It’s 10:27 pm at The 8th Annual Festy Experience and I am sitting under the stage, directly beneath Mike Cooley’s feet (of Drive-By Truckers), hacking away at my typewriter. The rain is falling, not strong but steady, and I need somewhere dry to write. The music is flowing through me, his boot bottoms stomping out a beat inches from my head.

But I am way ahead of myself at this point. I better go back to the beginning. Or the middle at least.

In the end, it was a lucky thing I was there at all. I was supposed to be covering the festival for Grateful Web - my first time to write for a publication I have followed for years. Then the truck broke down. Then the part didn’t ship. Then I find myself trying to rent a car from Enterprise on Friday morning with no insurance, no proof of residence, no proof of employment, and no major credit card.

30 minutes later I am on the road in a little white Hyundai. With New York plates. To drive through the deepest red Virginia has to offer. The ride up is uneventful - mainly passing Trump billboards and giant rebel flags while driving 11 miles an hour under the speed limit. I am wearing my favorite tie-dye jumper and, in the words of Jane Kramer, “I ain’t going to jail in this dress.”

After six hours of driving and one particularly long hour shopping at a Walmart the size of Rhode Island, I arrive on site.

The energy is diametrically overwhelming. Like the feeling of crossing the Kansas state line into Colorado. And really, this may as well be there. The Infamous Stringdusters have never been accused of throwing lame parties, and this one is surely the best they have yet pulled off.

I get situated with the layout, find the media tent, and hustle to the main stage for The ‘Dusters’s  5 pm set. It takes about twenty seconds for the road weariness to wear off. The Dusters are masters of the feel-good-vibe, and the message of their music seems to be spreading to every corner of this beautiful venue.

By the time they are done with their ninety-minute set I’ve already made about fifteen new friends and am feeling, even while not having known anyone on arrival, quite at home. The set ends, and I hustle back to my campsite for a little wine before my interview with JP and Pappi Biondo from Cabinet.

Despite the vibe, I am starting to feel a bit nervous. This is my first time covering a major festival, and it has to inform my agenda for the interview. I hope I don’t ask stupid questions or focus on the wrong things. I hope the noise from this old 50’s Royal Typewriter I am lugging along doesn’t distract them from answering questions. I hope I don’t fuck this up on the first night.

At 8 pm I meet them at their artist's trailer. I’m clearly anxious, shaking a little, having some trouble with the typewriter keys sticking. JP walks over to the bar in the corner, pours a double shot of Bulleit Bourbon and hands it to me.

“Here, drink this and then let’s do the interview,” he chuckles. Sager words have never been spoken. I down the liquor and snap back into it. My fingers go to work, and the interview quickly turns into a conversation.

For a couple of guys that have played to sold-out audiences and at major festivals all over the country they sure are some genuine people. I ask them about what their favorite shows look like and Pappi’s answer takes me back a little.

“I love playing the shows that are lightly attended,” he tells me. “Those are the best ones, it’s humbling to see those that come out and get into it.” JP nods his head in agreement, and I miss the next line getting my typewriter unstuck.

Truth is, there is a learning curve with this ancient machine. Each key must be pressed individually, no overlap, or the humidity will cause the damn thing to stick. Still, I am reminded of why I am carrying around this 40lb dinosaur later that night as I am sketching the scene from side stage at Cabinet’s show.

They are playing the Skyline Stage, a tented stage that could not be more perfect for a late night, brain-blasting set like Cabinet is blowing through. The children from earlier in the day are snoozing soundly, a somewhat different crowd still dancing and hopping and screaming along. I’m trying to get it all down, the conjunction of some kind of darkness coming from Cabinet’s music but being delivered with sincerity and love. This energy field of right and wrong, deep and shallow, yin and yang. Just as they take a turn, Chris Pandolfi on stage with them, into a masterful version of Catfish John, the ribbon on my typewriter mysteriously manages to pop off the teeth and wrap itself around every internal mechanism possible.

I lean over to one of the artists standing beside me and ask if he has a pocket knife. He produces a small wood handled piece, and I lock it open and set to work. I pop out both spools and dig out the ribbon. I replace the pieces and use the blade to slide the cloth back into place before using it again to wind the spools tight and lock them in place.

Try that with your MacBook sometime when it starts acting funky.

I slam the lid shut, close and pass the small pocket knife back, and try to catch the moment. How do you even begin to explain, how could you even start to speak of this to an outsider. To someone not experiencing what you are experiencing right now? To someone not flying high and feeling the energy of an entire crowd surging as one?

These are not just festival fans, these are Cabinet fans, singing along at the top of their lungs, drinks sloshing all over the heads of those around them. And this is clearly why Cabinet gets asked to play this festival year after year after year. Call them whatever you want to call them - Americana, bluegrass, rock-and-roll - they are rock-stars.

Saturday morning comes on smooth and gentle. It begins with Mimosas behind the Tapestry Tent and continues with Andy Falco at the Almost E-Town Stage. Talk about intimate! Falco is taking requests, playing songs from all over the place, and engaging in vulnerable conversation with the seated audience.

The reality is, every moment of this festival has clearly been scheduled thoughtfully and purposefully. You know how sometimes you listen to a new record, and it sounds like a collection of songs, while other times you can tell that the record, taken in its entirety, is really just one well laid out song itself? Festivals can be that way too, and Festy 2017 is, from start to finish, a masterpiece of a single-headed performance.

Falco finishes up to head off to a wedding, and I am eyeing the schedule for the rest of the day. Sarah Siskind and Elephant Revival are the only things left standing between me and my first ever opportunity to hear Ani Difranco live. Of the entire festival, this is perhaps what I have been looking forward to the most, but I am determined not to let that get in the way of enjoying everyone else. I catch the entire Elephant Revival set and it’s outstanding. I love it when musicians play multiple instruments and each of them does. Perhaps the most eye-catching is Bonnie Paine on the badass washboard and saw. It is wistful and winsome and everything you could possibly want on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

After their set, I head back to my campsite to refill my wine. These festival prices are killing me, 7-bucks for a 12-oz beer, and honestly, wine seems more appropriate for Difranco anyway.

Making my way back towards the Blue Ridge Stage, thoughts collected, typewriter in hand the clouds begin to roll in and the wind to picks up. It is as if the weather, seeing the darkness that is approaching tonight with Ani Difranco and Drive-By Truckers, is doing it’s best to match their vibe.

