Higher Calling-Part One

Something Calling

‘There it is, that’s the sound.’ Eureka moment. Arriving at the one place where enlightenment and enchantment become one and time is suspended. Gives a pleasant, moment’s nod to the proceedings. It’s like Archimedes floating his ducks in a bathtub or Newton watching apples fall from a tree. There is a place you reach, but can’t really explain how you got there. Yet, in that moment, with all your effort and a little magic, you fully know when you’ve arrived. 

So it is the same in principle with music. Difference is, you get there through your heart. Your soul searches for that sound you want to make, that you need to make. Up until the moment it arrives, it proves as elusive as any undiscovered mathematic principle. The truth is both within and without, floating in the breeze and waiting for your discovery. You keep going, knowing it’s close by, as though it is calling you.

Most Sunday afternoons, we’d let out from church and head up to Grandmom’s. My grandmother was the matriarch of the strong-willed, stay busy, hard-working clan known as the Edwards family. Sunday afternoons weren’t working hours either. Like afternoon church, the family gathered for a big spread, family talk and hopefully, a bit of music.

Grab that guitar, Kenneth, do something with it. Still have your fingers don’t you? Richard would chide his brother playfully as both tuned up their guitars and got ready to play. No stage, no mics, nothing formal. They’d put their chairs down and get warmed up while the rest of us would gather round.

Kenny was the wild one when they were younger, although I’m sure Richard had some stories of his own. Put together, these two could’ve given the Stanley Brothers a run for their money. Richard leaned on mountain tunes and religious songs while Kenneth liked to throw in a few Saturday night honky-tonk numbers. That’ll raise an eyebrow on a Sunday afternoon.

Always sat down in front so I could hear the sound of the two acoustic guitars. From the low E, heavy picking, Richard’s was surely playing a Martin or some other full bodied guitar. Must’ve had the heaviest thumb of anyone around. Uncle Ken would noodle around a bit, blowing a smoke ring with his cigarette smoke. Then, he’d signal his brother to kick it off and that magical acoustic sound rang out. When they got going, there was no better place in the world to be. Yessir, right there listening to these two find that higher calling.

What amazed me was how effortless they made it seem. No fancy gimmicks, no showmanship, just straight up acoustic guitar playing, coming from the heart and out through the fingers. Preacher’s sermon was either driven home or drifting on the wind in that sunny back yard. Paradise, where chicken legs were being nibbled on and a precious extra piece of cornbread was buttered up. Sunday love was all around with smiles and happiness. Of course, the guitar playing spread the joy far and wide.

Even then, it wasn’t enough. The songs told a story and the beauty of blood relatives harmonizing in song brought it full circle and unbroken. The boys opened their mouths and out came deliverance from a couple of preachers. Broken heart verses and bona fide snapshots of pure American life. Not to mention a little Elvis and a dab of Brylcreem thrown in ’cause a little bit would do you.