Tree Hugger

I must get 1,000 emails a year asking me, "What exactly is a Tree Hugger, anyway???"

Good question. I know to some it carries a bit of a political, eco-nazi image, but that is not what I mean by it nor is it my viewpoint. A heated argument about whether or not global warming is real or contrived is irrelevant to my views.

To me, a Tree Hugger is a peaceful, earth conscious person who enjoys a simpler, intelligent, artistic life. It’s about the artists and the music they make.

It’s about you ... and your music.

Tree Huggers are folks who choose people over money, family over careers, dreams over reality, home cooked meals over fast food, a fireplace, homemade music and those who listen closely to the dreams of their children. Who enjoy a hearty laugh, a good glass of red wine late at night, a hot cup of coffee in the morning. It’s for anyone brave enough to bring a dream to life.

Tree Huggers work in the hope of making you a little happier, to get you to sing, and draw, and create. I don’t care if it’s music, art or cooking, so long as you’re having fun. Life is too short to be worrying about half the stuff we fret over nowadays.

It’s a sense of nature, a log cabin you built yourself and a walk in the woods in October. It’s flannel pajamas on a snowy Appalachian night with the fireplace cracklin’ all warm and cozy while reading a good book. It’s a guitar, a poem, a song, a canvas, a sculpture, a dream and a vision all wrapped up together like a fresh baked batch of homemade cookies, ready to share.

Henry David Thoreau was a Tree Hugger, he just didn't know it at the time. Al Gore is a Tree Hugger that rides in limos and private jets. Me? I'm a Tree Hugger who lives with his kids in an old Kentucky farmhouse and loves to play old wooden Martin guitars and my banjo for folks.

A Tree Hugger simply loves planet Earth. I love what the earth is here for, I love what it provides and respects how it does it. I believe the earth has a purpose and that mankind (that includes women) have a purpose on it. And I believe that taking care of the earth, being a good steward of it, starts in your own hometown, in your own back yard.

So ... what kind of Tree Hugger are you?

mj

Garrison Keillor & The Finger

Last night at WoodSongs we had a tribute to the music of A Prairie Home Companion with our friends Robin & Linda Williams and the great master instrumentalist Peter Ostroushko. Both have been on the legendary show for about 30 years, since the early days - before syndication when Garrison had a daily show on public radio and they played and sang in a little studio room.

Much the way WoodSongs started.

As much as I looked forward to the day, it was riddled with disasters. After writing the script and putting the show concept together, I got an email from one of the folks who work with me. Her father passed away. So very sad.

Then Scott Napier, who played mandolin on the show with me for a year, was coming back to make an appearance and play a banjo/mando instrumental with me called the Pete & Woody Rag. But we are in the middle of a deep freeze and all the pipes in his log cabin froze up and burst, so he couldn't make it.

OK, says I. Pete's on the show, maybe he will play it with me. After all, he's one of the best of the best, it would be an honor.

I get to the theater and the lights in the grid are blowing out so the crew is distracted trying to fix it, our stage manager is stressed because his young wife is heading into the hospital, our TV director's wife is in labour and her contractions are 15 minutes apart, the theater is over sold and the audience is freeking out about seating.

No problem. A cup of hot tea and a quiet moment in the dark hallway backstage before I go on. I'm leaning against a door jam with my right picking hand and a crew member comes up without noticing and SLAMS THE DOOR ON MY MIDDLE FINGER.

Ouch! And I'm supposed to walk on stage and play the banjo in 4 minutes.

When you watch show #468 on my archive page, you will notice that my hand is shaking and I start and stop the song. Peter, good natured pro he is, hung in there with me. I decided to redo the song again after the taping during the encore. I think we got it, but I had to have my hand in a rag of ice for the entire show to keep the swelling down.

Well, we got it done. The show was a success. The audience was happy. Of course, now when ever I think of Garrison, my middle finger will probably start swelling.

... no offense GK.

Michael

Walden: Earth Day 2008

Spring is coming.

Yes, I know at the moment it's freezing across half the north American continent ... but it will be here soon enough. And with spring come thoughts of green living, warmth, life, planting gardens, mowing the grass again.

And Earth day.

Last year, we launched the play "Walden: The Ballad of Thoreau" which is a four character, two act project about the final two days Henry David Thoreau spent in his cabin before leaving Walden Pond. The play, lesson plans, posters, director's notes and more were available free of charge to any school, college, community theater or home school that wanted to put on a show.

Over 4,011 schools registered for the play in nine nations. Including Korea, Egypt and Syria. Wow.

This spring, it is available again ... and this time in Spanish and French as well. Prisons have registered, a lot of home schools, and now the Radio Drama of the pay will be posted on the www.waldenplay.com website for any fan to listen to ... fully produced, great acting. And free.

The album, Walden: The Earth Song Collect is released and if you order it from the website you get a free T-Shirt. Not bad for $11, and the money is used to support the free performance of the play in schools.

Spring time. Earth Day. The Walden play ... and a free T-Shirt.
Not a bad way to head into summer :)

MJ

Start a WoodSongs Coffeehouse

Pete Seeger used music to help clean up the Hudson River. He put a bunch of folksingers on a hand built sloop called the Clearwater, sailed up and down the Hudson and played concerts along the shore. The idea was "... get folks to the river for the music, let them see how dirty it is, and they will want to clean it up all on their own."

Pete was right.
Music works.

Music makes a community FEEL like a community.
Music makes a hometown IMPORTANT.

