The Williams Family Bluegrass Experience
Our first experiences with bluegrass music came from our cousin Tom, a man who joined the Peace Corp and spent two years in Ecuador: one year handing out birth control to the locals, (more on that another time), and another watching for poachers and wild fires in a tree house in the mountains; a man who, when he returned to the States, told us that he had dedicated the year to perfecting each note on his guitar, the kicker of this being that tuning the guitar depends upon a myriad of factors, specific factors that make Iowa nothing like Ecuador. This first experience with bluegrass music directly coincided with our first Cubs game; as Tom drove us to Chicago, he spent the entire trip pretending to pick out the fiddle parts to the songs we were being forced to listen, and coincidentally almost sent us to our tragic ends by repeatedly steering over the rumble strip in his excitement for the music. (Perhaps the rhythm of the rumble strip was purposeful, as an accent to the tune? We were younger then, with less music appreciation, it is possible that we missed the finesse entirely.) Any condition that must be endured while locked in a van becomes quite distasteful, (see Michael Jesus and church camp in the fictional mountains of Ohio with thumb sucking third cousin), and so it was no surprise that at the end of the day, the only cheers we had raised were for the Cubs.
After a love affair with the movie "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?" and a visit to the Guzzardo music store, where the salesman assured us that the banjo was indeed the jolliest of the instruments, though, it became clear to us that we must absolutely start a blue grass band. As the very talented and successful at everything Williams siblings, we would master the fiddle and the banjo and from there dole out parts for easy things like the jug, the washboard, and the spoons to those friends who shared our love for the slower pace of life and especially the songs "Louisiana Saturday Night" and "Rocky Top." Nichole was destined to play the washboard, Dan Watson would, perhaps coincidentally, play the jug, and Josh would jam on the spoons. (To his credit, Josh did try many times to master the harmonica. He may be the most diligent member of the WFBE.) We even had a number (one) of fans: Adam Virgadamo, a friend from school who, though he had never met him, developed a strong affinity for the gumption of Richard Williams and his crazy band of musicians. (Had Jehee introduced her boyfriend to Adam as my brother, as the plan she hatched during Harvard-Yale outlined, the band would have proved the unveiling factor of the charade.)
Enthusiasm for the band waned some over the years, but was revived last June. As a wedding gift, among some other little treasures including a vase full of plastic flowers and a "family heirloom" quilt that matched the quilts on the beds at a hotel in Michigan, my California aunt had assembled a video montage of old footage she had taken of the Williams family jamming at various occasions. The video was a reaffirmation of our talent, showcasing Grandma, her children, and her grandchildren gathering around the piano with their various instruments and voices. There was a time when I was jealous of Gill Morris, for her family was quite musical and they had a cousin who played the harp, but no more, because we Williamses could jam with the best. It was time to begin the band again.
The most logical first step was to learn to play the guitar, a most ill fated experience that proved, despite wishful thinking to the contrary, that talent, (and nimble fingers) was a necessity that could neither be bought, stolen, or hoped into existence. The happily contrived jam session of brother helping sister ended with me cursing my brick hands and Richard, in a glimpse of the sibling relationships of yesteryear, grinding his jaw and yelling "carrie" in a low voice through closed teeth. Get down the fiddle indeed.
In an attempt to save the band, Richard enrolled in piano lessons at college. While he earned a half credit for his work upon the keys, the class did not, as previously planned, boost his GPA or provide him with the skills to perform Justin Timberlake songs at parties.
But what of our childhood talent!? We sat down to watch the video once again, and this time we didn't fast forward through the musical numbers looking for the video of Grandpa pushing over the little calf. At real speed, with audible volume, the talent we possessed as children was considerably less impressive than we imagined in hindsight. Clip after clip of tone deaf cousins chanting the bumble bee song, honking on the wind instruments, and tripping across the piano deflate us entirely. Our actual patron of music, Grandma can be seen in each clip cringing, but continuing to cheer us on. Case in point: Grandma on the piano, Aunt Diana (in her second month of lessons) on the clarinet, Richard on the trombone, and myself, in all my fashionable eighth grade glory, on the saxophone--all of us trying to play the same Christmas song, in four different keys, and, evidently, four different tempos, through it all poor Good King Wenceslas gesturing frantically, trying to rise above the surface of the noise to be identified and keep from drowning. Towards the end of the song, Uncle Don steps into the screen, as though the erratic movement of his arms will return some dignity to the affair. When the music finally (thankfully) stops the welcome silence is broken by a deep, barking cough that continues to escape from my chest and throat for a good three minutes. Uncle Don applauds.
