On most days, the patio at Lazy Hiker Brewing in downtown Franklin is filled with locals and visitors alike, each enjoying the concoctions pouring out of from the large warehouse behind the taproom. 

Grabbing a seat inside Mad Anthony’s Taproom in downtown Waynesville one recent evening, Benji Boessel and Alex Tinsley can’t help but gaze around at the other tables. 

Sitting in the dining room of The Rivers & Rails Tavern in Dillsboro, Craig Szymanski looked out the window and watched a family wander down the row of shops on Front Street. 

Friday morning in downtown Waynesville and Orchard Coffee is bustling. There are those entering and waiting patiently for strong coffee and freshly baked goods, those exiting with full hands and big smiles. 

Coming off Exit 85 on the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway, a funny thing happens to drivers when they’re about halfway down the hill heading into Sylva — they start to get hungry. 

When the entire music industry shutdown last year, acclaimed singer-songwriter Edwin McCain wasn’t necessarily concerned with not being able to hit the road and perform onstage, something the 51-year-old has been doing for the better part of the last three decades. 

My eyes shot open when the air-conditioning unit kicked on. It took me a couple of moments to realize where I was. Our room was dark and silent. The queen-sized bed, sheets and pillows were extremely comfortable, and damn well better be if you’re paying a pretty penny to stay at the Wyndham Garden in Greensboro. 

Though Oct. 17 was just seven months ago chronologically, it feels like seven years emotionally with all of the social, political and economic chaos and strife in this current era of Covid-19. 

It was just about 8:30 a.m. when I awoke in my pickup truck last Saturday. 

For over three decades, moe. has remained a pillar of the ongoing and ever-evolving jam-band scene — this melodic entity blending the raw power and essence of arena rock bravado with the subtle, intricate nature of jazz improvisation. 

Standing in a hotel room last week, Charley Crockett peered out the window onto the quiet morning streets of Amarillo, Texas. 

Sitting in the waiting room of my hometown mechanic last week, I knew it wasn’t good when he called for me to come into the repair bay. The rusty, musty Toyota Tacoma pickup was up on the rack. And the look on the mechanic’s face wasn’t one of optimism. 

At 37, Grace Potter has already positioned herself as one of the finest stage performers and singer-songwriters of the early 21st century. A signature blend of soul, rock, folk and pop sensibilities, she left her native Vermont as a teenager and never looked back.

Woke up this morning with the thought of the impending summer, impending “state of being” for all of us slowly sliding back towards to some sense of normalcy amid “all this.” 

Before the shutdown of the entire music industry in March 2020 due to the pandemic, The Infamous Stringdusters were widely-regarded as one of the hardest touring, most talented and innovative acts in the bluegrass and jam scenes.

Coming to a stop at the end of the off-ramp of Exit 40 along Interstate 87 last Saturday evening, I turned right and headed down the Spellman Road. Entering the small hamlet of Beekmantown, New York, it’s a few miles from the off-ramp to my parents’ farmhouse. 

In its 14 years together, Haywood County’s own Balsam Range has risen into the upper echelon as one of the marquee acts in the national and international bluegrass scene — this once in a generation blend of songbird harmonies and lightning fast finger pickin’. 

It is with an extremely heavy heart that I share the news of the passing last Friday morning of Brian Power (aka: “Mr. P”) after a long, debilitating illness. 

If there ever was a 21st century musical ambassador for the state of Tennessee, it would be Drew Holcomb. 

Born in Memphis. Attended college in Knoxville. Lives in Nashville. And puts on an annual festival in Chattanooga with his band. 

Yesterday, at the corner of Brown Avenue and Hazelview Drive in Waynesville, this weird feeling washed over me. The thought of getting older, and to a point to where most of the people that knew you (your stories, personality and ethos) would slowly fade into the background of time and place. 

From 1933-1957, Black Mountain College was formed and thrived within the context of its seemingly unconventional methods and ways, only to simply disappear — into the history books of the town it was named after, into the fond memories of those who passed through the magical space along their respective paths in life. 

It was a flood of memories I hadn’t thought of in years. There I was on a date with this girl the other day. She works in town, not far from my apartment. A casual conversation turns into a casual drink. Kind of nice to have that rare interaction these days amid “all this,” truth be told.

In its 15 years together, Papadosio has remained on a steady, upward trajectory as one of the premier jam-bands currently roaming the innovative and ever-evolving live music scene. 

The sound of thunder and a heavy rain awoke me from a deep slumber. Opening my eyes, I relaxed into the king-sized bed and stared up at the 19th century moldings on the ceiling. Looking out the large bedroom window, I could see a transit bus parked below and a Starbucks sign on the building at the corner. 

On March 14, 2020, Songs From The Road Band jumped onstage in the backroom of the Wicked Weed Funkatorium in the South Slope district of Asheville. What was to be a showcase of the immensely talented hometown string band turned out to be the last show within the city limits for the foreseeable future. 

Stepping out of my old apartment in downtown Waynesville on Monday afternoon, I placed my old laundry basket on the passenger’s seat of my old truck.

Wander along Everett Street in downtown Bryson City these days and you’ll be hard-pressed to find two things: a parking spot and an open bench to sit and enjoy your sandwich. 

Though the dining area and main ordering room for The High Test Deli & Sweet Shop remains closed to the public (due to ongoing safety concerns amid the pandemic), an endless stream of hungry faces and fanatic foodies can simply walk up to the takeout window and select from a sea of gut-busting options. 