WoodSongs has great hometown project that is working in many cities right now ... Start your own hometown, local WoodSongs Coffeehouse. A few times a year, once a month, whenever you like you and your friends bring great music, great artists, poets, musicians, and great fun to audiences in your community. It a wonderful way to gather people together ... and share good things. When communities come together and sing ... good things will happen.

Music lovers turn living rooms, cafes, church basements, garages (the WoodSongs Coffeehouse in Las Vegas is in a converted auto shop called the "GarageMahal") into small concert venues and invite some brilliant artists in their region to stop by for music. Sell tickets or pass the hat and enjoy a pot luck supper. We show you how, step by step. All new WoodSongs Coffeehouses get a great start up manual that I wrote to help them get it going.

And it's all FREE.
Visit our page at woodsongs.com for details.

PASS THE WORD ON, and consider starting your own WoodSongs Coffeehouse!

mj

WoodSongs in Arkansas

Music is part of the human celebration.

Art should always be this way.

It is a passion that trancends payment. It is love, heart, soul and spirit. I suppose, in many ways, WoodSongs stands for home, community and family. I believe in it, and commit to it at the end of every broadcast.

It was with this spirit that WoodSongs agreed to travel to Jonesboro Arkansas to produce a special event broadcast celebrating the deep, diverse musical history of Arkansas. We were hosted on the beautiful campus of Arkansas State University, the 1000 seat Fowler Center, Jerry Biebesheimer and partnered with our affilliate KASU-FM. Program Director Marty Scarbro even came onboard as a guest on-air announcer, with Stacey Brothwell.

The WoodSongs crew gathered on a Thursday evening and traveled in a nice coach bus and arrived in Arkansas about 2am. After a few hours sleep, this incredible group of people, my friends, created a multi-media stage (television, syndicated radio, XM Satellite Radio and complete online streaming, archiving and podcasting) to celebrate and spotlight the musical home that gave the world Johnny Cash, Charlie Rich, Levon Helm, Sonny Boy Williamson, Floyd Cramer and so many others.

And the spirit of WoodSongs was reflected in the talents of those selected from over 300 submissions to be on our broadcast. Blues legend Willie "Big Eyes" Smith, a 12 year old fiddle master Caleb Cobb and his dad, the award winning Apple Brothers, hard driving bluegrass of Runaway Planet and the sweet voiced Americana of Greenwillis.

I think the highlight of the show, for me anyway, was Thomas Nelson. I found him on YouTube, and he played the harmonica like Charlie Daniels played fiddle for the Devil himself. But Thomas is not your ordinary musician, he is a challenged individual and I had no idea if he would show up, or if he did, what shape he would be in.

The bottom line is that Thomas, like everyone else on the show, played brilliantly. They made me and Arkansas proud. And I even got to play a new song with a string quintet (pictured, photo by Ruth Adams) ... and who says folk music is boring :)

You can watch the celebration of Arkansas on the archive page of my website. Check it out, and hopefully, WoodSongs might come to your hometown in 2008.

Folk on,
Michael
www.woodsongs.com

My Father's Grave ...

Children need the ones they love to love each other.

A family is like a strong tower. It protects and nurtures kids, makes them feel both loved and lovable. It teaches little boys how to love a woman because they see their dad loving their mom. It teaches daughters how to care for a husband and family ... and how to be treated by a man ... because they see mom and dad being loving with each other.

I talk about it on WoodSongs virtually every show. Moms and dads and families have got to find a way to stick together and make that family work.

Divorce affects a child much like the planes that slammed into the World Trade Towers. The damage is more severe than first observed. It burns their very soul - from the inside out. The horror is progressive, unyielding and moves onward beyond the observation of those who caused the injury. And eventually, often when the child is now an adult, the internal foundations that make them a whole person come crashing down into a massive pile of rubble.

My mom and dad didn't love each other. He was dying of cancer, they were separated and, five days before I was born, my dad died. The families polarized, didn't speak to one another and my mom quickly abandoned my father's side of the family after the funeral, ran off and remarried ten months later.

My mom and stepfather didn't love each other, either. And I grew up hiding my brother and sister under beds at night during huge and often violent arguments.

I didn't know about my real father till I was 12, during one of those wall-smashing fights. I didn't carry his name, I knew nothing about him. Who was this man? Who was this mysterious new father? And who on earth was this guy I thought was my dad all this time? I wasn't allowed to ask, so I let it go.

I stayed silent for several years and just lived my life. I have learned that kids who grow up like this often gravitate to the very drama and unhealthy personalities they desperately want to flee from. And the planes that crashed into me as a kid burned. And my towers fell and my first marriage ended in rubble. When my second marriage failed, very much against my hope and will, I went on a search for my real dad and his family.

I recently found my cousin Laddie, who as a young boy was very close to my dad. He has given me a wealth of photos and newspaper clippings and told me many stories that helped get to know my father better. And he showed me a copy of the family tree that listed all the brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles of my dad's family.

And when you come to the line of my dad and mom, to the part about me, there is simply a question mark and a note that says "... name and location unknown."

Wow. It wasn't intended to be that way, I know. But all I ended up being in my dad's life was a "question mark."

Laddie and his lovely wife, who have been very kind and supportive, took me to my father's grave for the very first time a couple of weekends ago. As we walked through the green grass past the headstones of hundreds of people in the cemetery in Forest Hills, NY my cousin finally pointed and said, "There, Michael. There's your dad."

