Rain on the Dobro

I like bluegrass music ... for about an hour. After that my eyelids start to turn inside out until I can ingest at least Part 1 of A Love Supreme. Luckily, I never have to spend all that long at any one assignment, especially when I roll up on scene so late in the first place. Yes, it was w-a-y past lunch by the time I blew into Denton city limits Friday - only to realize the fabled Farmpark was on the far side of that bustling Davidson County metroplex. Okay, so it was only a few more miles of rainy farmland, but when your story's due to air in five hours and you've yet to even attach a battery, you get a little heavy footed. Besides, who knew a Ford Freestyle could hydroplane like that?

Anyway, by the time I spun to a stop I was staring at the front gate of the Denton Farmpark. A faint echo of that high lonesome sound was the only evidence I wasn't about to get sucked into the belly of a spaceship, for at the time I saw no one. There - up on that hill, that glimmer of light coming from that cluster of campers. Is that the Gorton's Fisherman? Naaaah, it's just some fiddle-picker in heavy rain gear. I'd complain about the weather myself, but the downpour is the only thing separating this bluegrass festival from, say - the last one I covered. So without so much as a glance upward, I parked up near the bandstand, dragged my fancycam out of the back and wandered right up on stage. Tell me - what other job allows you to barge in on the unsuspecting and worm your way to the front? I'm sure there is one, but right now I can't think of one. All I do know is a brisk fifty minutes after I arrived, I left. The resulting report won't make anyone take up the banjo, but it sure beat the high gas price epic the suits wanted me to turn...

Now, where's my Coltrane?