The crowd is running a little late assembling. Truth be told, in my wanderings and conversations around the festival so far I have been flabbergasted by the number of people here who know nothing about or of Ani Difranco’s music. This is a grass-heavy crowd, but it doesn’t take long. Just a song or two of Ani’s voice, and even more-so her energy, and the fans come streaming down the hill to hear this icon perform.

Here I am in the middle of a field, surrounded by fair-weather bluegrass dancers swaying under a stormy sky to the darkness of Difranco’s soul worn proudly like a pendant about her neck. Job or no job I’m done typing. It’s time to lose myself in the music.

With Ani finished up and off stage I find myself at a bit of a loss. Part of me wants to go revel with my new friends at their campsite, part of me wants to curl up in a ball and weep for all of the innocence lost. And let's be honest here, it wouldn’t be the first time that I found myself crying in silence after listening to Ani Difranco. Just the first time live.

In any case, I decide to hoof it back to my tent for a little more wine. If I cut through the back by the media headquarters, then I should be able to fill my cup and get back for a full set of The Traveling Mccourys.

I hustle to my car, texting old girlfriends from high school along the way to tell them I finally saw Ani. On my way back, approaching the stage from the backside, I can hear that The Mccourys are already on. Then I round the corner.

Holy shit. Talk about drawing a crowd. The inside of the tent is something else. The rain has stopped, but everyone wants to be as close to this stage as possible. And why not? Only a few songs in and they already have their grass machine running like a freight train.

The crowd, which has been gathering over the course of the weekend, seems to have reached its zenith, and The Mccourys are the perfect segue from day to night, from family to party, from protest to jubilation.

The smell of marijuana comes to me on the wind, and I think back on the cool breeze I was dancing with at Ani. This outdoorsy looking little blonde I met through friends of friends of people I had known for less than 12 hours. Completely engrossed in Ani’s forcefield we had shared some beautiful moments. And some spectacular hugs. Hugs that got me higher than any drug I have ever done.

But The Mccourys aren’t leaving much room for daydreaming up there. I close up my typewriter and head out into the crowd to dance. I finagle my way through until I am just a few rows back, dead center. It’s nearing the end of the set, and they decide to toss us an extra special treat in the form of a few Dead songs.

After a blazing Brown-Eyed Women they surprise us all with an inspired version of If I Had the World to Give. I’m losing my shit, and the woman beside me smiles and leans in, shoulder to shoulder with me, sharing my energy and returning some of her own. She is beautiful, white silk shirt, crimson dress, moccasins. When the band heads into Loser>Other One>Loser, I ask if I can spin her around a few times.

Next thing you know the whole center of the crowd has become one big contra-dancing pit. I dance with her, with a younger woman with a backward cap and ripped jeans, with a large man sporting an even larger beard, and then with an older woman who really knows how to step.

When the set is finally over, and it’s time to hear The Drive-By Truckers for the first time I can’t help but wish The Mccourys had time for just a few more songs.

So here I find myself, 10:27 pm at The 8th Annual Festy Experience and I am sitting under the stage, directly beneath Mike Cooley’s feet (of Drive-By Truckers), hacking away at my typewriter. The rain is falling, not strong but steady, and I need somewhere dry to write. The music is flowing through me; my head inches away from the bottom of the boots that he is stomping out the beat too.

This has been one hell of a festival, and more still to come, but for now, I am trying to recharge through osmosis. The Drive-By Truckers are something else, like Widespread Panic buried in a mine-shaft for 20 years and then played without first cleaning off the rust and mud and grime. It’s not my jam, but it’s perfect at the moment.

I turn off my flashlight, close up the typewriter and head back out toward the front. They only have a few songs left to go, and I want to get a jump over to the Della Mae tent. As I make my way through the audience and towards the Skyline Stage, I notice the young blonde with backward hat and jeans on. I ask her what she is up to and she says she is just about to ramble a little.

Call me Ramble On Rose I guess, cause that sounded like a pretty good time to me as well. We swing by the slack-line park, the corn-hole development, and make our way towards the fire. We munch on some paper having no money for beer and then decide to cuddle a little. The ground is sloped just so, and as we embrace, she decides to move.

Never the one to slow someone’s roll I follow her lead and there we are, names not even exchanged as of yet, careening down the hill in a giggling embrace. We finally come to a stop against the pole of the Tarpestry tent and decide that the most prudent course of action at this point would be to run to my car for wine and smokes before Della Mae’s late night extravaganza.

I sneak her through side stage to get to my car more quickly as, with DBT still playing at Blue Ridge, the area is completely empty. What I don’t count on is what it is going to look like when we come back through. By the time we return Della Mae and just about every other performer still at the festival is packed into the area we have to get through to get back to the crowd. I let go of her hand, don’t want my bosses knowing I brought her back, and quicken my pace. When I get to the gate I turn around to see if she has friends she is looking for but she is long gone.

It takes a few moments, but I see her in the corner talking up Chris Pandolfi and Andy Hall. I grab my typewriter and head off into the night to enjoy the jamfest that Della Mae has planned.

Della Mae plays with about half of the performers from the festival in what turns out to be one of the more legendary shows I’ve been to. As it ends and I begin to collect my things, and there she is, the same girl, still back stage and still making friends with the musicians. On a tip from a friend, I grab her, and we head back to the artist's area to see what is going on back there. Word is it’s about to be a campfire jam for the ages.

We sit on picnic tables under a tent while Erin Lunsford, Andy Falco, Kimber Ludiker, and Carl Anderson jam together. We smoke cigarettes, catching each other’s eye from time to time to share a smile, a knowing look, or a nod. These are some of the best musicians in the world just doing what they do. No audience to speak of, no money or fame to be gained. Music and laughter and camaraderie are in their blood, and even at 3am, they can’t quit.

Sunday morning comes on hard and jagged. I wake up in the back of my Hyundai Elantra, and it takes me nearly 15 minutes to unfold myself into a standing position outside of the car door. I wish I had my damn truck right about now, but I don’t have time to wallow. I’m due to interview Emi Sunshine in under an hour.

I brush the gopher bones and do the best I can to wash my face from a water bottle. I power through a banana and a few handfuls of Cookie Crisp before heading towards the festival proper in search of coffee.