This was the closest I have ever been to my father. I was six feet away from being able to hold his hand and hear his voice and watch his eyes as he spoke to me. And I knelt over the grave and ran my fingers across his name on the family headstone. And every image of every fight and every moment of confusion and desperate thoughts of wondering who I was and where did I fit and how much I completely needed this man crashed into me again.

MichaelB was with me, and Laddie took a photo of my Dad and his grandson at his grave (my dad's name is on the lower right of the stone, next to MichaelB.)

And everyone left and gave me a moment alone with my Dad. It was very hard and very emotional. And as I knelt down I took an oak leaf laying on the grass atop his grave as a keepsake of the moment and said my farewell. The wishful images of my dad playing baseball with me the way I play catch with my own son flashed through my head. The dream of my dad scuffing up the hair of my head with approval over something completely stupid I accomplished, the way I do for MichaelB, danced across my eyes.

My heart was very heavy for my own children. I don't want those emotional planes burning inside their hearts, too. They deserve, need, so much better. And as I walked away from my father, I was left wondering how different my life might have been if only the people I loved would have loved each other.

Ben Got Married and the Lightning Bolt

It was pretty busy around here last week.

After the WoodSongs broadcast with the Governor, we had a lot of affiliate promos to record, I worked on the 2008 version of the Walden play, began the draft of the next WoodSongs III book, wrote a song for the next album, spent a lot of much needed Daddy time ... and our friend and band mate Ben Sollee got married.

It was a great wedding. The setting was 7:30PM, Friday evening at a historic home in downtown Lexington, in a garden surrounded by a 6 foot high red brick wall. Lots of plants and flowers and vines and trees and water falls. Abigail Washburn played her banjo along with Casey Driesssen on fiddle. It was all rather lovely, except for those thunder clouds roaming the skies in the distance.

I went with my 8 year old son, who was a perfect gentleman in his jeans and little suit jacket. We sat on a stone fence in the back of the yard as all the white folding chairs were filled. Ben and his bride walked down the garden path and took their place in front of everyone. To a person, most have watched Ben grow up and become a major talent on the cello, traveling the world with the likes of Bela Fleck and Abigail and Otis Taylor. He came to us on WoodSongs (that's Ben on the left of the pic) as a scrawny 17 year old over-playing hot dog ... of course, he's not 17 anymore :)

I watched my little son next to me and wondered what Ben's dad must be thinking at this moment. Time screams through us like a piercing bullet that we have no control over. Life is way too fast.

So it was Ben's moment of moments. The vows were being said. At the very second the bride said "I will" and Ben placed the ring on her finger, a lightening bolt struck in the distance directly behind them in full view of everyone. You could tell who was on their second and third marriage because all their eyebrows flew up on their foreheads.

An omen? I don't believe in such things ... until the fellow offering up the wedding vows forgot Ben's name.

Yikes!

Then, for some reason, I thought of that pretty brown haired girl shaped like my Martin guitar that I met this past Monday. I wondered what it would be like finding a girl like her, standing in a garden like this, seeing her across from me and vowing the rest of your days to loving and taking care of a girl just like that.

Now, there, my friends, was a lightning bolt :)

Bluegrass Music and WoodSongs

Last night, we had a celebration of Bluegrass music on WoodSongs.

And today, I am very, VERY tired :)

Bluegrass of course, is a passion of mine. Although I make no claims to be a "bluegrass" musician, but I've enjoyed playing with and recording with many bluegrass artists. And I love the gentle, family, and community nature of the music. Folk music used to be that way. Good, down home music brings the very best out in people. Like Bill Monroe said, it draws folks together and makes them friendly.

I often thought that if Sadam played the banjo he would have been a much nicer man ... might even still be alive today.

But last night was pretty amazing. First of all, the WoodSongs crew, all volunteers, did an AMAZING job of putting that show together. They come in at 1 in the afternoon, assembled the stage, set up cameras, ran cables, set mics, did sound check, brought in dinner, took care of the artists, sold their CDs ... let me go on stage and stumble around for an hour ... then rip it all down and packed it away in about 40 minutes.

It is like watching a ballet without the tutus.

JD Crowe, Ronnie Reno, Cherryholmes, Scott Napier and a band of teenagers called Kentucky Sassafrass were all on the stage. It was a monumental exercise in mental organization to get that show done in 59 minutes and 30 seconds with no editing ... but we did it. Very few mistakes, other than the fact that most of the notes I had on stage were wrong. But I have that same problem in life no less WoodSongs.

Governor Fletcher was on the show and signed a declaration making bluegrass the official music of the Commonwealth of Kentucky. What a very nice guy. And he stayed for the entire show. At the end, he even came back on stage while I did the TV commercial, holding my banjo in his three piece suite.

Now, I'm not a political person ... I could care less whether you are Democratic, Republicratic, or Automatic ... but when a guy has a freaking ROOT CANAL in the afternoon and comes on an international broadcast in front almost 2 million people plus a theater audience of 400 without even mentioning it, well ... 'nuff said on that.

Of course, everything was going great until I met this heart-stoppingly beautiful woman in the lobby. Brunette hair, soft smiling eyes, an hour-glass figure to die for ... she looked like my Martin guitar - only it jiggled. She even came up and talked to me. And I'll be darned I couldn't stop thinking about that and it kept me up half the night.

That's why I'm so tired today.

Folk on, my friends.

Show 444 - John Platania

Sometimes, WoodSongs is fun.

