“A writer, eh?” an acquaintance said after I told him my favored occupation.

“Lots of room for procrastination in that field,” he shot at my unsuspecting soul.

“Absolutely ... not,” I said slowly, my attention wavered by a bright car whizzing by.

He nodded his head in a sarcastic way, dropping the subject before I could concoct another lie.

I resented this description he had attached to my job production. Summoning the depths of my mentality to put on paper is no easy task. I really do take my writing ser ... wait, there seems to be a bluebird nestling in our apple tree. I’m going to take a closer look. Be back in a flash.

Anyway, I wanted to prove to my “friend” that I could chuck out a piece in no time flat. I thought about writing a theory on how Waffle House music affects the central nervous system (and not the scattered smothered covered hash browns as first thought), or how ...hold on, my desk drawer is a tad squeaky. Let me WD-40 it.

Where was I? Oh yes, how good some hash browns would be right now. No, that’s not it.

I think I was forming a theory on ... what’s this? The self-titled “Jubal Foster” album and the Greasy Beans new release, “Real Live Music.” Eureka! Here was my inspiration for an end to procrastination  I would review the CDs of these two semi-local bands that are making titan ripples wherever they go. Jubal and Greasy have recently released their debut and second albums (respectively), which could possibly elevate them into the national way of things. To solidify matters, Bele Chere weekend was kind to both of them, with each band enjoying a coveted time spot of an hour and a half. Jubal Foster also had the distinction of being a featured band in Asheville Citizen’s “Take Five” Bele Chere supplement.

Little do they know that they are my ticket out of hypocrisy ... as soon as I get back from the Waffle House.

Jubal Foster
(self-titled)
Nine months in the making, Jubal Foster recorded their virgin release within the confines of their home in Nashville. “We had to deal with certain elements of surprise associated with recording inside your own home,” said Mark “Bum” Bumgarner. “You had airplane noises, the crinkle of a pretzel bag ... in other words, environmental conditions. If things weren’t working, we’d just go fire up the grill.”

Mark lives in Nashville with two other members, Jeff Smith (drums/percussion), and Haywood County native, Milan Miller (guitar/mandolin, vocals). Buddy Melton (fiddle/vocals) currently resides in Crabtree (Haywood County) and joins up with the band whenever they’re on tour; and a fifth appendage was attached when they added bassist Ross Sermons.

Brent Truitt, a staple in Nashville who has worked with the likes of Allison Krauss, Blue Highway, and Jerry Douglas, did the final mixing. The end result is 12 radio friendly songs that beckon the genres of bluegrass, country, honky-tonk, and rock. —“I call it, ‘fence-riding’,” said Bum. “We like to ride the fence between genres. We want to pull in the true country fans. Then we want to pull in folks like me, the Southern fans who enjoy stuff like Marshall Tucker. Buddy brings in the bluegrass fans. Milan will bust out that telecaster. He’ll get to ‘honky-tonkin’ and pull that contingent into it.”

Guests litter the album like cloudbursts of confetti, furthering the album’s rich sound. Mark W. Winchester, who currently performs in Brian Setzer’s Orchestra, helped out on the majority of the album; even lending a smidgen of the songwriting with “Nothin’ Helps.” Other guests include Patrick Bradshaw (bass daddy for Waynesville’s Holiday Ramblers), Tall Paul Robal (bass vocal) and Tim Carter (banjo).

Miller’s distinct guitar licks open the album on “Nothin’ Helps,” with Bumgarner’s country-fried voice providing the backdrop - “I drank whiskey and beer, white wine and red to get you off my mind/ Instead I only wound up hurting my head/ Tell you, baby, nothin’ helps.” The faint wisps of a fiddle can be heard in this three-minute track that could fit snug on the radio rotation. Don’t be deterred by this claim. This is stylish music, layered with a richness that’s unusual for the regular radio favorites. I wouldn’t be surprised if a Nashville heavyweight picks this song up in the future. The Beatles’ “I’ve Just Seen a Face” gets a moonshine treatment from the boys, who tip their caps to one of their plethora of influences.

Buddy Melton’s platinum voice goes to the forefront on the blistering “Six Days From Sunday,” which details the travails of an unfaithful man (he claims it’s only one one-night stand). Melton has one of those throats that curls the toes with one stanza. There’s a bucketful of soul in Buddy that’s hard to ignore and he almost makes us feel sorry for the wayward male. This song also gets some fine acoustic treatment from Miller’s adept mandolin, making the listener very aware that these musicians can play bluegrass with the best of them.

Check your pulse after “Saving up for a Cadillac.” A Miller original, “Cadillac,” is like ingesting a horse pill of honky tonk. Winchester provides rollicking bass licks, as Melton keeps the flame with his alter-ego fiddle. Of course, this is Miller’s song and he puts the Stratocaster to the test on the final lap. Try not to drive a car if this song manifests itself on the speakers.

Bumgarner’s “Reason to Cry” is a ballad on the tender side of things, and should promote a lot of intimate slow dancing. It’s followed by another radio pal, “The Girl I Used to Know” (also by Bumgarner), which I likened to a hayride on fire. Melton and Miller (quite the nasty combo) surge through this song, defying the ballad title and transforming it into a solid rocker.