I’m nervous again. I’ve never interviewed a 13-year-old superstar, and I’m not sure what to expect. My fears are quickly put to rest as I find a world-class musician with the mind of a full grown woman and the heart of a child. She gives carefully worded, well-crafted answers to my questions while playing with a ball of slime.

She tells me that she chooses to produce her own music because she likes to have control over the final product and that the worst part about recording is the early mornings. She talks about her five turkeys, two peacocks, hedgehog, dwarf hamster, cats and dogs, and chickens. She tells me that her favorite thing about music is “When you feel in your heart, and then it spreads to your whole body and then to the audience.”

If this had been a phone interview, I would be certain that I had spoken with one of her managers. Talk about a class act.

Once the interview draws to a close, I head on back into the festival to see what the Tarpestry guys are up to. We drink some beers and write some dirty limericks, it being no-filter Sunday and all. There has been a schedule change and instead of Joan Osborne at 2:00 it is going to be The Shook Twins. I had caught part of their set at Almost E-Town and am interested to see their full show.

So now, let’s have a little chat about The Shook Twins and their golden telephone. This band from Idaho really has something going on here. Like Elephant Revival the musicians are constantly switching instruments, and the Shook Twins themselves are masters of their best instruments, their voices. They use a golden telephone to distort their voices on certain songs, toss a giant egg into the air for percussion, and stomp and pick their way through a moving, powerful set.

I’m trying to get all of it down on paper when they launch into an impeccable version of Son of a Preacher Man and I, myself being the son of an evangelist, can’t help but join in the dancing. When the set is done I head to the campsite to collect my thoughts, write some poetry, and save up just a little energy for the rest of the evening.

The ‘Duster’s have their only night set of the weekend coming up and, after that, some guy named Billy Strings is going to be closing the festival out.

There are very few things that make me happier than listening to The Infamous Stringduster’s live. Not a swimming hole, not getting paid, not even sex can make me feel the things The ‘Dusters do. As I walk back towards the main stage, night having just fallen, I can see that we are in for a treat. The rain that has been popping in and out all day is beginning to clear, and in its place is a light, low-lying fog.

The lighting guys are getting everything perfect at the Blue Ridge Stage, and from a quarter mile away I can see lights cutting through the evening haze like lasers. As Love Canon finishes their set of 80’s bluegrass mashups, I make my way, with the rest of the crowd towards the main stage. A few hundred yards away and the first notes cut through the misty mountain air.

Everyone is tired, but no one gives a shit. We dance barefoot in the mud with reckless abandon, losing ourselves to the music of one of the greatest bluegrass bands of all time. There are hoops and glow sticks and trip whips. There are mini-mosh pits and contra dancers and hippies spinning with abandon. A few women, feeling the lawlessness of the last few hours of the festival, do away with their tops. I tie my dress up to my thigh so I can dance with my knees.

I feel like, if there is a god in heaven, then this right here is why we exist. Moon in the sky, the earth under bare feet, bluegrass floating on the cool Virginia breeze. The ‘Dusters, who have been playing all weekend long, have saved a little something special for tonight.

I pull out my typewriter and set it down right in the middle of the dancers, borrowing glow sticks to light the olive green metal keys. This is the secret stash. The jar you keep under your bed in the back room until the party has died down and it’s just your best friend, his girl, and the woman you have been hitting on all night.

Before I can even finish typing the words as if through some sort of ESP, they launch into Phish’s Stash.

When The ‘Dusters finally draw to a close Billy Strings takes over at the skyline tent. A whirling dervish if ever there was one his outrageous picking finishes the job for the festival, destroying whatever part of our brains we may have left.

When he is done the crowd chants for an encore, and he obliges. Then another. Finally a third. With the sound shut off and the security ready to clean up and go home he steps off of the stage and into the hands of the waiting audience. There he plays one last song, acoustic, to send us all on our way.

The moment is profound. The barriers between the stage and the audience, minimal all weekend, now, in the final moments broken down completely. This is what we came for, this is why we paid, and this is the reason we are all leaving happy.

-Caleb Calhoun is an author and lover of all good things. He is a regular contributor to ashvegas.Com. hosts an fm radio show, and publishes Rosman CIty Blues. He lives in Asheville, North Carolina with his best friend and soulmate - his dog Dr. Gonzo. Additional editing to this piece was made by Gabrielle Paulhac.

The sound of Anders Beck’s dobro cuts through the crisp October air, animating as it were, the twenty-five-hundred-plus friends gathered here to witness this. Asheville, NC in the fall is, by any measure, a lovely place to be. Gathered down on the banks of the French Broad river, at The Salvage Station, a venue that manages to be somehow both expansive and inclusive, I can’t think of any place I would rather be.

Or any band I would rather be listening to. Greensky Bluegrass just does it for me. Their sound is unparalleled on the scene today, and that’s not because there aren’t a bunch of other bands trying to imitate it. It’s because it is something they themselves have created.

Fruition warms up the crowd with a great set, the loudest cheers coming when they announce that they will be playing a surprise show inside when GSBG is done. For twenty bucks a head this crowd is going to get two sets from Greensky and three sets from Fruition, including two indoor club sets. What a freaking bargain.

When Fruition is finished, the crowd is really showing up. GSBG hasn’t played a single note, and there must be 2000 people here already. The anticipation is killing everyone. Cigarettes are already running low.

Then it’s time. No real intro, no segue. Just the boys walking out and launching into Reverend. As per usual, once they start playing, they never look back. The first set is heavy and driving and, early on, pretty grassy. They really begin to stretch their legs with a twelve-minute Run or Die about halfway through the set, then change the dynamics to play Room Without a Roof.

They finish it off with an absolutely blazing eleven-minute jam-fest of Living Over, stepping away from a crowd full of smiles to take a short break. I stand there for a minute and marvel at the job their lighting tech does. It’s one thing to plan lighting for a run of shows with similar set lists, but his ability to keep up with their expansive catalog and explosive improvisation is nearly beyond belief.

I’ve got friends in the crowd who don’t do bluegrass but managed to find their way here. I locate them and ask what they think. They don’t even have words.

It’s hard to imagine the level of psychedelia and the rawness that GSBG brings without seeing them live. Seeing it live although doesn’t make it any easier to describe. I head down to the river for a smoke and am again impressed by the venue. There is probably space here for 6000, but they cap it much lower than that to make the experience comfortable for everyone.