Don't get me wrong, it's always a great time. But after 444 shows, the routine becomes evident and you sort of go into "auto-pilot." Which of course, is the life of an artist. Musicians and songwriters must cultivate a very high tolerance for repetition in order to survive.

Think about it: they write a song. Practice the song. Rehearse the song. Record the song. Make a music video of the song. Release the song. Radio plays the song. They perform the song. It becomes a hit and they play the darn thing every night for the rest of their career.

Now, I've never had a hit song ... granted. But I have performed over 2,500 Earth Concerts in less than four years which meant that I was playing the same song-set two, sometimes three times a day for up to six days a week ... for four years. It may not have been a hit record, but it sure felt like one.

I had a conversation a few years ago with a great songwriter who has had several global hit records. He described that, as much as he loves his songs and all they give him, it can be a bit of a struggle at times to stay interested in the moment of performance. Then he said something that really stuck with me:

"It must be horrible being Chuck Berry."

Please remember that we were speaking in the context of repetition. He wasn't implying anything about Chuck Berry personally, just the situation Chuck was in. You see, Chuck has a whole concert set of 2 1/2 minute hits, written in the same key of E with the same chord structure, and his audience and the promoters expect to hear every last one of those hits on stage that night. If he ever left out Johnny Be Good he would be booed off the stage.

"Massive hits" are awe inspiring events ... yet can feel like a bruise to your brain and vocal chords. It must be exciting at first, but after a decade or two and five thousand performances later it can't be all that interesting anymore. I guess that's why Arlo Guthrie stopped playing Alice's Restaurant for over a decade. He had to rest from it and he said so publicly. It didn't mean he didn't like the song or that he didn't appreciate how much the audience wanted to hear it. He simply needed a break. Obviously, he respects the song because he's playing it in concert again.

John Platania (pictured here) was on the show this past Monday. He is a brilliant and in-demand musician who toured with everyone from Van Morrison to Bonnie Raitt ... he toured with Don McLean for almost 15 years ... he made a living backing up these great songwriters with the huge hits that made those careers possible.

John has his own solo CD out. It really shows off his guitar style and voice and it becomes obvious why so many want to work with him. And he's a great guy. He's gone from side-man to front-man. And the sense of the repetition is different. It is no longer someone else's song. Now, he is singing his own songs. Every night. Every concert. Every performance. He was on the show with Chip Taylor, a wonderful songwriter and true gentleman who has seen several of his songs travel the years and go around the world. Chip plays Wild Thing and Angel Of The Morning every night. Every ... single ... night.

But here they are, traveling on and introducing their music to new audiences. Because at the very heart of them they are both artists, they both appreciate the audience, they both love what they are doing. And whether the next song becomes a hit or not, they choose to let the music live and breathe in the voices of the audiences they sing to.

And that is fun.

Michael

Tools of the Trade

I get asked a lot about the guitars I use on stage. Which is nice, it means folks are listening and noticing. They look like pieces of art. To me anyway. I love my guitars. So here you go ...

All my guitars are Martin 12 fret, wide neck models. Why the wide neck? Because of tone and clarity. When you play a chord on a regular guitar, Martin or otherwise, you hear the wash of the chord. With a wide neck, especially these, you strum the chord and actually hear the individual notes that make up the chord. I love that. And I love the classic look of the slot tuners (pictured from left: Martin 00-28s, 000-28s and D-28s).

Specifically, I have a 1969 Martin 00-21s, a 1971 and 1974 Martin D-28s, a 2005 Martin 00-28 and two new Martin 000-28s guitars.

I use D'Addario phosphour bronze 80/20 medium guage strings on all of them. All have a McKinney capo that I leave on the nut of the guitar, I use .88 Dunlop ridged flat picks, .013 Dunlop steel finger picks and Goldengate large white thumb picks. I find the most convienient and accurate to be the Intellitouch Center Pitch tuner. Works great on banjos, too. I prefer a good, padded leather gig bag to a hard shell case. The best are made by Reunion Blues. I strap a small, leather Indian dream catcher to the B string tuner of the guitars. Always have and I don't know why. 'nuff said on that.

My favorite guitar is the Martin 000-28s. It is a perfect songwriter's tool. Let me rephrase that: it is a PERFECT songwriter's tool. The D-28s has a larger body which sounds awesome in a room but does not translate to mics very well. So the engineer has to EQ the bottom end down. Essentially, making is sound like the 000-28s. So why not just use the 000, I say?

Honestly, the real gem in my collection is the smaller body 00-28s. It sounds and records like an acoustic diamond, even more so than the 000. The 00-21s is the same body type and style, but the 00-28s has a deeper, richer tone. I can hear the wood. I used it throughout the new Walden album. The problem with the 00 is cosmetic. The smaller body makes the player (me) look bigger and every time I use it onstage I get a series of emails from fans suggesting I do something about my "sudden weight gain." Funny, but true. This is the strange road that always leads me to my Martin 000-28 slot neck, 12 fret guitar.

It is balanced, rich, easy on the eyes, different from the rest and DANG it sounds pretty. Back in the day, I would protect my Martin guitars at all cost. Even at big stages with union stage managers. I would stare them in the eye and say,

"There's my Martin - and over here is my wife. Don't EVER let me catch you messing with my Martin."

... at least I still have those Martins :)

I'm Baaaaaack ....

Greetings WoodSongs Fans,

Yes, it's been a while since I've been on here. I guess I had a difficult time seeing my friend Homer Ledford drift down the page since his passing. It's hard to have someone that close pass on. But life, music and love move forward ... so I'm back.

