Whenever we listen to a particular bluegrass tune, or band, or individual musician, there always come a point where we must deal with an elusive quality knows as 'touch'. We all know what it is, but we're never quite able to define it. We've all met individuals from Chicago or Boston who had 'touch' by the ton, and some from the back hills of wherever who would never have it. All of which is to say that bluegrass music is not a place,it's a way of life. It doesn't look at where we're from or how much we make, but it gazes closely at how we think about and feel things. Anyone who's seen a long haired mandolin player in designer jeans or a calloused bass player in Oshkosh overalls,together knee-deep in mud, pushing a custom van or a Ford pickup or a GMC bus knows just what I mean. This album is our attempt to share with you our little piece of that way of life. A lot of miles, a lot of broken strings, muffed leads, hot shows, good and bad times are built into our music - thousands of bar, concerts, festivals, etc. We play hardcore bluegrass music and we hope that some of our pride comes across to you in this record. On a personal level, I hope this album communicates some of the joy I've experienced working with the likes of Butch, Bruce, Don, and Doug. When it comes to 'touch' they've certainly got it. Some thanks are in order, principally to bus driver, mechanic, friend, and master pig-roaster Bruce Gordner. Also to Bill Knowlton, the voice of bluegrass music in central New York State; to Chuck and Annette Gantz for iced tea, plane rides, and cowboy boot galoshes; to John Griffin for literary legerdemain and for never quite dropping that cigarette; to Taylor Monfort for all kinds of support; to Ed Ferris for liking the carrot joke; to Bud Artlip, Moose, Jeff Hay, etc. And especially to those who have shared the bus, and our lives, with us. There are many people who have, directly or indirectly, contributed to the music we play and who are no longer around for us to thank. This album is dedicated to those who are now picking where the festivalseason never ends and where diesel fuel is always cheap. Richard Hood April 9, 1982.
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