Goodbye Mr. Tucker

Almost three weeks ago the accordion player and founder of the bluegrass band I play in passed away. While I was waxing nostaligic about the good times we had togehter, I remembered a piece of prose I wrote about the band shortly after I joined it. I'm posting it here in memory of him and our good times. The band members have since changed, so pictures don't correspond with the piece since they were taken in December 2006 and the story was written in summer 2003. But it will give you a feel for it anyway.

In his black cowboy hat and boots and an accordion strapped to him, Terry Tucker can be an imposing man. “Let ’er buck” he says and we start playing. We end and Terry asks if we’ve heard the joke about Dumb and Dumber. “Dumb and Dumber were out in a field one day . . .” Karin and I smile painfully at the end, and Terry fakes disbelief that we didn’t laugh. “I guess I’m just too old for you guys.” Mr. Tucker is of an indeterminate age, but probably in his mid or late 60s, without one gray hair or any bald spots.

Mike on the other hand is 45, completely bald except for the gray fringe which in the back is approaching mullet-like proportions. But when you’re a single, unemployed banjo player, you’re allowed these privileges. These guys are the founding members of Bluegrass Thunder, a group organized to accompany Terry’s cloggers, who have now grown up and married and moved away. But Terry still holds on to the band.

Karin, the bass player, brought Trent and me in. Trent has a disposable income and discretionary time, as a single thirtysomething engineer. He plays a pretty good lead guitar (pronounced gee-tar). I fiddle. Only I’m not really a fiddler. The violin/fiddle doesn’t fit my personality; I’m not nearly that solo-hungry or braggart to pull it off. I end up feeling like I’ve manipulated the audience; then again it makes pretty good money. Karin should have played fiddle. Bass players rarely get breaks in old time fiddle groups like ours, and most of the time Mike and I trade breaks. Karin plays melody everytime she can, to the point that Mike yelled at her in rehearsal once. Mild-mannered Mike of all things! “Stop it Karin! It sounds too jazzy!” Amazing.

I hate Orange Blossom Special. I hate the way it repeats faster. I hate that I have to repeat faster and faster at tempos I’ve never tried. I hate that I have to grimace and show that I’m working hard to entertain the audience. I hate that it is the last song of every set, that big finale, that I’m the final thing that everyone hears. I hate that I do it so well.
I sat in the tent at the Springville folk festival thinking this in my boots, jeans, cowboy shirt, holding my new cowboy hat. Terry had got me before I left the night before and said he was getting me a hat. I had run the gauntlet I had performed enough with Bluegrass Thunder that they could afford to buy me a matching black cowboy hat. The cloggers were outside practicing their formations before we had to go on. I ate some of the popcorn from the hospitality table that had been overrun with the Bulgarians. I put my hat on and went out to find Karin.

We performed well, the cloggers didn’t push the tempos too bad, and then it came to the OBS. I could feel the weight of the slightly too big hat being pushed down by the eyes of the audience and the musicians who stood all to my right. I pray hard everytime I play that warhorse, hoping that the rhythm section will be together and that they and the cloggers won’t push me, and if they do, that I’ll be able to keep up.

Tonight was no different. The cloggers started fast, and my heart raced along with their feet, which I was watching closely to get the entrances coordinated. What if I can’t play this fast? I’m not really a fiddle player. I can’t do this stuff. I’m really more suited just to sit at home alone and play Bach. Anyone out there has got to know that I really hate this. Maybe that’s why they like it so much they enjoy watching me in pain. Sadists. I grimaced some more, part because I hated it, part because Terry likes me to give the impression that I’m really working hard. The final round came and my stomach flopped with the tempo that Terry drove it too.

No cloggers on stage, just me and the audience. I closed my eyes and tightened the grip on the bow. I made all of the appropriate train noises, played the lone ranger theme, and tacited some more. Jumping into the break must be like jumping from a moving train, you never know if you’re going to break your neck or just gently flop unto to sagebrush. I finally took the jump and forged into the triple shuffle that makes or breaks the song. I held on to the Orange Blossom, until it felt like my arm is holding me onto the runaway train that’s pulling me across the tracks. And like always I made it through to the awkward tag, the last chord, the applause, the bow and the exit. “That was some great fiddling, you’ve really earned that hat.” Terry looked thrilled. I smiled and said I didn’t know if I was going to make through that last one. The old man just looked so pleased, that I can’t tell him I hate it, I hate performing, I’m not performer. I put the hat that I’d been fanning myself with and said “Thanks” and drove home alone.

Good Bye Terry! We will miss you.