I write to you tonight from beautiful Abingdon, VA, where I am staying with Buddy Woodward and Brandi Hart in preparation for leaving in the morning to do a four-gig stint with their band the Dixie Bee-Liners. Buddy, as it happens, is a wonderful cook, in addition to being a great musician, and he fixed his famous coffee-smoked chicken, grilled corn on the cob, grilled onions, and iced tea, which we enjoyed in their convivial back yard before gathering around the fire pit to watch the sun set.
My real subject for today is the group of women I've been jamming with for the last couple of months. A bunch of friends of mine, who are all married to professional musicians, are in various stages of learning to play their instruments. Earlier this year we all walked in a half marathon together, and we wanted to find a way to keep getting together after our marathon was accomplished. I don't know who it was who suggested that we get together to play music, but they nominated me to be their leader. I agreed on the condition that I could play the fiddle.
We assembled for the first time on a Sunday afternoon and had such a good time we decided to continue to meet every week. Musically, to the outsider at least, what we play wouldn't sound like much. Accordingly I decided to call our little group "At Least We're Hot," as in, we pretty much suck, but at least we're hot.
The women of At Least We're Hot, and some friends. I'm in the purple dress in the middle. Photo by Ned Luberecki.