Rest in peace Williams Family Bluegrass Experience. Perhaps our beach volleyball careers will fare better.
After a love affair with the movie "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?" and a visit to the Guzzardo music store, where the salesman assured us that the banjo was indeed the jolliest of the instruments, though, it became clear to us that we must absolutely start a blue grass band. As the very talented and successful at everything Williams siblings, we would master the fiddle and the banjo and from there dole out parts for easy things like the jug, the washboard, and the spoons to those friends who shared our love for the slower pace of life and especially the songs "Louisiana Saturday Night" and "Rocky Top." Nichole was destined to play the washboard, Dan Watson would, perhaps coincidentally, play the jug, and Josh would jam on the spoons. (To his credit, Josh did try many times to master the harmonica. He may be the most diligent member of the WFBE.) We even had a number (one) of fans: Adam Virgadamo, a friend from school who, though he had never met him, developed a strong affinity for the gumption of Richard Williams and his crazy band of musicians. (Had Jehee introduced her boyfriend to Adam as my brother, as the plan she hatched during Harvard-Yale outlined, the band would have proved the unveiling factor of the charade.)
Enthusiasm for the band waned some over the years, but was revived last June. As a wedding gift, among some other little treasures including a vase full of plastic flowers and a "family heirloom" quilt that matched the quilts on the beds at a hotel in Michigan, my California aunt had assembled a video montage of old footage she had taken of the Williams family jamming at various occasions. The video was a reaffirmation of our talent, showcasing Grandma, her children, and her grandchildren gathering around the piano with their various instruments and voices. There was a time when I was jealous of Gill Morris, for her family was quite musical and they had a cousin who played the harp, but no more, because we Williamses could jam with the best. It was time to begin the band again.
The most logical first step was to learn to play the guitar, a most ill fated experience that proved, despite wishful thinking to the contrary, that talent, (and nimble fingers) was a necessity that could neither be bought, stolen, or hoped into existence. The happily contrived jam session of brother helping sister ended with me cursing my brick hands and Richard, in a glimpse of the sibling relationships of yesteryear, grinding his jaw and yelling "carrie" in a low voice through closed teeth. Get down the fiddle indeed.
In an attempt to save the band, Richard enrolled in piano lessons at college. While he earned a half credit for his work upon the keys, the class did not, as previously planned, boost his GPA or provide him with the skills to perform Justin Timberlake songs at parties.
But what of our childhood talent!? We sat down to watch the video once again, and this time we didn't fast forward through the musical numbers looking for the video of Grandpa pushing over the little calf. At real speed, with audible volume, the talent we possessed as children was considerably less impressive than we imagined in hindsight. Clip after clip of tone deaf cousins chanting the bumble bee song, honking on the wind instruments, and tripping across the piano deflate us entirely. Our actual patron of music, Grandma can be seen in each clip cringing, but continuing to cheer us on. Case in point: Grandma on the piano, Aunt Diana (in her second month of lessons) on the clarinet, Richard on the trombone, and myself, in all my fashionable eighth grade glory, on the saxophone--all of us trying to play the same Christmas song, in four different keys, and, evidently, four different tempos, through it all poor Good King Wenceslas gesturing frantically, trying to rise above the surface of the noise to be identified and keep from drowning. Towards the end of the song, Uncle Don steps into the screen, as though the erratic movement of his arms will return some dignity to the affair. When the music finally (thankfully) stops the welcome silence is broken by a deep, barking cough that continues to escape from my chest and throat for a good three minutes. Uncle Don applauds.
Rest in peace Williams Family Bluegrass Experience. Perhaps our beach volleyball careers will fare better.
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