There are dark corners, lit up canopies, three or four bars, and tons of other amenities. If you want to stand by yourself in the shadows, there is a place for that. If you want to kick a soccer ball in the very back, there is room for that too. It’s almost like a small festival ground in itself and, having a 500 plus capacity stage inside gives them the opportunity to throw these 8+ hour ragers.

As the second set begins, I can’t wait to see what the band has in store for us. It turns out no one is going to be disappointed. They roll in with Daemons back to back with a scorching eleven-minute Worried About the Weather.

Then they start getting weird. They move through a few darker songs including In Control and then really start to explore the space on Can’t Stop Now. They are toying with us, confident in their abilities to take us to the darkest places imaginable and bring us all back right before we cross the edge. They take it as far as they can, turning up the distortion and yelling into the microphones at the beginning of a twenty-one-minute version of Broke Mountain.

I can see it on the looks of the faces of those around me. In their body language. More than one hand is clutched to a chest, more than one couple squeezing each other. It is hectic and dissonant, and just when the audience doesn’t know if we can take any more, they turn the corner into a two-minute tease of The Wheel. There is a collective sigh, the audience grateful for the journey we have just been taken on. Grateful to have these guides tonight.

GSBG finishes off the set with Bring Out Your Dead and covers Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic as an encore. Then it’s time for more Fruition.

I think about my conversation with GSBG banjo player Mike Bont from the week before and wonder if the guys will be out mingling later. One of the ways this band has built such a rabid following is by treating their fans like friends, not patrons.

“We like hanging out with people and we like the people that happen to be our fans,” he had told me. “They have seen us grow throughout the years and some of them have become our good friends. The quality of people that are our fans is amazing. I feel lucky to have them be a part of it.”

And then there they are, just a couple of songs in, buying beer at the bar in the back of the venue. No longer rock stars under the lights they are now just fans of music, listening and mingling with the people that they have chosen to make their family.

Caleb Calhoun studied writing at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and music at a plethora of clubs and bars across the southeast. He is the host of Soundcheck Radio (Thursday’s 3-5 on 103.7 WPVM), a contributor to Grateful Web, and the publisher of Rosman City Blues. He currently lives on South Slope with his woodland mermaid, Dr. Gonzo. You can reach him at [email protected] and/or Facebook.com/GonzoNC

Grateful Web proudly presents a thrash-grass, double-night - double-feature of Pennsylvania powerhouse Cabinet and Michigan-bred wonder-kid Billy Strings. They will be together at the Fox Theatre on the hill in Boulder, November 8th and 9th.

Cabinet, a band made up of family members and best friends, has made a name for themselves as one of the most exciting live bands on the circuit. Hailing from Scranton, PA their music eerily reflects the stormy, rootsy feel of the mining towns of middle Appalachia. Bluegrass based with heavy overtones of rock and psychedelia, they are coming off of a barn-burning set at The Festy Experience and meshing as a band as well as they ever have. Having recently given up on set lists they are taking their fans on a musical journey every time they play. These guys are rock-stars on acoustic instruments and if you haven’t seen them yet, well then, in the words of Hunter S. Thompson, “I guess you’re ready.”

Speaking of rock-stars, there is nothing quite like watching Billy Strings slam-dance and head-bang his way through a set of stellar bluegrass. Named one of Rolling Stones top five new grass artists to watch, his picking is leaving music fans all over the country speechless. The flat-picking prodigy hails from Michigan but currently lives in Nashville, where, even there, he has trouble finding musicians that can keep up with him. After an extensive touring schedule this summer and, like Cabinet, a blow-out, triple encore set at The Festy Experience, he and his band are primed and in top form.

Don’t miss this opportunity to see some of the best grass the east coast has to offer, all in the luxury of your favorite home-town theatre. Tickets are available now here:  Wednesday | Thursday | 2-Day Pass

Have I ever told you guys about this place in Asheville called The Salvage Station? I feel like I have and, I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but man do those guys know how to throw a party.

I mean unless hanging out down by the French Broad River with a beer in your hand and the best music touring the country isn’t really your thing. In that case perhaps I could interest you in a board game or something.

If however, raging from sunset to nearly sun-up to mind-melting, brain-blasting tunes does it for you, well then this is the place to be. It certainly was on Friday night as they served up one of the juiciest double-headers (Oteil and Friends and Pigeons Playing Ping-Pong) that I’ve seen all year.

I arrive early, typewriter in hand, to take in Oteil’s sound check, but pretty quickly the temperamental Western North Carolina weather decides to cut it short. They retire to the tour busses under overcast skies and I wander around the venue for a couple hours wishing I had money for food.

The show is slated to start at 7 and by 7:15 there is already a pretty sizable crowd.  We are waiting on the band, and the band is waiting on the weather. There is one more squall coming through and they can’t get set up until it passes.

Then, as if on command, the skies open up and dump their grace on everyone gathered here. Most of the 1100-plus crowd heads inside, crowding it so much that I can’t even find a place to sit.

I head back outside and crawl under a picnic table, looking for the ever elusive dry place to write. That no good photographer of mine has managed to finagle her way onto the tour bus where I imagine she is enjoying free wine and the company of so many musicians I idolize.

But wait. Enjoy this. Revel in this. This is what the crowd is doing, what the crowd is feeling. Under this table, rain dripping sporadically onto the pages I type, chest filled with anxiety and just waiting, waiting, waiting for the show to start, I am exactly where I need to be.

They come out for a brief sound check and then, moon rising behind the stage, it’s finally time.

Slow and steady is how it starts. Defying the rain, defying the short set time, defying the crowds expectations this band is making a statement. Oteil and Friends are here to do what they do and nothing in the world is powerful enough to stop that.

The set list continues in this fashion as they play more a compilation of campfire jams then dead-heavy crushers. After an enjoyable Dance to Jah Music they hit full lift-off on a gorgeous, transportive version of Tangled Up in Blue. Conservatively it was the best Tangled I have ever heard, imaginatively it may have been the best ever played.

The contrast of Eric Krasno’s smooth, sultry guitar and John K’s idiot-savant, hammer dropping creativity is outstanding. They chase each other around the song for nearly fifteen minutes, each moment more delightful than the one before it.