There's a lot going on.
A LOT.

I just got back from performing at the Las Vegas Cable TV Convention with my music buds Ronnie Reno and Stan Hitchkock, from BlueHighways TV. I'll be telling you more about BlueHighways in the weeks to come.

Vegas was an awesome place but it made me miss my farmhouse. Aside from sweating through three songs of KC and the Sunshine Band (yeeks) A high point was sitting on stools in the middle of this convention center surrounded by all these huge Cable Network booths swapping old Pete Seeger songs on a Deering Good Time banjo (this is the pic: Ronnie Reno, Me and some corporate dude from a cable channel).

Anyway, WoodSongs has been making a major move onto PBS stations around the nation. It's already airing in millions of USA TV homes. I'm excited to fill you in - so check back often!

Folk on,
Michael

2006 Kentucky Star Award

So, last night the community I live in awarded me a 2006 Kentucky Star Award. And it was very humbling. Others given this award are folks like Bill Monroe, Loretta Lynn, Rosemary Clooney, author Bobby Ann Mason, and Tom T. Hall. My little star of a career casts no light in the reflection of these other folks. I went to the theater and wondered out loud to my friend Bryan if they would spell my name right on the award. When I got the Stephen Foster Award earlier this year they spelled it wrong. It sits on my shelf, all important looking, but with my name spelled funny.

Sitting on stage during the ceremony I looked into the theater and saw so many of my friends in the audience. I was glad they were there. I needed them to be there. During my introduction I listened to the MC recount the road I took to get to this stage, this moment, this award. He talked about how I left New York at 19 and moving to the Mexican border to become a DJ in Laredo, Texas. Hearing Turn, Turn, Turn by The Byrds and noticing it was written by my neighbor, Pete Seeger. Deciding to leave Laredo and become a folksinger, moving into the little hamlet of Mousie, Kentucky. My daughter Melody was born there. Learning the Appalchian music and songs and traveling up and down the hollers learning the music. Starting touring and recording. The Troubadour Concert Series. The miles. The books. The songs. The records ... some good, some bad ... all the way to the WoodSongs Old-Time Radio Hour. Now the Evening Song album and the Walden play.

It was a nice introduction, very flattering. But I felt tired after hearing all we've done in such a short amount of time. Wow, it's a lot of work to do this thing we call "playing."

He called my name and the audience stood up as I walked to the stage. Some of my friends made believe they were doing the wave as I came to the podium. I looked out and sitting in the crowd, about ten rows up right in the middle of the theater, was the most lovely and beautiful of sights ... Colista Ledford came all the way to Lexington to be there. Colista is the loyal, loving and magnificient wife of my friend Homer Ledford. The WoodSongs theme on the radio show is a tune called Colista's Jam that I began writing on the Ledford's couch one afternoon, long ago.

And I thought about my friend Homer, a sweet, gentle and humble man. Homer is a great bluegrass musician, a brilliant luthier. He married a woman full of joy and devotion and love and he, in turn, provided her with a life of family, friends, comfort, and music. Colita was Homer's second choice for a date one night after another woman he asked out stood him up. Till this day he says it was the "best 25 cent movie he's ever seen." Colista say's how happy she is "that crazy woman cancelled on Homer" so she could have her chance with him. Homer is a very lucky man. They have been married 51 years. Homer hasn't been feeling very well these days. He stopped working in his little wood shop and the music that resonated from his handcrafted instruments now drift through the air in the hands of other players, not his own. It took extraordinary effort for Colista to leave Homer's side for this occasion ... but she was there.

Homer is a real Kentucky Star. Not me. Homer embodies what an honor like this means. Not me. Homer is a Kentucky musical treasure. And there are others - like the brilliant John Jacob Niles - who deserve one and still waits from his grave for his Star. John Jacob Niles is a Kentucky Star. Not me. But there I was ... holding my award. After I said my Thanks, some pictures were taken and the audience stood up again. It was very sweet. Very moving. All so very nice.

And then, in the most fitting of ironies, I sat back down and looked at my award, awash in the glory of the moment, to find that: Yes, they mispelled my name. Again :)

Michael "JHonathon"
Kentucky Star

My Hometown

An old European poet once said, "If everyone in the world simply took care of their own homes, you wouldn't have to worry about the world anymore." In the 1960s that phrase became a bumper sticker, "Think globally ... Act Locally."

I grew up in New York, a little town called Fishkill in Dutchess County. Pete Seeger lived nearby and I would go to his Stawberry Festival each summer and watch the folksingers play along the shores of the Hudson River. I liked that Pete had a national career but would be seen walking the sidewalks of his hometown, shopping at the Grand Union, attending his local Sloop meetings ... being part of a hometown with his family.

I don't live in New York anymore, obviously. I moved south into a land of mountains and music and garden tomatoes and coal mines. Aside from my family, the memories of my old home have been replaced by my new hometown. Now, I live in Lexington, Kentucky. It's a wonderful, friendly, beautiful, creative place full of good people, and families, and nice schools and a thriving artist community. There are not many places as wonderful as Lexington. Except, maybe, your hometown. But I love Kentucky. It fits me. I have been able to play music, write books, make records, create something as adventerous as the WoodSongs Old-Time Radio Hour and raise my children here. My hometown sits in a nice part of America, we are a short 6 hour drive to 32 million people. It sits at the foothills of the Appalachian moountains and the music, the art, the crafts and the spirit of that old way of life still lingers in the air.

