Kentucky Traveler (46 page)

But somehow this time it was the right thing to do. Not only for forty thousand people to request it, but for us to play it. Well, we did, and before we even hit the first chorus, that stadium shook with the most deafening roar I've ever heard in my life. I mean, so loud it was almost scary!

I think we got a lot of new fans that day. Now, don't get me wrong, bluegrass didn't need saving. It was doin' fine without us. I just hope we've brought some new fans to this great music!

There's many miles ahead 'til I get home
,

still I'm safely kept before your throne
,

'Cause Lord I believe, Lord I believe

Your angels are watchin' over me
.

—“Somebody's Prayin',” by John G. Elliott

I
f I were stranded on a desert island and could bring only one instrument to keep me company, I'd take a guitar. It's versatile, and it gives you such a huge repertoire to draw from. I'd be able to play so many more types of songs than I could with a mandolin or a fiddle or a banjo. A guitar is handy to sing along with, too, and I'd have a lot of singing to do to keep from getting too lonesome. Praising God fights depression and loneliness like nothing else can. When you're praising Him, you're not thinking about yourself.

I'd sure miss having other instruments along. Especially ol' Pee Wee. He's a special mandolin of mine, and I love him so much. He's more than ninety years old, and he sounds better every day. Now, the only problem with a guitar is deciding which one to bring. It's like the joke goes, “How many guitars do you need?” “Just one more.” I've got way more than I can probably count, I guess, and I must have a dozen favorites that I'd never get tired of. I've always been partial to big, robust-sounding guitars, like Chunky Boy, my old L-5 Gibson archtop. He was built in 1931, and he's quite a piece of work. I use Chunky Boy for rhythm tracks, because he's so forceful and moves so much air. I've played him on every album I've done for more than twenty years, and he's never let me down. I'd feel lost without him in the studio.

Another favorite of mine is a Bourgeois Brazilian D model, a real beauty. Sharon nicknamed it Liberace, 'cause it's dressed out with a fancy slope-shoulder and a solid-pearl inlay fretboard. It looks great and sounds broken in. That's the main guitar I've had on stage for the past ten years, about half of every show, so that's a lot of breakin'-in time.

Recently, I've sorta been goin' steady with a PRS Tonare Grand, custom made by Paul Reed Smith. It's what I call a “friendly” guitar. Usually, you find an acoustic guitar that sounds great, but the neck is hard to play and it just doesn't feel good in your hands. This one feels and sounds great. At my age, I don't want to have to be working to play an instrument; I want
it
to play
me
. The PRS acoustic fits the bill.

Lately, I've been discovering the magic of small-body guitars, especially older models, and when I say older, I'm talking pre—Civil War era. I recently traded for a Martin guitar from 1855, and it was one of the best swaps I ever made. It proves that bigger isn't always better, especially when it comes to tone. There's a romance in the old aged wood, and there's the sense that you're holding a piece of history. It means a lot to me that Christian Martin himself had his hands on this guitar.

'Course, I've had my share of Martins over the years, since having at least one Martin guitar in the band is ordained by the Laws of Bluegrass. I have one called Red, my trusty 1961 Martin D-28. The guy who owned it before me was a local character who went by the stage name of Panama Red. He thumped around Nashville for years playing for tips in clubs and bars. He hit hard times, so he sold his guitar. I snapped it up.

I didn't have Red too long before I ended up selling it to pay some bills. Then a few years later, I got a call from the guy who bought Red off me, and he said it was “way too much guitar” for him and that I could have it back for the same price I sold it to him for. Nowadays I keep Red at the studio. I save him for special projects, like the album I did in memory of my dad.

When I recorded
Songs My Dad Loved
in 2009, it was a labor of love, my tribute to all those beautiful old-timey country songs Dad and I used to sing and play together when I was first learning. It was very emotional and healing and a great musical adventure, too. It was the first solo album I'd ever done. I played every instrument and sang all the vocal parts, overdubbing and double-tracking and having a ball. I was like a kid again, exploring instruments I'd always wanted to use on a record, like the mandocello, which has a huge, low-end mandolin sound.

