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10/9/26
Barbecue Chicken, Girls with Guns, and Gospel
There’s a certain obsession that many of us musicians come down with after we have developed our chops to the point where we’re competent and confident enough to play with others. Sitting home and practicing alone won’t satisfy the urge, so we have to get out and play, play, and play, anywhere, anytime. When that particular malady came over me, I joined three bands and started attending all the jam sessions within about seventy-five miles of home. And I’m here to tell you that, at least in my case, there’s no cure. I’m still obsessed as I’m about to enter my eighth decade on Earth. So, when you ask why I would agree to play for nothing except food and drinks, twice in one day at places seventy miles apart, all I can say is that the music daemon took over my mind and evicted common sense. I’m not alone. This story is about two more poor souls that have the same affliction, at least they did at the time of this episode. Because Bryan Deere and Fiddlin’ Andy Martin were right in there with me.
You’ve already met Bryan Deere if you’ve been reading these stories or seen the Patuxent Partners play. But Fiddlin’ Andy may be a new character to you. I was at Ralph Stanley’s festival in 1986, trying to sleep after a long day of music, when a group started playing fiddle tunes right beside my van. As I was readying myself to get my mandolin and join them, I pictured the fiddler as an old man from the mountains. Emerging from the van, I saw a fellow in his early twenties who played as though he’d been fiddling for ages. And the best part was that he had obviously been listening to a lot of Scotty Stoneman’s fiddling. We hung out for the rest of the weekend and picked for hours on end. When he found out that I knew the Stonemans, Buzz Busby, and Joe Meadows, he said he was going to move to Washington, DC. I didn't believe him, but sure enough, he moved to DC, began taking lessons from Joe Meadows, and joined my band. He liked to be called Fiddlin’ Andy, but we called him Poor Little Andy, and not always behind his back, because he was usually cold, tired, hungry, thirsty, wore out, broke, or afflicted in some way or another. But man, could he fiddle.
All right, enough about Poor Little...oops! I mean Fiddlin’ Andy. Let’s get to the drama.
The first event, in a backyard near Cobb Island, Maryland, was supposed to be a big jam session where lots of musicians would be making music. The hosts were to provide free food and drinks for all the musicians attending. When we arrived, there was a PA system set up and it seemed as though we were the only musicians around. They wanted us to play a set of music while we waited for the barbecue chicken to finish cooking. When I asked where the rest of the musicians were, they said they’d be along shortly. We’d been playing for about thirty minutes, when Bryan noticed people walking out of the house with plates of chicken. I said, “The food’s ready, let’s take a break.” The host told us the food wasn’t ready yet and we should keep playing. I uttered a word that refers to what drops from the hind end of a male bovine. We loaded our instruments into my van, then went into the kitchen and grabbed the whole five-gallon tub of barbecue chicken and took it with us up the road. We had enough chicken for about twenty-five people! As I drove away, I kept checking my rear-view mirror, but nobody followed us. We cruised along, eating barbecue chicken and throwing the bones out the window. I reckon they could have followed our trail of bones easily, but we got away clean. Well, not exactly; my steering wheel, gear shift, and radio dials were smeared with barbecue sauce.
As we headed toward the second party, we spotted two beautiful young women hitchhiking on US Route 301. Did I stop? You bet I did. They climbed in and joined our chicken feast. Before long, we saw that both girls were carrying handguns. I guess we didn’t notice earlier because there were other things about them that attracted our attention. They pulled the guns and pretended to shoot at passing cars, which made me slightly nervous - well, maybe more than slightly. They told us they worked at the Beretta gun factory in Accokeek, Maryland. I told them they had better put the guns away because they were getting barbecue sauce all over them, but the mess didn’t seem to bother them. Eventually, the girls pointed to the entrance of a neighborhood and said they wanted to be dropped off there. That was alright with me. They were too hot to handle.
Really, this all happened the same day, ask Bryan.
The next place we had agreed to play in exchange for all the food and beer we could consume was in Laurel, Maryland in another backyard. My good friend Dewey Duvall told me it was a party for a group of friends who loved music and would surely appreciate it if we could be their guests and pick a little. Dewey had helped me when I started playing, introducing me to Chubby Wise, Ralph Case, and some other luminaries in the music business, so why not? When we arrived, Dewey met us at the end of the driveway, saying, “We’ve got a problem, these folks are very religious. There’s no alcohol and they want only gospel music.” I said, “That wasn’t the agreement.” As the host was walking out to greet us, I was saying, “No beer, no music!” I thought we had begun a Mexican standoff when the host said, “We don’t drink, but I’ll go and get you a six-pack” – A true Christian, if I’ve ever seen one! So, everyone was satisfied, they got their gospel music and we sampled their covered dishes, shared the remaining chicken, and downed a few brewskis.
After that party broke up, Bryan, Andy, and I went to my studio and played until 2 am.
Photos:
1. Bryan & Andy
2. Andy, Me, and the Getaway Van
3. Barbecue Chicken
4. The Beretta Factory
Tom Mindte
October 2026
Bryan & Andy
Andy, Me, and the Getaway Van
Barbecue Chicken
The Beretta Factory