But the past couple weeks have been hard for my friends in Lexington. There was a bomb scare that shut down several city blocks. A jet with 50 people, mostly from Lexington, crashed after taking off from the wrong runway. All but one perished. A friend of mine, Larry Turner, was on that plane. Two WoodSongs crew members, Dr. Bob and Mary DeMatinna, were at the airport and watched Larry's plane explode in a ball of fire as it crashed. A couple of days later, a mom and dad were arrested for killing their child and burning the body in the woods after claiming the child was kidnapped. Another mother got angry and drove her children into a lake. One of the kids died.

My hometown has been hit hard.

I mention all of this to show that every hometown is both wonderful and beautiful and yet still struggles like any another. Each hometown grapples to keep it's sidewalks clean and schools running and roads paved and workers working. I liked what Pete did, working on his national career but still paying attention to, and being an active part of, his own hometown. Each home town is made better by the involvement of those who chose to live there.

An artist can learn a lot from Pete by getting involved one way or another, through hard work or music, in their hometowns. Whether you sing at a homeless shelter or pick up trash along a creek bed ... it's part of the responsibility of a hometown, I suppose. After all, if you don't care about where you're from, why should anyone care about where you are going.

'nuff said.
Michael
Lexington, Kentucky

Artists & Krit-Icks

My Blog entry today is a slightly edited letter I sent to a wonderful actress who got creamed in a review by her local paper. It really hurt her and she didn't deserve it. The review was, at the very least, rude. I hate it when critics, who can't accomplish much other than spewing opinion, publicly redicule those who are at least trying. I think artists deserve better. If you don't like something, ignore it. But for Pete's sake, don't strangle someone's spirit in public:

A few years ago, a critic reviewed by album, Dreams of Fire. I recorded it with a 61 piece symphony and worked my butt off on it for almost a year. The album was getting rave reviews all over the country ... and then this reviewer got hold of it and gave Dreams of Fire a horrible, personal, scathing review in print right here in my own hometown.

It rattled me. For a minute. A couple years later, a friend of mine in Ireland released a cassette of his songs and sent them to his local paper. The critic burned, tarred and feathered my friend's little cassette release of his songs. The review was so bad his mother didn't leave her house for almost 2 weeks. After my friend called me, in tears, to tell me he was quitting his music, my heart broke for him. Because I knew exactly how he felt.

So I wrote my friend a song, called WoodSongs. a song of victory of an artist's will over critics, became the title of my next album, which was turned into a book, that I turned into a radio show, that became a national tour, podcast, and now a national TV series on PBS. So much for the critic.

I write all of this because I think all of you, whether amateur songwriter, living room couch performer or professional, are an incredibly talented, brilliant and beautiful in sprit. Remember, the critic creates nothing. The artist remains the source of inspiration ... even if it means getting off your bloodied knees all the time. Some words for all artists to consider:

"Fear not the voice of the critic, for no man ever erected a statue in honour of a critic"- Finnish Composer

"It is much easier to tare down than to build, it takes less talent to scoff than to create, it is the essense of laziness to be critical ... than to be correct" - Benjamin DeSreali

"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat." - Theodore Roosevelt

"Twenty years from now you will be more dissappointed by the things you DIDN'T do than by the ones you DID. So throw off your anchors. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore . . Dream . . . Discover." - Mark Twain

"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit." - Albert Schweitzer

Daughters & Daddys

I love my daughters.

I have two and I love them both equally and whole souled. This is a recent picture of Rachel when she got her face painted at Disney World.

Melody Larkin is a wonderful, brilliant and amazing young woman. Rachel Aubrey is fiesty and brash and blazing. Melody is exactly like me and yet so different my eyes spin just thinking about it. It has come to be my absolute belief that the greatest source of joy and of pain for any man’s heart is inflicted not by his lover . . . it is from his daughter.

In my heart of hearts, it is hard to "allow" them to grow up. I want Melody to be young still, needing me and worshiping the ground I walk on. The greatest boost to my self-esteem and ego that I have ever experienced is the wide-eyed look of shear joy in my daughter’s eyes when she would see me. I miss it ... I miss the "little-girl" her.

Yet I am in awe and totally bewildered of the young, independent woman she has become. She draws me and confuses me. Nothingcan make me feel relaxed or less protective of her, even though I’m the very last person on this planet she wants to have tell her what to do. I guess it is a right of passage as young girls grows up: They discard the very things they needed when they were little to prove to themselves they are not little anymore.

And here is the brutal attack on my ego:

She’s doing a great job without me.
And here I hoped and prayed that I would be eternally indispensable. How dare she be so complete in her life without her dad.

Probably the most difficult adjustment I had to make in my viewpoint toward Melody was her first boyfriend. What a wanker. I wanted to ring the little jerk’s neck but, no, you smile and take them out for hamburgers instead. I think a father’s greatest fear is that another man will view his daughter the same way we know all boys actually think about girls.

Not my daughter you don’t. Not my precious, innocent angel that I would carry in one arm and cuddle up to on the couch and call “Monkey” because she would stuff a whole banana in her mouth all at once and who just finished high school and got through her third car wreck and keeps asking me for money all the time.

She is exempt from guys like him.

So what can I say about my little girls? You are both the very best of everything I wish I was and still yearn to be. You are everything I have worked for and lost and regained. You are the forgiveness and redemption of every mistake I’ve made and the blessing of everything wonderful I could ever ask for. My life is nothing without you in it. And I would give my life and my heart for you in an instant with absolutely no hesitation. And I struggle to grow with you and re-learn about you both. You are changing so fast and, in the lament of the little girls you used to be, I celebrate with great pride the young women you have become.

