I have been going to The Galax Fiddlers Convention for a pretty long time -- but not nearly as long as my friend Gregg Brown. "Buzz," as we all know him, has been kicking around Galax for more than 25 years. That statistic in and of itself is not particularly overwhelming There are likely hundreds of old timers who have been attending quite a bit longer. The thing that makes Buzz's streak so unusual is that he owns it at the ripe old age of 39.

If he makes it -- say to the age of 82, and hasn't "Galaxed" himself to death by then, he might well set the record. I suppose it would be somewhere around 68 years. I guess by then he'll be named the Grand Marshal as well as Final Judge in all events.

He is already known as the "Mayor."

I'm not sure who the other mayor of Galax is, but he should probably know that for one week a year there is a small province within the confines of his kingdom that swells with foreigners and proclaims "independence" under the not so steady leadership of one Buzz Brown. There is a large unsanctioned wooden plaque that hangs from a tree on top of the hill that proclaims his jurisdiction. It extols the virtues of a carefree life while visiting in Galax.

It is a happy revolution.

The Order of the Moose, (a.k.a. the Galax National Guard), might run and police the 66-year-old festival, but Buzz and several other well known stalwarts own the hearts and minds of the real event: the community of "believers" who are the musicians and campers and otherwise faithful common folk populating Felts Park every year during the second week of August.

In the mid '70s Buzz and I and many of our friends were originally drawn to Galax for the freedom it afforded teenage boys to explore otherwise off-limits experiences. Camping at a Fiddlers Convention was nothing more than a great place to meet new people and stay up as late as our consciences would allow, which most of us found to be pretty darn late. I think we saw the main stage a couple of times, but it couldn't have been many.

The real action was then, as it is now, back in the campsites, where pickers and players from all over the world mix and sit in endless circles raising their songs and voices high for anyone and everyone to hear. You're welcome at any site to pull up a chair and stay as long as you like, and if you stay long enough you're liable to be invited for dinner.

Galax people are truly the salt of the Earth -- and in the biblical sense they "have not lost their taste" to the things that would otherwise distract and dilute their fervor for the simple and the plain and the real moments in life. To get a better sense of this you need look no further than the music they cherish and play with such passion. It is in many ways a direct reflection of themselves.

There is no money in bluegrass music, nor in the pockets of most people that favor it. It is generally played and listened to by men and women of modest means, which may in the end be the greatest reason for its ability to remain true to its roots. Country music eventually found the money, or it found country music, and now the better part of it has nothing to do with the pure and honest character that was once so much of its original flavor.

Witness the final curtain call of almost every traditional country station in the land and the rise of the pop-country superstations in whose shadows the traditional stations can not seem to thrive.

I like much of the "new country" sound, but it ain't Hank, and it ain't Loretta. Newer, more traditional groups like The Derailers that would have been at the very peak of the genre 10-15 years ago have to fight for air time amid the sterilized vocals and syncopated rhythms of today's country fare.

Bluegrass, however, continues to grow true -- basking in the full morning light of its believers.

New bluegrass songs find their way into being through a natural process that involves the hearing, trying and testing of their offering by the very musicians who breathe life into the music. If a song is "real" it becomes a part of the living vine of songs that grows endlessly back through the ages. If its not, it withers and falls away, finally fading away on the lips or instrument of the composer who one day stops bringing it to life. There are no external forces coercing acceptance or support -- there is a certain free will to the music. Bluegrass is brought to life and made real by the very essence of its spirit -- a collective entity that is gifted to and passed on by its players and listeners.

Sounds theological, doesn't it?

Maybe it is.

When bluegrass musicians play a song it is most often like a stage production in which the lead is passed from character to character. As one instrument steps up to become the primary thread of a piece, the previous lead re-blends with the others to provide the background support and color for the overall tapestry. It is a measure of consideration and respect for what each sound brings to the larger performance, and it gives every member of the group a chance to shine.

When it is done with the expertise, experience and grace of a group that knows how to "receive the gift," it is truly one of the highest forms of the art we call music.

But perhaps the more beautiful aspect of this reality is that this same respect and appreciation of others transcends the music and is so clearly evident in the way most of these people live their everyday lives. I have never been more comfortable and at ease with new friends as I have at Galax. There is a sense of compassion and caring that goes beyond simple hospitality. It is a spirit of giving, even among strangers, that is wonderfully and gloriously unconditional.

And it is the biggest reason I for one keep coming back.

Jesus Christ must love bluegrass.

There's just no other figuring it.


For more photos of honest bluegrass, click here