Smokin’ ’Grass

That the Del McCoury Band has been able to maintain its place at the forefront of bluegrass while achieving sainthood among the tie-dye set is a testament to the respect the McCoury family commands. The hardcore bluegrass community, after all, isn’t known for its receptiveness to outside influences, let alone twirling, angel-winged, hula-hooping freaks. (Stan Strickland, DMB’s manager, sums up bluegrass insularity this way: “How many grassholes does it take to screw in a light bulb? Seven: one to change the light bulb, six to stand around and say, ‘Why in the world would you try to improve on a candle?’ ”)

But despite musical provincialism—and the bizarre image of five squeaky-clean, suit-clad, good Christian men headlining hippie festivals that might as well be the Gomorrah Hedonodome—the links between the bluegrass and jam-band worlds are entrenched, and it makes a certain amount of sense. As many who’ve stepped through the looking glass can attest, there are few sounds as psychedelic as a finger-picked banjo—it’s practically the sonic equivalent of misfiring synapses. For four decades now, trippy electric guitarists from Jerry Garcia to Trey Anastasio have been adapting bluegrass banjo techniques to their instrument. And hybrid bluegrass acts such as Béla Fleck to Sam Bush have long nurtured followings in the tie-dye set. But never before has a straight-ahead, hardcore bluegrass act been so welcomed into the fold.

The bluegrass/jam-band connection isn’t lost on Del McCoury. “I played once in Virginia at a bluegrass festival,” he recalls, “and just before I left, David Grisman came up to me and said, ‘I want you to meet my new banjo player.’ And it was Jerry Garcia [who at the time was playing banjo with Grisman in Old and in the Way]…. He told me, ‘You know, I wanted a job with Bill Monroe. I wanted to be a Blue Grass Boy too.’ ”

Of course, back in 1963, when Del himself joined Monroe’s Blue Grass Boys, it’s doubtful he had the slightest notion that 45 years later he’d be performing in front of thousands of the great unwashed, standing center stage as women bare their breasts at him and billows of the kind bud waft overhead like the Smoky Mountain fog.

But it’s a welcome surprise for the 68-year-old singer, who fronts what is widely considered the premier bluegrass band of the last two decades—since 1994, DMB has been voted the International Bluegrass Music Association’s Entertainer of the Year nine times. And this New Year’s Eve, the group—including Del’s sons Ronnie on mandolin and Rob on banjo, along with fiddler Jason Carter and bassist Alan Bartram—are the focal point of a show at the Ryman that will shine a spotlight on their long, strange trip: Del and the boys will play a traditional set, then will be joined by Leftover Salmon’s Drew Emmitt (mandolin) and Vince Herman (guitar) and Phish’s Jon Fishman for (bluegrass snobs, avert your eyes) an electric set. Steep Canyon Rangers open the show, and bluegrass artist Ronnie Bowman (and perhaps a few surprise guests) will also partake in the celebration.

The DMB’s full initiation into the jam-band world took place on July 18, 1999, during Camp Oswego, a festival in upstate New York hosted by Phish. DMB had been invited to play at a side stage, but Phish pulled the bluegrass band onto the main stage in the middle of their headlining set in front of 65,000 screaming fans.

“I didn’t have an appreciation for how massive Phish was at that time,” Strickland says. “I didn’t think it was going to work. Phish just stopped in the middle of the set, brought ’em out, and they played a very traditional set for 15 or 20 minutes. And they’re just having a great time. And Del, to his credit, is just up there doing his thing. But he’s getting sort of lost too, because that’s the first time we’ve had bare-breasted women in the crowd. You don’t have that at traditional bluegrass shows.

“That’s happened a few times now,” Strickland continues. “We were at Irving Plaza a few years ago, with Donna the Buffalo opening…and that was the first time I saw Del just completely lose it. Because all of a sudden here’s a very bosomy girl, she gets excited about the show, just flashes him, opens her shirt. And Del completely lost his place. And Jim Bessman was sitting up there with Ethan Coen. And he just had to start over and apologize to the crowd. He said, ‘If you folks had just seen what I saw, you’d have lost your place too.’ And so it’s become common. I think it’s gotten out that it rattles Del.”