April 23, 2025 - time for another update:
This is now starting to feel close to done, fortunately I have the luxury of time, and so will try to forget about it for the next week or so. Then return with fresh eyes.
I helped create some magic in the early hours of this beautiful April Sunday morning. It happened in the “legendary” room 108, in the Strater Hotel in Durango, Colorado - at an after-hours congregation of fiddlers and pickers from various bands, along with some talented civilians. They were playing to their hearts’ content, in a room full of friends, and then it happened, …
Being the philosophizer that I am, I have been musing on the experience since starting the two mile walk back to my motel room. The pleasant temperature, a full moon reflecting off the Animas River’s spring run-off, town lights reflecting off the surrounding hills, along with a few artfully arranged clouds floating across the sky, add to the magical aspect of the moment.
My musings have challenged me to attempt describing what I experienced. If you’re curious, join me for this not too long and winding road. It starts with introducing the major elements.
The Strater Hotel in Durango, which creates the perfect Bluegrass music setting. It’s a well preserved living relic of magnificent Victorian workmanship - opened in 1887 for robber barons and others of their financial class. Meaning, it was built sparing no expense and with an unflagging commitment to quality.
With time, that commitment evolved from serving the wealthiest of Americans - to opening its doors and welcoming all, at reasonable rates - dedicated to preserving and caring for this masterpiece of Victorian & local history, woodwork, artistry and guests.
Then there is the Durango Bluegrass Meltdown non-profit organization. First conceived in the early ‘90s, by a growing collection of local bluegrass musicians who wanted more. More music, more bands, more friends, more local recognition, and more party.
What better way than a three day festival celebrating bluegrass music in our hometown? The idea reached a critical mass when business leaders saw the light and joined in to make this dream become reality.
The key takeaway is that in 1995 the Durango Bluegrass Meltdown was created by musicians, for musicians. This goes a long way to explain why the Durango Bluegrass Meltdown has gained and maintained their reputation of being among the best hosts on the USA summer Bluegrass festival circuit. Especially with the quality of the food and drink offered in the festival’s Green Room.
Being a non-musician, this is where I came in during the late-2000s, when a sweet friend browbeat me into volunteering because: I needed to get out and socialize more.
Little did they know I wasn’t your average casual volunteer. In my youthful years I acquired some three decades of restaurant/banquet/hosting experience - including a three year foundation in old school European culinary arts - code words for, running 12-hour-split-shifts, 6 days a week, eleven months out of the year. Meaning I had an instant and unique appreciation for what an incredibly wonderful and rare - hell, unheard of - quintessentially positive exercise in community cooperation that this Durango Bluegrass Meltdown weekend is.
Then Strater Hotel’s owner, Rod Barker, was doing the unthinkable - donating a banquet room, along with kitchen support, while not selling any food or drink. This in a freak’n working kitchen, dealing with high volume business from the hotel’s various outlets - while Durango Bluegrass Meltdown was afforded a dedicated speed-rack, with access to the walk-in refrigerator, stovetop space, ovens and warmers, and dishwashers, as needed. While putting up with me dodging in and out this high traffic kitchen. I was hooked and they made the Green Room coordinator.
These days the Green Room has moved down into the banquet kitchen & space - also a fantastic deal, with less complications all around. Food and beer has always been donated by around a dozen Durango restaurants and a couple breweries.
Coordinating all of it was exhilaratingly nightmarish, at times resembling a cliffhanger. Still, some restaurant, or individual, would always step-up to the rescue us from any shortfall. We always pulled it off, and could be proud of our results.
Working the Green Room event itself was a fun reminiscing filled challenge for me. Still, I get lazier with every year, and have liked being retired from it these past two years.
Since I was committed to the Green Room for those three days, I rarely caught more than snippets of regular shows. Which was okay, because for me, the after-hours show in the Strater Hotel lobby, side rooms and guest rooms, was where it was at. The best show in town.
Watching musicians who vaguely knew each other from crossing paths between festivals, now being able to stop for some meet and greet. Swapping stories, then swapping musical licks, as other players joined in, and a musical circle would erupt spontaneously.
Or the time, in the wee hours of the morning. Some diehards collected in the empty Mahogany Grille, far from the guest hallways. We’re all dragging by this point, as we drop into various booths and tables. Someone starts working over some riff, when the jokes start.
Nothing nasty, good ‘ol banter with a subtext. From the inside jokes and jabs being swapped, it became obvious there was a bit of history being chewed over. A few others were in on the history and added their two-bits to enliven this exchange and energize the music that would erupt from one group, then the other.
Watching from the sidelines, even without being in on the joke, it was fascinating fun. It’s this sort of behind the scenes look at musicians having their own good time, that I came to love about working the Meltdown weekend.
That about brings us to Saturday night and the early hours of Sunday, April 12/13, 2025, I had picked up one shift for old time’s sake and to earn the T-shirt. Then I was off to listen to the Ten Dollar Wedding at the Wild Horse Saloon, they were lots of fun. Later I went and listened to the Stillhouse Junkies at the Animas City Theater.
At 69, with my babe at home, I was happy to stand in one spot while listening to the music and watching the musicians playing their instruments. Stillhouse Junkies took my warmed-up and started injecting some real heat.
Though I’m no musician, I am a musician’s son, and I’ve always appreciated good music. Especially when it creeps into my backbone, hips, and down to those dancing feet, then back up to resonate through my torso, and out to my fingertips, leaving my head bobbing to the beat, and my mind flirting with the meta-physical energy that music can radiate to receptive ears.
It’s not something I can Will into existence, the music is doing it. I’ll bet it’s what inspires many dancers. That irresistible physical coupling with the music, one’s body exchanging energy with the music.
My exuberant dancing days are behind me. Well, except occasionally in the privacy of my own space ;-). Still music finds its way in, and my body needs to move. Nothing showy, just the body tuned into the music, being reflected in my muscles. It’s easy enough to keep it close in and personal.
Before the rest of the story, and my reveal, there’s another subtle ingredient that I first learned about decades ago.
I learned this at smaller shows and bars. Especially under attended ones. Where the band was valiantly going through the paces. But not feeling it, because no one else was feeling it. Then me, a nobody, would walk in off the road, order a beer like everyone else. Rather than getting into conversations like most everyone else, I would tend to sit so I could watch the band and listen to their music.
If their musicianship is worth a hoot, I can’t help not following the beat and rhythm. Then a funny thing might happened. Musicians would notice me, and then it seems that pride takes over. Dude, you like this? Try this! Then the music would ramp up and become alive. Sometimes it seemed like an unspoken dialogue occurred. Like psychic-surfing, riding the sonic-waves.
It was an excellent experience that repeated itself a few times during my days on the road and afterwards. Much like finally getting the trust of a lonely introvert, and their stories start to cascade, often revealing fascinating personalities inside those defensive shells.
But that was then and this story is about that old man now. This evening I was enjoying the music and the kaleidoscope of memories. Walking back to the Strater Hotel I was hoping to find a memorable night of impromptu bluegrass at its best. Little did I suspect, …
With the pandemic, and then the 2021 sale of the Strater Hotel, the after-hours scene has become more subdued - footnote: Overnight hotel guests finally won their long standing battle for the right to quiet hallways vs. Bluegrass until ya drop! - also everyone is more attentive to Fire Marshall capacity limits these days.
Still, the three good sized musician circles that I saw around the main floor put on an awesome show and reassured me. Heck, it had me thinking about the song Shakedown Street, I sure could hear the beating heart at the Strater this night.
Then for those not ready for bed, downstairs the new Green Room and another downstairs meeting room was made available to musicians. Both were surprisingly full of players and spectators considering the hour. I spent a good while floating between them as another beer disappeared.
Not having the stamina I used to, I had to pull myself away. Because I still wanted to pay my respects at the “legendary” room #108 just off the lobby. An elegant suite that on this weekend in April, since 1995, has been the HQ for the Durango Bluegrass Meltdown Board of Directors. To the uninitiated crowd mulling in the lobby, it exudes the aura of a private club with a peephole-door and a selective doorman.
You might recall the spirit behind starting the Durango Bluegrass Meltdown, more music, more bands, more friends, more local recognition, and more party. They worked like demons to make it happen, and here it was happening and the Durango Meltdown was a success, and room #108 became the place where the VIPs could relax, and then party all night long.
One needs to be somebody to have that door open for them. Once inside snacks and drinks were generous and at night there was always music happening into the morning hours. Mind you they were/are all volunteers who put vast amounts of work, including their own money, into making this complicated event a success, so this touch of luxury was always well deserved, and they do share the bounty.
On this 2025 night I passed the peephole test and was welcomed inside. Another beer is handed to me. I circulate and share general greetings all around. Then I moved in closer to the circle of musicians that kept growing. By the time it was all said and done, I don’t think calling it a dozen pro fiddlers and pickers in front of me is exaggerating. As in, standing on the same area rug, in front of me. As in, spectator heaven.
They were playing with gusto, sending a tune around the musicians’ circle, allowing others to take the lead and explore the tune, then passing it onto another. I don’t even know the terms for what they were doing, but I loved it. My eyes were following the musicians and their instruments and my body was following their music.
Tuning into the music, watching players and their instruments. One dignified tall cowboy playing a banjo, standing across the circle from me, made eye contact. I got a curious feeling, this could be fun.
Sure enough he takes the lead and cranks it up a notch. I noticed meaningful glances going around between musicians, some glancing in my direction, while the music kept getting handed on to another player. They were communicating with each other, while fingers were loosening up. “We wanna do this?”
This time when Mr. Cowboy makes eye contact again, there’s a glint in his eyes, “Are you ready buddy?,” I look back, “Okay, let’s see what ya got.”
The time had arrived to submerge myself into the music and I closed my eyes. There’s only so much one can be present for. Time to focus on the sonic flash flood sweeping over me. The music kept building, fiddlers and pickers riding each other.
I mean these top notch musicians were just ripping it! I did notice the side chatter went silent. As the room gets drawn into this sonic explosion of tight fiddling and picking, layers deep - cooperating and competing at the same time.
With every go round that circle, giving it a bit more energy. It went on for, I don’t know, an infinity wrapped into a couple minutes. Climaxing, then settling down into an easy resolution, then exhausted silence. I think I heard someone say, “What the hell was that?” As the crowd let out a collective breath and broke into applause. I wasn’t the only one who felt it.
There’s no way to convey such an experience, except to share that it was spectacular for everyone who experienced it, to each in their own way. For me, it was about as near a pure religious experience as a person can hope for.
This was about the music, and connecting, and the musicians loving and competing with each other. Individuals who’ve spent countless hours practicing and gaining the ability to reach deep inside of themselves, then to create music that reaches deep into the hearts of the audience. To make them feel good and energized like almost nothing else can do. It’s what we humans strive to do, when at our best. It’s about the pride in a job well done, a tune well played.
While it wasn’t about me, I was a part of it. In being there, hearing them, seeing them, being at the right place and time, in the right frame of mind, sharing my energy - I helped ground some psychic connection that triggered a chain reaction, resulting in a moment of musical magic. I mean, it was a bluegrass meltdown of truly epic proportions, and I was there.
Leaving the hotel and walking back to my motel room along the Animas River, I had a clear vision of both Charlie Daniels and the Devil, shrunken in defeat, slinking off, while leaving that Golden Fiddle at the feet of these Bluegrass musicians, that night, in the spring of ’25, at the Strater Hotel’s "legendary” room 108.
( 2,400 words )