I also played a big fretless banjo like the kind the minstrels had after the Civil War. The huge head and thick strings give it a real deep and low funky sound. I played a clawhammer banjo as well, since my dad had always loved that style. You can hear it rumble on “The City That Lies Foursquare.” I even got out the old '42 Martin my Dad had bought new more than seventy years ago. When I was making the album, I could hear my dad saying,
Son, I never thought all them instruments would sound good together
. I really do think he would have liked it. I got my old fiddle out again, which I hadn't played in years, and I got to feature it on the old Santford Kelly tune “Colonel Prentiss” and a few others.

N
ow, sometimes you get a call out of the blue and it just feels right. I mean, you can either be a fuddy-duddy stick in the mud always making solo records, or you can collaborate and make something great. I always loved the collaboration aspect of music, and when a musician like Jack White calls, you say yes! The more times you say yes, the more people will discover how powerful the old music is.

I met Jack backstage at the Opry one night. I told him how much I loved the Loretta Lynn album he produced in 2004,
Van Lear Rose
, on which he gave her a loving environment and let her be herself and sing her own songs. He asked me about the analog recording machines at my studio, and we talked about ribbon microphones and vintage gear. Jack loves talking shop, and so do I. He also has a deep love and respect for bluegrass and old-time country, so I was happy when he invited me to play mandolin on a tune with his band the Raconteurs. We did a bluegrass version of their song “Old Enough” with Ashley Monroe singing, and it was a real collaboration, not just a guest spot. Jack said, “Just play what you feel,” so it was an easy fit for me. I had a great time, and they were very respectful to the old guy Skaggs!

I just try to keep my heart open to those “God moments,” as I call them, where you come out of your comfort zone. You never know who's gonna call, and you never know what magic comes out of the mix when musicians from different genres meet up. That's what makes it so interesting. Sometimes it happens with a pairing that you wouldn't necessarily think of. Look at what happened when Alison Krauss and Robert Plant got together. Sparks flew, and it was one of those musical unions that was meant to be.

Same with me and Bruce Hornsby. I love working with Bruce; he's one of the most creative talents I know. He can play any kind of music and make it come alive. When he sits in with Kentucky Thunder, it sounds as if the piano has always been a part of bluegrass. He has an adventurous spirit, and hopefully we can keep making music together well into our years.

I still love to be a sideman when the project calls for it. I worked on the great jazz bassman Charlie Haden's
Rambling Boy
, which showed him returning to his roots growing up in his own family band in the Midwest. I got a chance to pull out my big ol' fretless banjo again, and also to sing some old heart songs with his daughters, Petra, Tanya, and Rachel, and his son, Josh.

One of the most enjoyable and flat-out fun collaborations I've ever done is the gospel album
Salt of the Earth
with my family, the Whites. We've played together off and on since the 1970s; I've recorded on their albums, and they've sung and played on mine. But this was the first CD we'd done just us together singing great old gospel songs, and it was such a blast. I know I'm a little biased when it comes to Buck and the girls, but they are some of the finest people I know anywhere, and some of the most talented, too.

N
ow, I've talked for a while about collaborators I've worked with through the years, but my favorite collaborator and musical partner ain't a person. It's the 1922 F-5 Lloyd Loar mandolin that I call Pee Wee. I've only had him since 2010, but it's like we've been together forever. I'm so emotionally attached that I could hardly think of going anywhere without him. I sort of brought him out of retirement, and I'm gonna keep him till my dying day. They'll have to pry him outta my cold hands.

There are certain instruments that you feel a spiritual connection to, and once you hear the sound they make, you just know. Some musicians search for it their whole lives, and I was lucky to find my Holy Grail, the mandolin that I was supposed to have in my hands, and to share with the world.

I named him Pee Wee after the man who made him legendary, Pee Wee Lambert. Like I told you earlier in the book, he was the “third Stanley Brother” in the late '40s, the short guy with the big smile who could sing to the moon on the high trios, the one who played all those incredible mandolin breaks that set my young bluegrass soul on fire.

