Tony Rice's new The Bill Monroe Collection shows how the music style Monroe invented endures.
In 1953, Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass music, was driving home to Nashville in the early hours of the morning with his bass player and girlfriend Bessie Mauldin. According to Richard Smith's 2001 Monroe biography Can't You Hear Me Calling, Mauldin noticed there was a vehicle coming towards them, and told Monroe, "Bill, he's coming into our lane, get over."
Monroe, though, was having none of it. He was in the right lane, by God, and there was no way he was going to let some random idiot run him out of it. "Let him get over!" he said. Seconds later, they collided. Mauldin wasn't seriously hurt, but Monroe broke 19 bones, including his spine, and avulsed one of his eyes out of its socket. Even so, he got himself out of the wreck, walked around to Mauldin's side of the car, and pulled her free of the wreckage. After he was taken to the hospital, he was in a body cast for three months.
Bluegrass remains relevant not because it's a pure repository of ye olde tradition but because, to some extent, it isn't.
Monroe, in short, was a stubborn, stubborn man. Bluegrass, the music he created, has been stubborn too; a rough-hewn bone lodged irremovably in country music's smooth pop larynx. Last September marked what would have been Monroe's 100th birthday, and his music stands alone among the mélange of early country styles that were current when he was performing in the '30s, '40s, and '50s. Western swing, hillbilly boogie, honky tonk, rockabilly, blues, old timey -- they're all been assimilated into a largely undifferentiated substratum, barely audible under country's dominant blend of retro-pop and retro-rock. Only bluegrass remains a coherent subgenre, and as such, a touchstone of authenticity. When Patty Loveless wanted to show her rootsy bona-fides a couple years back on her Mountain Soul II album, she naturally gravitated to bluegrass, covering (among other things) the traditional, Monroe-associated "Working on a Building" in the company of reigning bluegrass king Del McCoury.
Del McCoury himself released an album this past October called Old Memories in honor of Monroe's centenary. As you'd expect given McCoury's reputation as the most prominent keeper of the bluegrass flame, it's an extremely, even excessively, faithful set. McCoury, who played and sang with Monroe briefly in the '60s, nails the master's high, lonesome tenor vocals. His band, too, could have stepped right out of the '40s, with a scraping, old-timey edge that makes the music sound tightly wound and ready to snap rather. Playing tracks like "Close By" and "Girl in the Blue Velvet Band," I kept forgetting that I wasn't listening to the original Monroe recordings.
That might have pleased Monroe, who, as his determination to stick in his lane suggests, liked things to be done the way they were supposed to be done. Still, bluegrass as embalmed period piece is not exactly in Monroe's spirit. Now that the genre has become the icon of all things authentic and traditional, it's easy to forget that the music was originally a syncretic innovation. Monroe and his bandmates (like the brilliant banjoist Earl Scruggs) combined elements of old timey and hillbilly music with the drive, energy, and soloing structure of then-modern jazz. Alan Lomax called it "folk music on overdrive."