It was probably one of the most uneasy beers I’d ever drank. Sitting on the back porch of Frog Level Brewing in Waynesville, myself and the rest of The Smoky Mountain News staff gathered for one final adult beverage together before we ventured into the depths of the unknown for the foreseeable future.

Coming off Exit 85 on the Great Smoky Mountains Expressway, a funny thing happens to drivers when they’re about halfway down the hill heading into Sylva — they start to get hungry. 

Sunday morning. Sunshine and blue skies piercing through my dusty bedroom window. I’ve been up an hour or so. And yet, I can’t seem to fully fall back asleep. I keep trying, but remain in this dreamlike state, that void between the waking world and the depths of your subconscious. 

In the depths of The One Stop in downtown Asheville on Saturday, members of the Travers Brothership and Abby Bryant & The Echoes were setting up and sound checking for that evening’s inaugural “Blue Ridge Blues Jam.” 

Rest easy, “Big Jack” (aka: “Jack Kerouac”). Goodbye to my beloved cat, who passed away this week back in my native Upstate New York. 

It’s Monday evening. A heavy rain is soaking Sylva and greater Jackson County. Passing by the Sylva Shopping Area, the empty parking lot is illuminated by the bright lights of Harold’s Supermarket. The rest of the plaza is closed and dark, save for one bright light at the end of the row, a large window with the word “tattoo” emblazoned on it. 

When the trail bends sharply to the right, I know the waterfall is just behind the brush. I can’t see it, but I can hear it. This eternal rush of water cascading down from the farthest reaches of the surrounding mountains. 

Before the pandemic and eventual shutdown, The Get Right Band was one of the hardest work musical acts in Western North Carolina. Based out of Asheville, the power rock trio is a cauldron spilling over with indie, folk, reggae, soul and pop influences — a unique mixture that’s become its melodic signature. 

Hoisting myself up onto the leather chair, I flipped over and laid on my stomach. I could feel the sharp razor shaving the back of my right leg, just below the calf muscle. A few moments later, the sounds of a vibrating needle echoed throughout the small room.

It’s 8:45 a.m. and 28 degrees outside of Amici’s in the Hazelwood neighborhood of Waynesville. The sidewalk has been shoveled, while the roof of the fine Italian restaurant is still covered in a fresh blanket of snow that had fallen the night before. 

Late Thursday night. I’m sitting in my recliner. Netflix and the half-full lukewarm beer next to the chair have both lost my interest. I lean back into a horizontal position and take inventory of my apartment, the humble abode that I’ve called home going on nine years now. 

What started out as a casual jam to entertain a keg party has morphed itself into one of the most intriguing new musical acts in Western North Carolina. 

Western North Carolina has lost a truly kind and beautiful soul. Erica Waldrop passed away in a tragic car accident last week. She was a friend to many in Sylva and greater Jackson County. A shoulder to lean on. A smile to brighten your day. She was also a friend of mine, too. A good one. 

In his over 30 years of being part of the Haywood Arts Regional Theatre in Waynesville, longtime Executive Director Steven Lloyd has held pretty much every job title within the organization, from stage actor to set designer. But, there was one duty he’d yet to partake in, that is until recently: volunteer. 

It was just about a month ago when I received a text from a dear friend, a truly cosmic and beautiful soul. She was heading back to her native home of Western North Carolina to visit family for the first time since November 2019, first time since “all of this” became our new normal. 

It’s a label that some avoid at any and all costs. But, for Becky Robinson, it’s a sincere and genuine term of endearment that she wears like a badge of honor: “dive bar.” 

“We do wear it as a badge of honor. And I think it’s the comfortability factor,” Robinson said. “I feel that you can come in here and you can be comfortable. You can come in and have a good time. Everybody is welcome. You don’t have to pretend to be somebody else in here — you can just be yourself.” 

I didn’t grow up, nor have I ever lived, in the state of Vermont. That, and I’m not a musician, not professionally or in any sort of a talented way in my free time. And yet, I was recently asked by a member of the Vermont musical community to contribute to an uplifting video collage for 2021 and the message of hope for the uncertain future of live music and performers. 

An internationally beloved musician, Claude Coleman, Jr. would often find himself in Asheville while on tour drumming with his band, iconic rock juggernaut Ween. Each time wandering through, he would become more enamored with this region. So much so, Coleman relocated here from New Jersey in 2012. 

Finishing up my second cup of coffee at Orchard in Waynesville, I gazed out the large bay window onto Depot Street. There’s the historic Haywood County Courthouse, a few vehicles parked on the hill. Snowflakes fluttered down from high above on this Friday morning. 

Grabbing a seat inside Mad Anthony’s Taproom in downtown Waynesville one recent evening, Benji Boessel and Alex Tinsley can’t help but gaze around at the other tables. 

It was somewhere around the the second mile of my New Year’s Eve jog that I realized that day marked exactly five years since I began my running streak. 

In the pantheon of legendary jam-grass acts, a handful of pioneering bands broke new ground in the 1980s and 1990s by creating a sonic landscape that was a harmonious blend of bluegrass, folk, jazz and acoustic rock sensibilities — this emerging scene focused on rollicking live shows and keen improvisational aspects. 

Christmas Eve. Downtown Waynesville. Sitting alone in my one-bedroom apartment, I was bummed that I couldn’t be back home in the North Country for the holidays with my family and friends. Putting on the baseboard heater, I proceeded to make my way to the fridge for a beer.