Let me brag on this instrument a little. I'm sorry, but I can't help it. Me and Pee Wee have a special connection. He's the best-sounding mandolin I've ever owned. He's also the prettiest one I own. The incredible thing is that I never went looking for him. He found me!

A few years ago, I got a call from a good friend, the mandolin virtuoso David Grisman, and he said, “Ricky, I'm looking to sell Pee Wee's old mandolin, and you get the first chance at it, 'cause you're the man to have it and carry on the tradition.” Now, this came as a total surprise to me. I knew David had bought it, but I didn't think he'd ever want to sell it.

Truth was, I didn't know much more about this legendary mandolin than what most hardcore bluegrassers knew: that Pee Wee had accidentally broken the neck on it at a gig at a beer joint called Hillbilly Heaven in Columbus, Ohio, in 1961 and had thrown it away in a huff—and that mandolinists Frank Wakefield and Dorsey Harvey fished it out of a big trash can and rigged the neck with a splint made from a spoon handle and screws. After some major fixing, it went back onto the bluegrass circuit for a while, changing hands about a half dozen times over fifty years. Eventually, it made its way to David. Nobody's more serious about mandolins than David Grisman is, so this was a serious offer. Fate was calling, and I wasn't about to hang up. Could it really be possible that I could own the same Loar that Pee Wee used on all those classic Stanley Brothers recordings and held so proudly in those old black-and-white photos standing with Carter and Ralph?

I told Sharon about the phone call from David. Normally she wouldn't get too excited about me wanting to buy another mandolin, but her response really surprised me. She said, “You need to go out to David's and play that mandolin. He might be right; you may really be the one who is supposed to have it.” You know, it was just so strange for her to say that, and I really took it as a confirmation from God.

So I called David the next day, and we set a date for me to fly out to California and spend a day with Pee Wee. I got to David's house, and he brought the mandolin out still in the case. When I opened the case and saw it lying there, it took my breath away. Then I played the intro to “Lonesome River.” It sounded the same as it did in 1947, honest to goodness. Here I was at the ripe old age of fifty-six falling in love with an instrument for the first time. I truly know how Pee Wee must have felt when he dropped the mandolin by mistake and broke it. Or how Mr. Monroe felt when a vandal smashed his F-5 Loar with a fireplace poker. Those instruments were true musical partners.

About six months after I bought Pee Wee, I went on a pilgrimage to Columbus to have a visit with Hazel Lambert, Pee Wee's widow. I hadn't seen Hazel since the show with Ralph at Frontier Ranch when I was sixteen. We reminisced for a while, and I wanted her to know how much I idolized Pee Wee. He was such a good soul, and a peacemaker, too, according to Ralph. Many a time he had to step in between Carter and Ralph to keep 'em from coming to blows! I told her that in all my years in bluegrass, I'd never heard anyone say a word against Pee Wee.

Hazel said that Pee Wee never quit playing music in the years after he left the Stanley Brothers. He worked his day job and raised his family, and after hours he worked the bluegrass bars in Columbus, where he mentored a lot of young musicians.

After we'd sat on the couch talking and catching up, I pulled the mandolin out of the case and showed Hazel how it had been restored to its original 1922 condition and look. She noticed that the refinishing work must have rubbed off Pee Wee's pick marks on the top, and it almost seemed like she was disappointed. But when I played a few of Pee Wee's intros, she got a big smile and said, “Yep, that's the sound! That's it!” Then she told me, “I think Pee Wee would be glad you have it.”

It felt so good to hear her say that! “You know, Miss Hazel,” I told her. “When I was a kid listening to Pee Wee on those old records, I never dreamed that this mandolin would be mine one day. I never even prayed for it. So I really don't know why God would send this to me.”

Hazel had a concerned look, and she said, “Honey, you don't know?”

“Know what?'

“Honey, your mother called me in 1970 when you went to work with Ralph, and she said, ‘Hazel, do you have Pee Wee's old mandolin? I want to buy it for Ricky and give it to him. He loved that mandolin, and he loved Pee Wee so much.' And I told her, ‘Miss Dorothy, I don't know where that mandolin is, I ain't seen it since 1961.' We talked a little while, and I wished I could've helped her.”