There is no greater hole in my heart, no brighter fire in my spirit, no more precious gem in my life than for you, my beautiful daughters.

Michael
folksinger - tree hugger - daddy
folkboy@woodsongs.com

Fathers & Sons

Being a Dad means taking only the green icepops.

My father died five days before I was born. His absence created a huge, gaping hole my entire young life not knowing him, missing someone I never met and not fully understanding why. Wishing my dad was there, wishing he could talk to me or help me out of my mistakes. I wish he was there just to celebrate the good stuff and be proud of me when I did good.

Dads come in handy that way.
Fathers can validate the reason you exist simply by being proud of you.

My own son is seven years old. His mom decided to dismantle the marriage when he was just three months old. And, like his sisters, my world revolves around what he is, what he does, what he gets excited about. Which is, frankly, everything from Batman to baseball. He likes to jump off my bed to watch his super hero cape fly and he goes to sleep holding the baseball I caught for him at a Lexington Legends game. When I wrote my books WoodSongs I and WoodSongs II, alot was included about his sisters. I've written songs and poems about his sisters ... but never MichaelB. I think not knowing my father and then suddenly having a son, a male connection to my dad, had a volcanic impact on me. It left me creatively speechless.

This is a picture of MichaelB. He hates this picture because he thinks he looks goofy. I love it because it captures the cuddly, lovable, fused-to-daddy's hip little boy that he is. And I know this mini-me part of his life is drifting away quickly. So, I spend as much time with him as I can. Which is a lot. I think I missed that chance with Melody too much, so I might be overcompensating. Either way, what a beautiful, tender, innocent and amazing little person he is. If I could go to a store and select a child like we select a car or anything else, I would have picked exactly who he is. And Rachel. And Melody. I love them beyond my ability to express. Verbally or musically.

Last week, Rachel graduated middle school. There she was ... busy with her friends, full of her life and her future and how she looked and what I did and didn't do exactly right. Just like little girls turning into young women do to there dads. I loved every second of it.

And mom was there, too. Much to my surprise, she sat with me and the kids this time. And during Rachel's graduation ceremony, MichaelB reached for my hand, and then his mom's hand. And squeezed them both together and pulled them toward his chest. And it occurred to me that this beautiful, precious little boy never had his mom and dad tuck him into bed at night, never had his mom and dad together at a breakfast table, never played catch with his father while his mom made dinner in the kitchen at the farmhouse.

And I wanted to burst inside myself with frustration and failure. Isn't he worth that? Doesn't he deserve that? Isn't this little boy worthy of whatever sacrifice his parents should make to give him that?

Instead I sat there, silent as MichaelB had that rare moment of holding both parents hands at the same time. And I thought about being a dad. Missing my dad. Wishing I could talk about this and vent to my own father. And I thought about being a good dad and how I had to work really, really hard to be one for this little boy. I thought about the incredible joy of sacrifice these little souls need from their parents.

And I thought about those icepops.
How Rachel likes the strawberry.
MichaelB likes the grape.
That leaves Dad only the green ones.

... and I hate the green ones.

Folk on,
Michael Johnathon
folkboy@woodsongs.com

Roger McGuinn

When I was 19, I left my home in New York. Actually, without going too deeply into it, I fled. And I ended up on the Mexican border in a dusty town of Laredo, Texas. What an adventure ... what food ... what music. And the people were so sweet and humble, a land full of incredible contrasts. The culture shock of going from a place like New York to the Mexican and cowboy communities of south Texas was jolting, to say the least.

I can still feel the intensity of 109 degrees in the afternoon sun, standing in the desert outside of Cotula, south of San Antonio. The sun was so intense it literally pounded up off the stone and rocks and you could feel it pulsating against your skin. And yet, that same furnace of a desert, come the winter rains, would burst into a carpet of yellow, purple and white flowers in January.

And the food. How can I describe a fajitas steak grilled over hot mesquite coals that are covered in raw onion? The steam of the onion broils into the steak with the nutty flavor of the mesquite. That, plus a hot flower tortilla, a cold Tecate beer and a hammock about 6 in the evening as the sun starts to go down ... it's heaven.

But mostly the people left the biggest mark on my young heart. They are so sweet and humble. And willing. And hard working. I know there is a lot of angst and discussion over those that come to America illegally right now. But when you're living there and meeting them in the streets ... not criminals or vagrents ... but family people, fathers and sons mostly looking for jobs, you're heart really goes out to them. All they want is an honorable chance to work.

And there are those that argue that America was built of folks just like that 200 years ago. And it's true. But this isn't America of the past, this is America now. America with 300 million people, and laws, and property, and economy. And this is America with strangers hijacking planes and slamming into buildings. My cousin worked in the 81st floor of the second tower hit on 9/11. It's a different America than it was 200 years ago.

I was just a kid, bathing in all of that new experiance. I found a part time job as a DJ on KLAR AM there in Laredo. One night, I played a song by Roger McGuinn and The Byrds called Turn, Turn, Turn. By the time the song ended, for some reason, I decided I would leave Laredo and become a folksinger, of all things. A few months later, I landed in the tiny hamlet of Mousie, Kentucky with my guitar and banjo.