Just when you think it’s time to slow down, Melton steps back up front for “If it Ain’t Love.” It’s hard to say which is superior—- the voice or the fiddle. The melding of the two is, well, almost too much for the mortal ear.

Need more? “Ragin’ River” is mesh of hillbilly/honytonk sass, and the traditional “I Know You Rider” gets its millionth interpretation (I’m not complaining). The album ends with Miller’s “Hard Price to Pay,” which employs the use of Tim Carter’s banjo. Everyone seems to realize this is the last cut and each member (and guest) puts his grit into it. Like all the songs, “Hard Price” allows each musician to show what they’re made of. No one cuts anybody else off, and each person flourishes in this environment. The only thing better is seeing these guys live. The song lengths multiply by two and the jams by twenty.

The Greasy Beans
“Real Live Music”
The term, “authentic bluegrass” seems to get thrown around more than the favored protagonist in a hat dance. It seems that if a hand can marry a banjo, fiddle, or mandolin, then a certificate for authenticity is assured. However, most bands these days have strayed into “newgrass” territory. Pioneers like Bela Fleck, Sam Bush, and Jerry Douglas have paved the way for upstarts like Leftover Salmon and the String Cheese Incident. While these bands have created a joyous sound, I still get a craving for the bluegrass that Mr. Bill Monroe and John Hartford made legendary. The Greasy Beans (Josh Haddix-guitar, clawhammer banjo, vocals; Charley Brophey-mandolin, vocals; John Matteson-bass vocals; Daimon Empfield-banjo; Cailen Campbell-fiddle) are as close to this sound as any band these days.
Their newest release, “Real Live Music” is like stepping back 50 years onto a sawdust floor built for shimmying. Put this CD in, close your eyes, and I swear the ghosts of bluegrass past come to life in these “youngsters.” This is their second album, and the Beans employed the use of Grammy winning producer, Bil VornDick (whose list includes Bela Fleck, Alison Krauss, Acoustic Syndicate, and Ralph Stanley). The album was recorded around a lone mic (the Bean’s live calling card), and was made with vintage tube recordings onto tape with no overdubs. This is a great “brochure” for what to expect live. Even more astounding is that 12 of the 13 tracks are originals, giving further evidence that these guys have acquired some of the mojo that many believe Monroe squirreled away years ago.

The album opens appropriately with the instrumental “Fannie” and it’s a harbinger for the rest of the album. There are no pretentious solos, just an adept understanding of how to complement each other as each member plops their instrument in front of the mic. Sweaty stuff.

“It’s Funny” is what you’d expect from a band that’s as real as Grandma’s hickory switch. “That damn woman of mine she broke my heart in two/she reached right in, jerked it out, was nothin’ I could do,” the vocals belt out to anyone who can empathize (or at least nod their head to the music). The reciprocity is evident as each member gives their all when it’s time to solo. Pay attention to Cailen Campbell, who can turn a fathom of heads with his fiddle work.

“I Left Her There to Wait For Me” reminds one of a lone mountaineer dispensing his vocal misery in a lone shack. While the Beans are an upbeat outfit, they are capable of producing dark songs that can create hours of brooding reflection. This is one of many songs on the album written by Scott McAleer, one of the original members.

The number of instrumentals on the album pleasantly surprised me. I still consider myself a newbie to the Bean’s sound, and I thought they were more of the vocal variety. Scorchers like “Lyndee,” “Rocky Broad Shuffle” and “Galax” (written by Fletcher native Jerry Stuart, who taught Brophey the innards of the mandolin) demonstrate the Beans can skin it back with the best of them. They are a complete band. I found I had equal facial tics (in the “mmm mmm” category) with the picking and the vocals.

“Broken Hearted Woman” is one of those numbers that’s destined for insta-classic. The highs and lows perfectly mesh on this number, and the twining vocals are quite volatile. Charley has that high-pitched voice (reminiscent of a McCoury) that compliments the other singers (Haddix and Matteson) like the perfect wine to poultry. “Pistolerro” has that same kind of “goosebumpish” pairing. Brophey sneaks through the back door and lends buoyancy to the lower-pitched.

My personal favorite is the galloping “Lineman’s Blues,” which gives you an understanding of how dextrous John Matteson is on the bass. His licks (I wish I had a better name, alas I am a mere writer) give thunder to the story of the lineman who wants to lay his hammer down. The song has the thematic punch of a train that’s barreling down the track and it’s three minutes of intense picking and lamenting.
“Real Live Music” ends with a bookend instrumental, “Dogpatch Scramble.” It’s all in good fun, with Empfield’s banjo being the starting gun. Voices hoot and holler (complete with cat and dog
impersonations) as the instruments pick up speed, never letting off, even after the song is done in an efficient two minutes. The din bounced in my ears the rest of the day.

This is an album for all those out there who believe that bluegrass has wrinkles. No worries, the Greasy Beans have plenty of “facial cream” to go around.

 

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