This is what I am here for, and judging by the suddenly stepping feet and gyrating hips around me I am not alone.

The crowd has the sense that this band is finding their groove and is ready for more of it. Then they take it down about twenty-five notches with a beautiful but plodding version of So Many Roads.

In the audience what we really want is to let go, to achieve blast-off, but the set list is confusing and not particularly cohesive. There is a certain sense that these musicians may be learning the songs on stage and, while intimate, it’s frustrating to watch them gesture to each other multiple times a song in order to make their turns and stay on groove.

Still, this is a special show. A collection of talent that most Deadheads only get to dream about. They get the crowd moving again with a driving version of The Weight. Then they play a transcendent How Sweet It Is. The song features Alfreida Gerald, a wailer if there ever was one, and the sweet keys of Melvin Seals. There are moments when her voice and his organ combine in such a way that you can almost feel 10,000 angels in heaven orgasming simultaneously to the celestial music they are playing.

They finish out the set with an inspired Deep Elem Blues and a bluesy Unconditional Love before coming back to encore with Gerald just murdering the Joplin classic, Piece of my Heart.

Then it’s over, and time for the big transition. The shows have been sold separately and only a fraction of the audience has tickets for both. While the staff and security figure it all out with kindness and aplomb, I gather my thoughts.

The show was moving, fun, but I can’t help but feel a little sad about what might have been. This had the potential to set the standard for Asheville, to spotlight some of the best living Dead musicians in the world and leave the audience with something to talk about for years to come. As it stands now, it’s really just another good night in Asheville, NC.

But as it stands, Pigeons Playing Ping-Pong is still an hour from taking the stage and there sure is plenty of mischief and revelry yet to come. I’m sitting outside toking on a spliff and a new friend joins me. I mention that I’m hungry and broke and he says, “Me too, lets go get some food.” He purchases a plate of pulled-pork nachos for us - I’m almost five bites in when I realize he isn’t eating. “I’m not hungry,” he chuckles, “just wanted to get you fed.”

This is quickly becoming the new theme of the evening. Come as you are. Bring what you can. You will be taken care of. Come as you are. Bring nothing at all. You will be loved. Come as you are. With no food, come and dine, with no favors, come and play, with no money, come and buy.

These may not all be Dead fans, but this is the essence of what the Grateful Dead were. Love overflowing, joy abundant, kindness everywhere. Emulating the fearless absurdity of the band we are encouraged to leave our inhibitions at the door, perhaps to never return to them again.

And what does it tell you about the band and their music that this is the caliber of people that they draw. Their songs are energetic and well-written, proggy but not to the point of overkill and always just a moment away from throwing your hips and shoulders out of socket. This is the kind of band you buy tickets for and then book a chiropractic exam the next day.

It’s my first time seeing them live and I feel a little late to the party. Like I’ve been sitting in the back room at a kegger and people keep telling me that there are pigeons playing ping-pong in my living room. After the third or fourth report, when I finally check it out, I am startled to find that not only are there actual Pigeons Playing Ping-Pong in my living room, they are also standing on their heads while making funny faces and shredding a pair of guitars, a bass and a drum kit.

Their music makes you want to move in ways you have never moved before. It makes you want to break out the dumbest, cheesiest dance moves you remember from high school and then look behind you to see how many people are impressed.

I literally can’t even right now and so I head to the back to try to collect my thoughts. Good luck. This set leaves leaves no room for collecting anything, the only way to live here is to give.

They push through a two-hour set, at one point playing for nearly 47 minutes straight without taking so much as a four-beat break. Then, everyone entranced, all of us strung out on the same tunes, they launch into, what I can only consider to be their message.

They cover War Pigs, Greg Ormont making Zappa-esque faces as he screams/chants/sings the lyrics. They dive out of that and into an original, funky and free, forcing everyone to dance, to bump against each other, to feel the touch of human contact. Then they drop it into Why Can’t We All Just Get Along.

The audience understands. They get it. Spontaneous hug-dancing and consensual ass-grabbing is going on all around me. I can’t help but to be completely drawn in. If this is what these guys are about, well then, I guess I’m about these guys.

Then it’s all over. Just like that. A short encore and the house lights and music come on. Where do we go from here? No one is ready to go home. No one is ready to quit. Luckily, Salvage Station isn’t in a hurry. We all have plenty of time to mill around, drink one more beer, and figure out which hot tub we plan on skinny dipping in later.

We have all been there. You meet some groovy thing out at a show and before you know it you have given into the chemistry and find yourselves back at your place. Everything seems perfect as you find yourselves dancing, road-tripping, and combining your friend groups.

Then, as things often do, you find it coming to an end. And yet, it’s not all that simple. Your formerly-significant other and you still like all of the same bands. You still share the same friends, and you still want to hang out at all of the same haunts. With the world of live music being as small as it can sometimes be you now find yourself nervous and gun-shy to do the that things you love the most.

So what do you do? How do you handle seeing the person you want to be with out dancing with everyone else? How do you enjoy festivals when you both are planning on going with the same group of friends?

I would love to pretend that I am some kind of guru on this, that I have all the answers, but the truth is that most of my experience in this field comes from getting it wrong. Nonetheless, perhaps through my own experiences, I can shed some light on ways to enjoy your favorite bands, exes be damned, and help you get back out on the dance floor where you belong.

Remember why you started going to live shows in the first place.

While some of us may have enjoyed our first live show because we were invited by a person we were interested in, most of us have learned how to enjoy shows for what they are, and not just for the people we are going with.

Sure it’s a blast to be out with a group of friends or a girlfriend but focus on what things can be. This is a chance to intelligently enjoy your favorite bands. For the first time in a while, you have no one to check in with, no one to keep you from dancing where and how you want to. You can show up late, leave early, sit in the back or dance right up front. Whatever your preference is, you no longer need to check in when you head to the bar or restroom.

This is an opportunity to build new habits, to learn to enjoy shows again for the music and not the camaraderie. The music scene is full of possibilities; your newfound freedom may just allow you to experience them all.

Be willing to take a break.

FOMO is real. Especially if you live in a place like Asheville or Minneapolis or Boulder. It can be difficult to have the self-control to skip shows everyone else is gong to but it can also be rewarding.

Maybe it’s time to stay home for a few weeks and listen to all the new albums your favorite bands have dropped recently. Maybe it’s time to take the old canine camping or spend some time with your musically-challenged friends.