Fast forward to 2006 ... Last night, Roger McGuinn was on WoodSongs. For the second time. And after the show, along with his amazing wife Camilla, we had dinner and talked for a couple of hours. He's an amazing man, a brilliant musician and artist, a loving husband. And a pretty cool hero to a young guy playing records at 4 in the morning in a dusty little town so long ago.

As Roger and Camilla left for the hotel at midnight, I couldn't help but relive the night that I played his song on that radio station. It changed everything in just two minutes and thirty seconds. And I can still see the desert. I can still taste the fresh flower tortillas. I can still hear the sound of frightened people walking past my house early in the morning as they made their way up from the Rio Grande and into the deserts outside of Laredo, searching for the hope of this place called America.

Folk on,
Micheal Johnathon
folksinger - tree hugger
folkboy@woodsongs.com

WALDEN: The Ballad of Thoreau

I finally finished the script of my play.

Walden: The Ballad of Thoreau is a two act, one set play about the last two days Henry David Thoreau spent in his cabin at Walden Pond.

The play takes place in September, 1847. Thoreau, a young man of 30, has contemplated his life and his place on this earth for the last two years and two months while living alone in a small cabin he built for $28. His friend and mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson, gave Henry a small plot of land along the shores of Walden Pond near thier home in Concord, Massachusettes to make his intellectual escape.

A failed author, Henry would write in his journals everyday and imagined that, someday, his experiance alone in the woods would have meaning and importance.

The play is not a biography of Thoreau. It is a conversation and intellectual argument that occurs between to collegues who love and respect each othera greatdeal. It is a peak into what made Henry a great writer, and of the rejection he was facing. It is a play of farewell as Henry leaves the cabin on Walden Pond. Ultimately, it is a play about friendship and loyalty, of believing and supporting a writer, thinker, visionary and artist who was a generation ahead of his time.

I'll write more about the play later. My hope is to offer the script free to drama departments in high schools and colleges nationwide. We'll see. A website devoted to it will be up soon at www.WaldenPlay.com

I guess my blog has been silent since the passing of my friend. I couldn't really deal with watching his picture move down a notch. Joe loved little furry creatures much more than people, much like Thoreau. It was his passing that moved me to complete the play.

Folk on,
Micheal Johnathon
folksinger - tree hugger
folkboy@woodsongs.com

My Friend, Big Joe

I want to tell you about a friend of mine.
His name is Joseph Richard Garnett, some folks called him Dick, I called him Big Joe.

My friend was a good man, a good musician, a best friend and a great dad. He had a heart as big as the great outdoors and, as I often told him, he had a place to keep it. Big Joe was a big man with a big laugh and a big appetite for life.
And music.
And his family.
And his friends.

I was very fortunate to be one of them.

We lost Joe sometime on Sunday. He started his car to leave his house, went inside and watched a little TV while his car warmed up and simply left us while sitting in his chair. Peaceful. No struggle.

Very, very "Big Joe."

And I loved my friend very much. He was with me through thick and thin ... mostly thin. He bailed me out more times than I can count. He supported me every time I was bashed and pounded by others. Every time I went through a difficult time Joe was ALWAYS there and I could always call him and he would be the first one to show up at Bob Evens Resturant for breakfast and coffee. He loved that place. And we would talk for hours.

The last time I spent with Joe was a few weeks ago. He was tired, his heart was giving him problems and he had diabetes on top of it. But his spirit, as always, was brilliant. He was still playing music, still consumed with his sons Ron and Sean and their families. Still a good dad. Still my best friend.

Oddly enough, when Ron called me Monday before WoodSongs about Joe's passing I was, as you might imagine, upset. I wrote the day of the visitation down wrong and, although I bought the paper with the obit, couldn't read it. I thought I would wait a week and then read through it. Too painful right now. I showed up at the funeral home Wednesday with rachel and MichealB ... only to find out the visitation was the day before and Big Joe had been buried earlier in the afternoon.

I missed Joe's funeral. Can you believe that?
I stood there in the funeral home and I could almost hear Big Joe laughing his a** off at how stupid I was.

They don't make 'em like Big Joe anymore.
I shall miss my friend and all that he meant to me.

WoodSongs Show #389 - Heritage

When I moved to Mousie, Kentucky one of the first poets and writers I came across was James Still. He lived in a log cabin in Knott County, on the property of the Hindman Settlement School. A friend gave me his book, River of Earth, and I was in awe of the powerful gentlity of his writing and his love of the mountain region of Appalachia.

He passed away a few years ago. On show #389, me and the guys performed a brand new song named after one of Mr. Still's most famous peoms, Heritage. What a beautiful piece of writing. I gave full credit for the source and inspiration of the song to the writer of the poem, but I want you to have a chance to read the poem itself. I encourage you to visit James Still's web page and learn more of this great Appalachian poet and writer (http://faculty.colostate-pueblo.edu/sandy.hudock/jshome.html)

I shall not leave these prisoning hills
Though they topple their barren heads to level earth
And the forests slide uprooted out of the sky.
Though the waters of Troublesome, of Trace Fork,
Of Sand Lick rise in a single body to glean the valleys,
To drown lush pennyroyal, to unravel rail fences;
Though the sun-ball breaks the ridges into dust
And burns its strength into the blistered rock
I cannot leave. I cannot go away.

Being of these hills, being one with the fox
Stealing into the shadows, one with the new-born foal,
The lumbering ox drawing green beech logs to mill,
One with the destined feet of man climbing and descending,
And one with death rising to bloom again, I cannot go.
Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond.