Garret K. Woodward
Stepping out of my apartment building in downtown Waynesville on Wednesday morning, I noticed several American flags lining Walnut Street, put there by the town’s public works department. Cruising along Main Street, the flag was at half-mast at the bank and also in front of the Haywood County Courthouse.
If there’s one word to describe singer-songwriter Melissa Etheridge, it would be persistent.
From humble and hardscrabble beginnings as a performer in dive bars and back rooms throughout the Midwest in the late 1970s and early 1980s to international acclaim just a decade later, Etheridge has remained a beacon of creativity and purpose throughout the decades — where now words like “legend” and “icon” tend to precede her name in the bright lights of show business.
Hello from Room 12106 at the Fairmont Royal York in the heart of downtown Toronto, Ontario. For late summer above the Canadian Border, it’s quite warm and pleasant on this Thursday morning. Bright sunshine peeking through the window drapes of this luxury hotel in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Canada’s largest city.
It’s a hot, early evening at FloydFest, the storied independently-run music festival held each July in the backwoods of rural Virginia. With live music radiating from stages positioned in seemingly every direction, indie-rockers The Nude Party finish its set to the deafening roar of the jubilant crowd begging for just one more tune before dispersing into the next melodic adventure.
Hello from Cabin 156 at Tryon International, the massive equestrian center and event facility along U.S. 74, just down the mountain from Saluda. The mountains in the distance remind me of the beauty of my home that is Western North Carolina.
The sheer beauty and fundamental foundation of bluegrass music resides in one simple truth about the tones, textures and talents within the “high, lonesome sound” — its timelessness.
To preface, this column does not reflect the views or opinions of this publication. For the last 12 years, this weekly column has been (and will remain) a vessel to conjure and express my own personal thoughts amid the wanderings and ponderings of my existence.
It was a special time and place when rock-n-funk act Porch 40 emerged onto the vast, vibrant Western North Carolina live music scene. In a landscape of mostly bluegrass, Americana and country acts, to see something of local origin with loud electric guitars and amps cranked to 11 was, well, refreshing.
Hello from Room 204 at The Pendry hotel in the Canyons Village of the Park City Mountain Resort in Utah. After a weekend of mostly sunny skies and lush high desert mountains surrounding this bucolic property, it’s currently 65 degrees with a vicious thunderstorm on this otherwise lazy Sunday evening.
When stand-up bassist Sam Grisman wanted to start his band, aptly titled the Sam Grisman Project (SGP), he had one simple goal in mind.
“I’ve always wanted to play bass in a great band full of my friends,” Grisman said. “And I’ve been a bass player in many bands over the years, but never had much creative input regarding what material was being played.”
Getting out of bed Sunday morning, I moseyed over to the kitchen and readied the things needed for a delicious breakfast on a lazy, hazy day of midsummer. Coffee (with whip cream). Eggs. Red peppers. Onions. Fresh loaf of bread. Cast iron skillet. Slice. Dice. Crack. Mix accordingly. Two plates for her (Sarah) and I. Eat with gusto.
It’s a hot and sunny afternoon on the outskirts of Franklin. At the corner of Highlands and Saunders roads sits a nine-acre property of natural beauty, one filled with endless species of flowers and plants, this wondrous piece of earth welcoming the public with open arms — Winding Stair Farm & Nursery.
Hello from Room 813 of the Cambria hotel in downtown Asheville. It’s Sunday night, nearing 10 p.m. Warm air outside on the patio overlooking the skyline of a city I’ve orbited for the last 12 years, a place near and dear to my heart and soul, thoughts and visions.
In the vast annals of American rock music, alternative rock act Cake remains a beacon of eccentricity — this sonic love letter to quirky individuality and creative freedom. It’s a unique blend of rock, country and funk, the sum of which swirling around the spoken-word prose of lead singer John McCrea.
Hello from the passenger seat of my Toyota Tacoma. Seeing as my deadline for this week’s column was nearing midnight on Sunday, I decided to pull over at the nearest exit and let my girlfriend, Sarah, take over driving duties. Pop open the laptop and off we go, eh?
With their latest album, “Songs of Our Grandfathers,” rising Asheville Americana/folk duo Zoe & Cloyd decided to take a different approach to this most recent musical endeavor.
Hello from Room 26 at the Thunderbird Lodge within earshot of Interstate 90 on the outskirts of the small city of Mitchell, South Dakota. Most notably the hometown of the late politician George McGovern, the 1972 Democratic nominee for president.
Hello from Room 205 of the Dude Rancher Lodge on North 29th Street in the heart of Billings, Montana. It’s 10:29 a.m. Already 82 degrees with a hot sun. Expected to top out ‘round 100 degrees when all is said and done on this Wednesday.
Straddling the line between neo-traditional and progressive bluegrass, Liam Purcell & Cane Mill Road are a fiercely ambitious and purposely elusive melodic force to be reckoned with in the live music scene of Western North Carolina and beyond.
Hello from 26,982 feet above Southern Appalachia. Somewhere near southeastern Kentucky. En route to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Over an hour flight delay leaving the Asheville airport. Ground speed is 539 miles per hour. About 760 miles to our destination. One hour and 41 minutes left before touchdown in the Twin Cities.
Hello from atop the roof of my parents’ 1840 brick farmhouse. Some 20 feet up on the back end of the structure. It’s hot as hell walking across the old roof in the midday sunshine and heat of early summer in the Champlain Valley of Upstate New York.
It’s not lost on Colin McBeath how unique and cherished the Nantahala Outdoor Center (NOC) is to locals and visitors alike.
Nothing says summer more than the Fourth of July with friends and family.
And in Western North Carolina, we celebrate Independence Day with gusto. Between majestic fireworks, sizzling hot dogs and hamburgers, cotton candy, games, live music and craft demonstrations, there’s a little bit of everything for any and all.
Hello from the coast of Maine. About an hour northeast up along the shoreline from Portland. The small, quaint community of New Harbor. More specifically, Pemaquid Beach Village.
In the annals of American rock music, few storied bands have withstood the test of time and endured with such integrity and grit as Drivin N Cryin. Formed in Atlanta, Georgia, in 1985, the group is quickly approaching its 40th anniversary, another milestone along its melodic road of life, legend, lore and legacy — still rockin’, still rollin’.
Hello from the Merritt Parkway in south-central Connecticut. It’s bumper-to-bumper traffic and has been since we skirted New York City and headed east. Exit 60 is Hamden, Connecticut, a town that I called home during my years attending Quinnpiac University.
It’s a sunny afternoon in downtown Bryson City. The Great Smoky Mountains Railroad is pulling into town with numerous locals and visitors alike spilling off the train. A stone’s throw from the tracks is Bryson City Brewing, its co-owner Stan Temple gazing happily at the scene unfolding before him.
Hello from Room 245 at the Best Western Mountain Lodge in Banner Elk. It’s Sunday morning. Overcast skies and temperatures hovering in the 50s, a far cry from the 75-degrees and sun felt yesterday.
My girlfriend sleeping soundly next to me. One of my best buddies in the next bed. This trio slowly awakening into the unknown day after a wild-n-out Saturday in the depths of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was asked to stage emcee at Beech Mountain Ski Resort as part of its summer concert series.
This past weekend jam-band stalwarts The String Cheese Incident and Americana icons The Wood Brothers hit the massive stage situated slope-side underneath chair lifts. It always means a lot to me to stand up there in front of thousands of faces and get them all riled up and excited to once again partake in the sacred, ancient ritual that is live music.
Awaken into Sunday morning. Stretch out the limbs and pull back the window curtains. Gaze out upon the somewhat empty hotel parking lot, most of the room renters long gone down that ole road to destinations unknown. Throw on your shoes and head for the breakfast buffet in the Best Western lobby before they shut and lock the dining room doors at 10 a.m.
Some lukewarm scrambled eggs, overcooked sausage, one glass of apple juice and two cups of coffee later, back to the room to pack up and motor to Haywood County via Spruce Pine and Burnsville by U.S. 19E, Interstate 26 East and I-40 West. Gratitude always in tow for a clean bed to sleep in, shower to use, food to eat and a working vehicle to meander around to somewhere, anywhere.
Heading back to Waynesville, my girlfriend was fast asleep in the backseat of the automobile by the time we crossed over the Banner Elk city limits. She and I are coming up on a year-and-a-half together. It’s been quite the wonderful, whirlwind ride, thankfully. I’ve waited a long time for her and we’re making up for lost time with each spur-of-the-moment road trip and dinner date night.
My friend was in the passenger’s seat rehashing old tales of his partying days within the previous chapters of his life in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and in the suburbs just outside of Chicago, Illinois. Tight s-curve roads like wine bottle openers through Avery, Mitchell and Madison counties. Myself happily indulging in the hearty conversation, all while letting the mind drift.
Thoughts of last Friday night, which was the 25th anniversary party of The Smoky Mountain News. And 12 years for myself at the helm of the arts/culture editor position. I’d estimate better than about a hundred or so folks wandered in and out when all was said and done by the end of the evening — the Boojum Brewing kegs finally tapped, the last of the cheese/fruit platter devoured with gusto, the final goodbyes (for now) between old friends and new ones.
As has now become (somewhat) of a tradition during the SMN birthday party, I corralled the rambunctious crowd, “come gather ‘round” as I’ve got a few words and sentiments to share with y’all. All y’all. Hand me the microphone and let the deep sense of gratitude spill out for all to see and hear — in real time and place, with sincerity to you and yours.
Feelings of what it means to be a community newspaper carefully navigating the often-choppy waters of modern day society, of a rapidly changing media landscape in the digital age, of an era of human existence where the lines of truth get blurred and confusing, only leading to more confusion, resentment and anger radiating in seemingly every direction.
As stated many times before, whether in this publication or standing atop a truck tailgate during the anniversary shindig, all of us here at The Smoky Mountain News live and work in your backyard. This is our home, too. And each of us is damn proud to put down genuine roots here. Whether we agree or disagree, respect is the name of the game for every single one of us who digs deep to kick this paper out the door on Tuesday evenings.
It’s a pretty special thing to experience first-hand in life, which is when one simply walks down Main Street in Waynesville and finds themselves in a constant motion of interaction and conversation with familiar and beloved faces. Small business owners. Local officials. Friends made over cold suds at the local watering hole. I’ve always said to new folks to town, “You won’t last long here if you don’t give people the time of day.”
And I mean that will all of my heart and soul. Giving folks the time of day is quickly becoming a lost art in our world, but not here in Western North Carolina. People still care about others, whether they fall in line with your politics, religion, ideologies or not. Drop everything and help one another. No questions asked. What matters most is a sense of community and I’ll champion that eternally.
Come hell or high water, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more giving, jovial and welcoming group of humans than here in this place, carefully cradled by these mountains and the cosmic magic and grandeur conjured by the rocks, dirt, trees and water of this habitat, by the blood, sweat and tears of those who inhabit it. Handshakes and bear hugs. Apple pies and sweet tea. Old trucks and dirty boots. It’s about leaning in to life as its finest.
For me, personally, this “Damn Yankee” from Upstate New York, this community has embraced me and shown me true friendship and fellowship all through my 12 years wandering and pondering these beautiful mountains of ours. Friendships held tightly that I wouldn’t have otherwise encountered had I decided to take another gig somewhere else. It’s fate and passion as to how and why I ended up here. The gratitude remains.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
It was just about 12 years ago when I first rolled into Waynesville. After a solo 18-hour, 1,000-mile trek from my native Upstate New York to Western North Carolina, I found myself sitting in an office chair awaiting an in-person interview with Smoky Mountain News publisher/founder Scott McLeod.
Leaning back into his chair, Tommy Stinson tilts his head and gazes towards the sunset falling behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. The legendary rocker just finished a show on the side lawn of Yonder Community Market, located on the outskirts of Franklin.
Hello from the writing desk in my humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville. It’s warm and sunny outside on this Monday afternoon amid Memorial Day Weekend. I’ve just returned from a 2,678-mile out and back trip to the North Country.
Barry Bales has 15 Grammy Awards and 23 International Bluegrass Music Association (IBMA) honors, including four IBMA “Bass Player of the Year” trophies. But, today, Bales is trying to get all of his farm chores done before an afternoon rainstorm rolls in.
It was nearing midnight when my mother finally beat my father, my girlfriend, Sarah, and I at cards, rummy being the game of choice and of tradition in my parents’ household. Most of the snacks had been consumed and I was halfway through a lukewarm Labatt Blue Light when she placed her last card on the pile to claim victory.
Meandering up Fie Top Road in Maggie Valley, just as your vehicle’s engine is pushed to the limit and it seems you may eventually drive off the edge of the earth, you emerge atop a mountain ridge, a large rustic lodge appearing in the distance — the Cataloochee Ranch.
Bearing witness to a few fine folks chomping down on handfuls of raw ramps last Sunday afternoon at American Legion Post 47 in Waynesville, it dawned on me that I’ve lost touch with this region.
A true mark of an artist is how well they age.
Not simply by the passing years on the calendar, for that’s a privilege in itself to experience.
This must be the place: ‘Cast upon a beach town, Winn Dixie cold cuts thieves highway hand me downs’
Right now, there are a handful of old cardboard boxes in the back of my girlfriend’s car. Inside the boxes are several dusty photo albums of Sarah’s past.
At the corner of Depot and Haywood streets in downtown Waynesville sits an old building. Originally a gas station, it was also a longtime mechanic’s shop and later a car wash for a period. But, in recent months, the charming, somewhat dormant 147 Depot St. location has had new life breathed into it.
Is there a more exhilarating feeling within your heart than that of preparing for a road trip? I think not. The wandering, pondering rambler inside my soul vibrates wildly thinking about what routes to take, where to stop, who to stop and see and what kind of wondrous happenstance will occur throughout the journey.
Within the greater Upstate New York live music scene, there’s a vast landscape of ebbs and flows — peaks and valleys of sonic textures, weaving effortlessly from rock to soul, funk to folk and back again.
Last Thursday, it was decided to go bowling. Galaxy Lanes & Games on the outskirts of downtown Sylva, in a somewhat dormant shopping plaza buffering the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway and greater Jackson County.
Since its opening in October 2020, Citizen Vinyl has become a melodic hub for artists, music lovers and the curious alike. Located in the former Asheville Citizen-Times building on O. Henry Avenue, across from the Grove Arcade in downtown, the property itself has become a beacon of creativity and connectivity.
The title of this column is a sentence written in my old road journals. Back on Dec. 26, 2007. I was 22 years old and leaving my hometown of Plattsburgh, New York, heading west to start my first reporting gig post-college at the Teton Valley News in Driggs, Idaho.
It was about 15 years ago when Will Mallett cruised into Portland, Maine, and ended up crashing on the couch of his brother, Luke, and his roommate, Nick Leen — all in an honest, perhaps curious effort to see what the future held for the 20-something fresh out of college.
With a cool breeze rolling through the Old City district of downtown Knoxville last Thursday evening, I clung tighter to my jacket, pulled the brim of my hat lower and meandered across the railroad tracks towards Boyd’s Jig & Reel.
Hello from Room 623 at the Hampton Inn & Suites in Owensboro, Kentucky. Just about six and a half hours from my humble abode in Waynesville. Russ Avenue to U.S. 276 to Interstate 40 and backroads through Southern Appalachia to get here.
Recently, Kevin Fitzgerald left his Waynesville home and made the long trek up to West Virginia University to watch one of his former athletes, Tuscola High School running standout Eva Rinker, compete at the college level. For Fitzgerald, it was a moment of immense pride to be there and cheer on Rinker.
At 76, singer-songwriter/keyboardist Randall Bramblett has been a musical artist most of his life. In recent years, a new outlook on not only what he does for a living, but also what it means to be human amid a life immersed in creativity and connectivity, has emerged.
Hello from the Antler Village at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville. It’s 11:34 a.m. The wine bar around the corner will open in roughly 16 minutes. I’ve been at this vast property since 8:30 a.m. when I was pulling up to attend the grand opening of the Chihuly art exhibit.
For Jerad Davis, it all started with a dry, nagging cough in the summer of 2022. With shortness of breath, low energy, brain fog and night sweats, he initially chalked it up to long COVID. But, upon going to the doctor and through some medical procedures, he was eventually diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