Many towns have companies like IAMAVL (the Asheville version) that stream the majority of local live shows. Couch tour your home town. Drink cheap beer. Make yourself some dinner. It’s very possible that you will have a better time sitting in your easy chair than trying to avoid the one person you want to be with all night long.

Find some new music.

Were you and your ex-die-hard jam band fans? Death metal? Country? Now is the perfect time to start broadening your horizons. Look for shows you know your ex has no interest in being at and go find your new favorite band.

It’s easy to get stuck in a rut, especially when you are sharing all of the feelings with someone you love. Take the opportunity to seek out something new and different from your usual status quo.

Be brave and hold your head high as you walk in to see bands whose music you have never heard. Give yourself the freedom to explore. Go on a musical adventure. You will probably find yourself right at home.

Start making new friends.

You know the people you see at every show but never talk to? Go say hi to them. If you need an opener try this: walk up and tell them “I just came out of a bad break-up and am trying to find new people to hang with.”

Odds are, in this scene, that is going to lead to some kind of spectacular group hug and give you a crowd to hide and dance in all night long.

Don’t be creepy.

This one is harder than it sounds. Your gut tells you that you should stand about 10 feet behind your ex and watch them. That you should step outside when they smoke and hang by the bathroom when they are in there.

DON’T. DO. THAT. For one, there is no way you are going to enjoy the evening if you spend all your time following your ex around. For two, no matter how sneaky you think you might be being, the truth is you are ruining their evening too.

Most of us know where our friends like to stand in the crowd. If your ex is a Paiger Rager then head over Gordon side. If they are a soundboard hoverer, then head down front. Give yourself and your ex the opportunity to enjoy the show without looking over shoulders all night long.

Be kind but stay within your boundaries.

There is never any reason to completely ignore someone. I know, they broke your heart, they cheated on you, they ran off with your best friend. None of that matters. Your ex, like you, is a human being who deserves respect. If you pass them in the hallway while going in, don’t be afraid to say hi and give them a hug.

At the same time, you know what you can handle. Now may not be the time to dance or to go around the corner and smoke a bowl with them. Figure out what you are comfortable with and stick to your guns. Don’t give away your autonomy for a chance to spin someone around the dance floor when you know, that home alone later; you are going to hurt yourself even more by doing it.

Don’t get too lit.

I know how it feels. You walk in and your ex is standing by the door. Your first thought is to go order a boilermaker and forget about everything. Still, this may not be the most prudent course of action.

I mean, let’s be realistic here. Your emotions are already raw and it isn’t about to get any easier while you watch your ex dance with everyone else in the room. And while sometimes drugs and alcohol can be calming, they often have the exact opposite effect. Trust me; you don’t want to eat that L and then spend the back end of your night in, as HST would put it “hours of catatonic despair.” You don’t want to dip that molly then go home alone to a cold bed.

And you most certainly don’t want to get shit-faced and then end up behind the wheel of a car because, let me tell you, going to jail isn’t going to make anything better. Let yourself take it lightly, enjoy the show, and drive home sober and hopefully tired enough to fall asleep when you get there.

Be honest with your friend group.

Your friends are your friends for a reason. Hopefully, it is because they care about you and don’t want to see you hurting. Don’t be afraid to tell them that you just don’t have it for this show or that festival.

If you don’t think you will be able to enjoy yourself, be honest about it. Don’t try to change their plans, just let them know kindly and sincerely that, while you had been planning to ride and camp with them to such and such event, you think it is in your best interest to skip it this year.

Hopefully, they know you well enough, to be honest with you as well, to help you work through the thoughts and fears you are having, and to not peer pressure you into doing something that won’t be good for you. Still, sometimes our friends see the picture clearer than we do. Listen to them as well when they tell you it’s time to start getting back out there.

Trust yourself.

The truth is that each of us, deep down inside, is self-sufficient. You don’t need a relationship to enjoy live music. You don’t need date insurance. Learn to believe in yourself again. Realize that you have all of the strength you need within you.

Don’t doubt how beautiful and loved you are by those around you. Sure, getting broken up with can take a toll, and it can make you feel worthless and unlovable. That is just your brain talking shit. Your worth is not measured by who you date or who you are with but by your character.

At the end of the day, we are responsible for our own happiness. Be the person that you want to be and love yourself for it, and I guarantee you, when the time is right, someone else is going to love you for it too.

Live for the moment.

The Infamous Stringdusters have a song, “It’ll be alright,” that I have listened to many times when I have been in this scenario. Since they already said it better than I can, I’ll leave you with their lyrics.

“Take your chances when they come   

Don’t wait for something of someone,

You hate to miss a chance at life,

Go ahead; it’ll be alright.

Just say yes, it’ll be alright.”

It’s a cold and overcast Friday night in Asheville, NC but my spirits are anything other than soggy. I have been looking forward to this night for some time now, as The Campfire Caravan of The Lil' Smokies, The Brothers Comatose, and MIPSO rolls through Asheville’s premier club-venue The Orange Peel.

The truth is, although I have heard and seen YouTube clips of all three bands I am very much looking forward to finally seeing them live. The night begins with a major miscalculation. I’m used to things in these mountains running on Asheville time. I arrive a few minutes after nine, and to my dismay, the Lil' Smokies are already playing.

I quickly make my way through the crowd to find a better vantage point. This is the band I am most looking forward to seeing tonight, and I am horrified that I have already missed a song and a half of their set.

The venue is filling up already and it’s tough to get too far forward. I choose a spot dead center about 2/3rds of the way back. This is the place to be in this venue, the 25-foot-wide ceiling fan pumping cool air down the back of your neck, the distance from the stage leaving a little more room for dancing.The show is partially seated, but everyone is dancing at this point. After a few inspired originals The Lil' Smokies launch into a stellar rendition of Billy Strings’ Dust in a Baggie. The crowd is intelligent, typical Asheville music fans, and this cover is not lost on them. Strings has, at this point worked his way clearly into the national consciousness, and it was uplifting to see the Smokies give him that nod.

From Dust, they head into a masterful version of Going to California. Instead of singing the response lyrics, they have Jake Simpson cover those parts on the fiddle. The effect is outstanding, eerie and innovative.

