I was 22 years old in the summer of 1977, about to start my senior year of college at the University of Northern Iowa at Cedar Falls. I had been working part-time at the school’s radio station KUNI for more than three years, longer than a lot of the full-time staff. I pulled 30-hour weeks of largely DJ work, most of which was on the weekends. This was no low-power college station going out to dorm rooms; we were 100,000 watts of clean FM power covering most of eastern Iowa. It was fairly early in the National Public Radio era. We were still absolutely commercial free and could do as we pleased. There were some underwriters, but nothing obtrusive.
At KUNI, we had classical music each morning but were known for specializing in folk music. Why? Because our station manager liked folk music. In fact, each weekday afternoon we had more than three hours of it! From 2-4 p.m., we aired a record show called Folkways. Later in the day, after All Things Considered, we did another 90-minute show featuring bluegrass. Then the African American community would take over for two hours of soul and funk on Nationtime. The night would conclude with several hours of current rock and whatnot on a program called Progression.
The music for these shows was all selected by the announcer, a fact that stuns current radio broadcasters into stupors of envy. I still occasionally come across an errant playlist of mine stuck away in some music book – songs that I aired during one of my lengthy late night shows. I now find these unearthed lists of songs simultaneously humorous, heartbreaking, and usually on-target – at least for their time. I got into radio for one reason: music. And I was able to play my fill on KUNI from the spring of 1974 to the late fall of 1978. I was lucky to be there at an extremely fertile time.
By 1977, the station was getting some grants for special field recording projects. There was a folk festival to be held at Mole Lake in upper Wisconsin, and the boss wanted it recorded. My partner and I loaded up the car with a high quality Nagra reel-to-reel machine, some microphones, and blank tape. Off we went, not dreaming that an August weekend in Wisconsin might require something more than shorts and a T-shirt. Turns out, weather would not be our biggest surprise.
We arrived the day before the Great Northern Bluegrass Festival started and had a major culture shock. Never before had I seen such dire poverty. The roads within the Mole Lake Indian Reservation were mere dirt ruts; the houses were tin or cardboard shacks; everything looked worn out and broken. In the midst of the reservation was a large field with a raised stage at one end. There were designated areas in the surrounding woods for both trailer parking and tent camping. I was glad to be staying at a hotel some 20 miles away. We needed a getaway from the long and pretty intense days. Although I had been an active camper during my Boy Scout era, this was not the same. Even before we left the festival grounds each night, things were getting loud in the camping areas with alcohol-fueled fun and fights.
But the thing that I remember most vividly was that, in the midst of this economically depressed situation, the federal government was putting in concrete sidewalks. Sidewalks! When there was no real street for miles around – only serpentine cow paths where cars slowly drove. With just a cursory look, I could have named a dozen things that this reservation needed before sidewalks. “Don’t worry about the government,” says David Byrne, but he wasn’t there.
Despite a location set far into the northern Wisconsin territory, the festival had booked some known names – both country and folk. Doc Watson was there, Lester Flatt’s band performed, and several local groups. Most of the big name acts were from the southern United States, and I could tell that I was not alone in being irritated by the cold nights. Doc Watson played late on the first evening. He was continuously aware of the time remaining in his set, undoubtedly eager to return to the relative warmth of his tour bus. Still, Doc put on a solid show and the crowd loved it. At one point he said, “Well, it’s a pretty cold night for him, but let’s saddle up that ‘Tennessee Stud,’” then proceeded to play the song in stellar fashion.
Doc’s son Merle was with him, as usual. I interviewed Merle Watson briefly, but he was more interested in chatting up the local girls who were inviting him to a party. Still, he answered my questions about record labels and album obligations without haste or hesitation, explaining that their contract at the time called for an album a year. The one time I tried to speak to Doc Watson, he cut me off and told me to “go find Merle.” That’s fine – Doc needed Merle’s eyes. Merle Watson was killed a few years after this festival, when a tractor ran over him. Doc would later say how he could never have been able to tour had Merle not been there to help with all aspects of the road. Thank you, Merle Watson, for delivering Doc to us!
