A jam session at Berryville
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10/18/26
That Ain’t Country Music
The Oxford English Dictionary tells us that the word “fan” is an abbreviation for “fanatic.” My father was both a fanatic and a fan of country and bluegrass music. In other words, he was a fan twice over. An early subscriber to Bluegrass Unlimited magazine, he added each issue issue to an ever-expanding set of binders on a shelf at his HVAC shop. In the 50s, Mom and Daddy frequented the Pine Tavern and the Famous Bar and Grill. In the 60s, it was the Shamrock. They also attended shows at Uline Arena, The DC National Guard Armory, Turner’s Arena, Shady Grove Music Theatre, and just about anywhere country or bluegrass music was played around Washington. Though Mom had always preferred Sinatra and similar pop singers, she willingly indulged Daddy’s habit. But eventually, she grew tired of the hillbillies, as she called them. So, when I became old enough, I was Daddy’s companion at shows that kids were allowed to attend. We saw Flatt & Scruggs, George Jones, the Country Gentlemen, Buck Owens, Hank Snow, Ray Price, and others.
Now that you know about my father’s passion for bluegrass and country music, I hope you’ll understand his over-the-top behavior when it came to the quality of the music he listened to. Before I get to that though, here are a couple of lessons I learned at the Berryville bluegrass festival in 1972. Daddy took fifteen-year-old me along with him to that festival, where practically every bluegrass band in his record collection was playing. Since Lester & Earl had disbanded, his favorite bands were the Osborne Brothers and the Seldom Scene. Mine was Bill Monroe and the Blue Grass Boys. We marveled.
There were also a lot of motorcycle enthusiasts that some described as a gang. They looked like gang members to me, as they resembled Marlon Brando and fellow members of the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club in “The Wild Ones.” Daddy must have sensed my worry, because he tried to put my mind at ease, saying, “Those fellows are probably not bad people. Their hobby is motorcycles like ours is music.” To prove his point, he walked up to one of the bikers who was leaning against a tree, drinking a beer, and asked, “How long have you been riding?” Biker: “About ten years.” Daddy: “How far did you come to get here?” Biker: “That’s enough [expletive beginning with the letter F] questions.” Me (A few minutes later): “Yeah dad, they’re just regular people like us.” Daddy was silent awhile.
Later that night, some of the bluegrass stars who had been on stage earlier were jamming. They were singing Bill Monroe’s “Wicked Path of Sin,” and incongruously, John Duffey was singing the bass part. When they finished the song, I worked up enough nerve to ask John how, as a tenor singer, he could sing the bass part. John told me that any grown man can sing bass if he works on it enough. Was it a joke because I was not yet a grown man or was he giving me useful advice? I don’t know, but I’ve been working on my bass singing ever since.
I should get back to the main point of this thing.
Our family’s favorite radio station was WDON in Wheaton, Maryland. Sometimes Mom or I would change the station to listen to something else, but the dial had better be returned 1540 AM before Daddy got home. When the “Big D” signed off at sunset, he switched the radio off and brought the television to life.
That was the scheme of things until 1970, when WDON began playing Lynn Anderson’s number one hit, “Rose Garden.” The first few times it was played on the air, Daddy waited for it to end, patiently at first, but with each play of "Rose Garden" his agitation rose. After the song blared out of the radio’s speaker three times in an hour, Daddy declared, “That ain’t country music.” He moved the radio dial to 1500, WTOP, an all-news station, where it was to stay until the crisis was over. But the crisis never ended. Traditional country music never returned to commercial radio in the DC area. Sometimes I surreptitiously tuned-in to our former favorite station to check, but there was never any joy.
But until the mid-70s, there was still some music on television that Daddy liked.
My mother picked up the TV Guide magazine each week at the grocery store. Daddy just about flipped when Mom handed him an issue that told him the Osborne Brothers would appear on television on Friday night of that week. The day of the show, daddy arranged his schedule so he would be home from work early enough for the family to finish supper in plenty of time to watch his musical heroes. About five minutes before the program began, he switched the television to the appropriate channel, sat in his easy chair, and ordered absolute silence for the duration of the show. Sonny and Bob weren’t coming on until about twenty minutes in, but we all kept our mouths shut so as not to rock the boat.
After a commercial, the Osbornes came on the screen singing “Midnight Flyer,” They were plugged-in and the band included a pedal steel and drums. To many traditionalists, that instrumentation violates two of the bluegrass commandments. To wit: ‘Thou shalt not suffer percussion instruments’ and ‘Electrify thine instruments as thou wouldst have electrocution done unto thee.’
About thirty seconds into the song, Daddy got out of his chair, switched off the TV, went to the closet, gathered his Osborne Brothers records, carried them out the back door, threw them in the garbage can, and went to bed. I think that was the first time I ever felt sorry for my father. It was the first time I needed to. Later, I retrieved the records from the trash. I still have them.
Daddy didn’t go so far as to add TV to his no-no list, which included WDON, sailboats, foreign cars (other than sports cars), sitcoms, and Liberace, but he began playing his remaining records more often to take the place of the broadcast media he had formerly cherished.
Tom Mindte
October 2026
A jam session at Berryville
The Osborne Brothers
Daddy playing the mandolin. N.B. My good friend and music mentor,
Shirley Mills, sent me this picture. From the position of his left hand,
it looks like he’s actually playing rather than posing.
I’ve never heard him play any instrument, other than washtub bass.
Shirley, if you see this, please let me know.
4. A WDON bumper sticker