Lil' Smokies play a few more songs to finish out their set, and I can’t help but notice the unbelievable chemistry they share. Sure, each musician is a virtuoso in his own right, but perhaps just as enjoyable is watching the rest of the band. When one member takes a solo, they turn into the 12th man on the UNC basketball team, watching intently, waving their towels around. To say that each of these musicians is all in on this band would be a massive understatement.

At 10pm exactly The Brother Comatose begin playing. I am immediately impressed by their dirty, salty sound and by how the fiddle players licks follow and mimic the vocals. AS the set moves on I am more and more drawn in. Drawn in to the fiddler and his camouflage hat. Drawn into the lead singer with his charming looks and pencil-thin beard. The mandolinist with his perfect little melodies complimenting their sound like a rock and roll version of Chris Thile.

A few songs into playing this opening set to what is essentially a sold-out crowd already, Comatose fiddler Philip Brezina decides to tell the crowd how he feels about playing here.

“This is fucking tight man,” he begins, and continues even more strongly, “Asheville fucking rocks. People just love music here.”

He couldn’t be more right. This is a great place to play, and not just on the weekends. Asheville gets down every night of the week, and there is no surprise that their finest bluegrass fans have packed this venue so early tonight.

Sitting in the corner in my dress, with my typewriter, I also have the opportunity to observe the room. It’s more than just music knowledge that makes Asheville fans so refreshing to be around. It’s their attitude. No one is pushing; no one is upset. Everyone is dancing, often guys with guys and girls with girls.

This is a great place to be on a Saturday night, and the show has been outstanding so far. As I am thinking about MIPSO coming up next Jake Simpson sneaks out onto the stage for a fiddle jam for the ages with Brezina. It takes them a few riffs to get into it, but by the time they song is coming to an end they have scrambled every brain in this room. The only thing that I can even think of to compare it to is Guitarmageddon. That special two-song set of the Stringdusters album release show at The Orange Peel last January when Andy Falco, Jon Stickley, and Billy Strings played all played together.

This fiddle jam is every bit as hot as that was. This fiddle jam is the only thing I need to make wheat toast taste good; it is how the west was won.

As The Brothers finish out there set I run into someone, I had met at GSBG a few weeks ago, and he asks how things are coming with the typewriter. After we chat for a moment, he asks how I would describe Comatose’s sound. I tell him I have no clue. It’s certainly not bluegrass – more like dive bar meets barn dance.

Whatever it is, I’m sold. I step outside after their set for a quick smoke but don’t make it long as the Little Smokies come out for a surprise mini-set in between Comatose and Mipso.

And now, in the words of Never Getting Famous, “It’s all happening.” They launch into an impeccable version of Elton John’s Rocket-man, joined on stage by Ben Morrison and Giovanni Benedetti of The Brothers. The crowd has completely lost itself at the moment, and the cover is so good I think even Sir Elton John himself would be proud to hear it.

A couple more songs and it’s time for Mipso. Badasses from just down the road in Durham, NC they bring a completely different vibe to the rest of the show. Eerie, whimsical harmonies and gentle violin and fiddle, they close it off strongly sending everyone into the cold, rainy, Carolina night feeling warm and dry on the inside.

Sitting on my porch later, the acid and the music still pumping through my veins, I begin to wonder what all I have seen tonight. The wind is blowing through the trees, and the whistle of the leaves sounds like bluegrass music. My friend points out that the trees are always speaking to us if only we take the time to listen. She mentions that maybe, just maybe, the greatest musicians, like the ones we saw this evening, are less playing an instrument than coaxing its true voice out of it.

Curled up in a blanket in that windy Asheville November night, I can’t help but wonder if she is right. Those bands tonight were clearly transcending the situation, their music taking us all to a higher place, to a place where the spirits of trees and earth and sky still live freely. The connection is so deep and so profound I can’t help but understand that the wind in the trees tonight is merely the encore of the show we saw earlier.

I’m gonna tell you a story through my eyes, cause those are the only eyes I have. Eyes of a newbie, eyes so green you could almost smoke them (I’m looking at you Bob Dylan). My first major autonomous Dead show, first time, believe it or not, on Lot. Spectrum Center - Charlotte, NC.

Not that I don’t know the Dead, I have a bolt tattooed on my leg for a reason, but live music is still a relatively new force in my life. I’ve seen JRAD and Phil and Bobby but never in this type of setting before.

As soon as we arrive I ditch my friends – this isn’t their experience, and it isn’t an experience to be shared. This is special, this the end of a pilgrimage to Mecca that began with rules and religion and regulations as a child and culminated in moments of ecstatic freedom, sharing a joint with strangers during Mississippi Half-Step and Peggy-O.

The Lot Scene is cool, and I bump into more friends than I could imagine (both old and new) but I’m just ready for the show. Being the rookie, I am I head in early and stand in one spot staring at an empty stage for over an hour. As the room slowly fills up around me. And fills up some more. And some more. It’s hard to breathe, and I’m ready for the boys to come out and light it up.

Finally, when I am just thinking about giving away my spot to go where I can catch just one full breath of air, they come on with a smooth Hell in a Bucket that comes through as more mosey than march.

They follow that up with a solid Bertha and then really seem to be hitting their stride on Peggy-O. From this point on there will be no looking back. Every musician on stage is completely locked in, all of them on their A-game.

The lighting set-up is incredible with what looks to be somewhere in the vicinity of thirty or forty lights arranged in a semi-circle like rays of a sun. Directly above the band is a perhaps twenty or twenty-five-foot diameter round projection screen with an additional ten spinners. The artwork being used is masterful, fading in and out between traditional Grateful Dead iconography and new, tasteful compositions. Well, fading may be the wrong word. How about melting.

Then again, maybe that was just me.

As they power through classic versions of Masterpiece, Greatest Story Ever Told, and Ship of Fools, I begin to make my way around the building. Had I not been writing I may never have left my original spot, just a couple of yards from the rail, directly in front of Bobby, but I need to take it in from a few different angles.

The set list is superb so far, but when they head into Mississippi Half-Step I hustle back down front and Jesus I’m glad I do. They don’t let one second of it get away from them, cruising through the song and then letting it fall apart to almost nothing before the coda. It’s trippy and spacey, and Bobby and Mayer are doing things with the vocals on the chorus that I have never heard before.

