us as far as getting back to the Sleep Inn.

About 1:30 a.m. we wandered out to the bus stop, where Linda told us politely if we could just wait for the SUV to return, we’d soon be on our way. Linda and the other shuttle bus drivers sat jawing around a garden table with an umbrella in the center, clearly enjoying each other’s company in the wee hours of the September night. Finally, our ride came in; this time, it was Joan who took us home.

Joan was another lovely, soft-voiced Tennessean who drives shuttles for the Bristol Speedway. In fact, Joan also drives a school bus, and she confided to us that she had taken over Betty’s route when Betty left her job there, and the kids often confused Betty with Joan, and Betty didn’t mind much either way, nor did Joan. She also informed us, with some wonder, that the City of Bristol was paying them for driving the shuttle that weekend without deducting income taxes.

The next day, it was Betty again. She told us she had gotten the chance to stroll down State Street and visit some of the booths yesterday. Did we happen to see the glass nail files in the booth about halfway down the street? She found them to be quite pretty and she shelled out five dollars for one herself. She really enjoyed hearing about how much we enjoyed our day at Rhythm & Roots, and she loved meeting so many interesting strangers.

Late that night we took our last shuttle ride home. Sunday morning we would check out of the Sleep Inn, drive into Bristol, then head to Abingdon, 20 miles or so up the road, where we’d indulge ourselves for a night at the Martha Washington Inn. But here we were Saturday night sitting at the garden table with the umbrella, again waiting for the SUV to come in. Linda and the drivers were congregating once again around their hot coffee mugs, minding with great solicitude everyone who wandered up looking for a ride home, gossiping among themselves, rehashing the town life that they so enjoy all the other weeks and months of the year when we music people have gone back to our own homes and lives.

Who do we find in the driver’s seat but Betty, who greets us and tells us she picked up Doc Watson that day at the Holiday Inn up at exit 62 and brought him into town for his amazing, forever memorable gig under the rising full moon there at the Country Mural Stage, and he and his grandson and all the other bands she’d shuttled around that day were so nice.

These ladies so thoroughly enjoyed their tenure there at the heart of the festival, their soft voices and friendly curiosity and chatty conversation welcoming us and enthralling us as they drove us from Tennessee to Virginia and back again, drawing us warmly into their mountain-town lives.