It’s there, and then, as Mayer sings harmonies only he can sing and elicits sadness from his guitar that only he can beckon, that I realize just how special this band is right now. When the nearly thirteen-minute song draws to a close, I think the set is ending, but they come right back with a driving, dark Let It Grow, before leaving to raucous applause from their fans.

I stumble around the venue at the set break, engaging random strangers and feeling love without exception. A beautiful yet terrifyingly crazy woman I know from years ago spots me, and before I can even wrap my head around the situation, she is literally dumping glitter down the front of my dress. I run like a goddamn antelope.

In Charlotte, one person can purchase two beers, so I stand in line for a friend and get a (free-for-me) $12 Bud Light. Then it’s beginning again, and I hustle back to the floor. The plow right back in with an inspired version of The Weight before turning the corner into a stellar Playing>Uncle John’s Band combination that included a nearly two-minute Terrapin Station tease at the end of Uncle John’s before dropping back into the “Oh-oh what I want to know…”

I figure that is as close to a Tuesday Terrapin as we are going to get and I figure dead wrong. With just a brief pause they launched into an epic, dark Terrapin that disintegrated into a massive drums and space and ended in a haunting Standing on the Moon.

They bring the mood back up with a powerful I Need a Miracle and then make love to the capacity Charlotte crowd one more time with a lovely version of Going Down the Road.

After a short break and hearty applause, they come back out for a moving version of Black Muddy River and then finish off the Playing in the Band that they left hanging almost an hour earlier.

As the show ends I start to reminisce about the first time I heard the Grateful Dead – running from security in a little Ford Escort at sunset, coming down the ridge-cut in Chattanooga and smoking a joint. My friend Thalia pulled an old cassette tape out of her purse and shoved it in the dash while looking over her shoulder.

The next thing I knew I was pulled over on the side of the road, campus cops be damned, and crying like a baby. When I finally composed myself enough to speak, I remember muttering something along the lines of “Whoever this is it’s about to change my life.”

I wasn’t wrong then, and the songs, the members, and the vibe of Dead and Company are all still changing lives today.

The wind is whipping down Asheville’s south slope, and the temperature is somewhere in the low teens as the crowd begins to arrive at The Orange Peel for the seventh annual Holiday Hang. Put on by Town Mountain and Amanda Anne Platt & the Honeycutters, the event is a benefit for the local Manna Food Bank and has become quite a tradition in this town.

I’m always excited to see either of these bands but am particularly enamored this year to see what Town Mountain has to bring to this hometown party. Over the last year, they have pushed their way into the front of the national consciousness when it comes to technically-driven, jam-friendly grass and you know that Orange Peel, Asheville is going to bring out their best.

At about 9:15 Amanda Anne Platt and the Honeycutters take the stage. They play through most of their new album while still touching on some of their older hits, and I’m getting off on watching the crowd watch this band. With the double-headliner, it’s a split crowd, The Honeycutters contingent wholly entranced by Platt and her bandmates. They are swaying and dancing and singing along to every word, one hand pressed to their hearts another reaching toward the stage, clearly, for many, a somewhat religious experience.

They bring out Town Mountain fiddler Bobby Britt for the last couple of numbers, including a beautiful and delicate version of Eric Clapton’s Irene, before turning the stage over to the good ole Town Mountain boys.

The set break is interminable. I’m in my typical frazzled, spaced-out state of mind and the house music, while entirely appropriate, is driving me completely nuts. I need Jesse Langlais on the banjo, and I need it stat. I leave my friend and the crowd and head to the photo pit to prep and to hopefully find a little breathing room.

On my way, I spot Kelly, dready security goddess for The Orange Peel (not the kind of goddess you hit on, the kind you obey) and get filled in on the full photo policy. The truth is that for years this venue has gotten a tough rap for being perhaps a little overzealous in their enforcement, but over the last 10-11 months they have completely changed that reputation. Without sacrificing safety, they have found a way to interact with their patrons in a much gentler tone, making the entire experience that much more comfortable.

But there is no more time for philosophizing, Town Mountain is walking onto the stage, and I have three songs to shoot from the pit. They roll in with Pony Boy and then head through several classics including Arkansas Gambler and Southern Crescent before capping off their first extended section of music with a muddy, powerful New Freedom Blues.

The crowd is completely given over and, for the second time in as many Town Mountain shows at The Orange Peel I am struck by how varied it is. Most of the back of the audience is seated, quietly enjoying the musical prowess of these five men, the front of the audience is something in between a Dead show and a mosh-pit, the kind of physical dancing you expect more out at Leftover Salmon.

Speaking of Salmon, Town Mountain, riding the crowd's energy moves into an inspired version of Andy Thorn’s classic, Bird Call. I look to my right and notice Lyndsey Pruitt of The Jon Stickley Trio (who, if you don’t know already, you should probably get-to-know ASAP). I wonder if she is going to be jumping on stage with the guys later, but not for long, as Phil Barker and Bobby Britt, playing beautifully off of each other, make it impossible to do anything but lose yourself in the music.

After Bird Call they head into a section heavy on new tunes, giving us a taste of what they will be getting down with Caleb Crowder at Echo Mountain Studios at the end of January. A couple of drunk women behind me are insistently yelling out “I’m On Fire,” a reference to a well-known cover of the Springsteen song by that name that Town Mountain has been known to play. I try to tell them not to yell at bands to play covers, but they aren’t interested. This is what they came to see.

After a few more songs, and much to my dismay, Town Mountain obliges the crowd with one of the most beautiful versions of I’m on Fire that I have ever heard, it’s only limitation being that I am feeling a little salty at the band for playing it after I told those women to cut it out.

Still, my ego is no match for their instrumentation, and they finish off with the crowd favorite, Lawdog, making it hard to stay grumpy for long. But that isn’t the end of the show by any means.

Without any set break they bring on the members of The Honeycutters, along with Lyndsey Pruitt, for a few more numbers including the Little Feat classic, Spanish Moon and finishing off with a dark and grooving version of Last Dance with Mary Jane before saying goodnight to a smiling, gratified, enthusiastic audience.

Caleb Calhoun studied writing at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. He is the author and publisher of Rosman City Blues and a consistent contributor to GratefulWeb.com, Ashvegas.com, AshevilleGrit.com, and others. He lives in Asheville with his mermaid Dr. Gonzo.