Lester Flatt and the Nashville Grass headlined the second evening. The steel-guitar player said that holding his instrument’s silver bar “was just like hanging onto a piece of ice all night.” I’m afraid that I didn’t appreciate Flatt’s set as much as I should have. First, I was behind the stage, recording – not able to see the performance – and second, the scales had not yet truly fallen from my eyes about the brilliance of some country music.
The next day, I was told by several audience members that this had been an exceptionally good night for the veteran performer. “Why?” I asked. “Because Lester didn’t once leave the stage during the entire set,” I was told.
At first I thought they were joking, but they weren’t. These were devotees who had already seen the man perform several times that summer. This was during Lester Flatt’s later days, when health problems were sidelining him during shows with some regularity. He would often need to go into the wings and rest for a bit as his band played-on.
I recall seeing Mrs. Flatt backstage, dressed in opulence, as if she herself were going to perform – aging elegance incarnate. But I felt badly for her as she looked very concerned all the time her husband was on stage. When I learned of his declining health, I understood. At the far end of the age spectrum was teenager Marty Stuart, virtuoso sideman for Flatt in the 1970s.
By the time of this Mole Lake gathering, folk and bluegrass festivals had been big for over a decade. Even so, I was still enthralled with the whole idea of being at a festival. And being there to record the music made me feel like a useful part of the scene. Woodstock was a full eight years over and done with, but its shadow remained a long one. The title of this piece bears witness – we must have said that line every three minutes: “By the time we got to Mole Lake, we were half a million strong,” an intentional variation of Joni Mitchell’s tribute to the Woodstock festival.
I don’t recall a lot about the other bands, except for one local group opening with a hot, bluegrass take on the Beatles’ “I’ve Just Seen a Face.” There were the typical show business elements that are not especially fond memories – self-important organizers chief among them. We also had problems getting some of the performers to sign-off on broadcast rights for the recordings we were making. Doc Watson consented without hesitation, but some of the lesser names wanted to hear the sound mix on the tapes before signing and really gave us ego-trip troubles. We had finally taken enough lip from one guy and said, “Hey! Doc Watson trusts our mix. Are you a bigger star than Doc Watson?” This shamed the performer into signing. I forget who it was, and that’s probably for the best.
The late banjo-player Eric Weissberg was also on the bill, still getting bookings from his 1973 hit “Dueling Banjos,” an instrumental duet with Steve Mandell. The number was featured during a famous scene in the movie Deliverance. In fact, Weissberg named his backing band Deliverance, although he seemed a bit embarrassed by the whole thing. Prior to his unexpected success with “Dueling Banjos,” Weissberg had been a first-call studio musician, recording with performers from Barbra Streisand to Billy Joel. He also occasionally did film soundtrack work. But I didn’t search out Eric Weissberg to talk about Billy Joel or “Dueling Banjos” or soundtracks. I wanted to ask about his work backing Bob Dylan on the Blood on the Tracks album. Weissberg was tolerant, but not enthusiastic about our conversation.
The afternoon had warmed up considerably. As we began to talk, a couple of his band members looked on, bored. I began to ask my questions when he interrupted me: “I have sort of a thing I say to interviewers, and if this doesn’t cover what you want, then we can speak in specifics.” I agreed, of course, and he recounted his work as a studio musician. He told me that after Deliverance was released he got a phone call from his agent, telling him that “Dueling Banjos” was racing up the chart. Weissberg couldn’t believe it and thought it was a put-on, having been given no idea that it was even being released as a single. He acknowledged the hit as a fluke, but he was understandably making the most of it while he could by playing live dates.
Eric Weissberg’s biographical overview was fine, but what about Bob Dylan? Why did Bob call him to play on Blood on the Tracks, and what’s the connection? Weissberg told me: “I met Bob in the very early 1960s, when I was at school in Madison and he was en route to New York City for what I think must have been his first trip there. I didn’t think he remembered me, so I was surprised when I got a call to play on a session for him. The whole thing was odd from the start. I didn’t know if he wanted just me, or if he wanted me to bring my band. So, I brought the group along.”
Weissberg’s responses became slower and more thoughtful; I was now entering into non-standard interview territory. I asked him if it was a pleasant, relaxed session or if there was a lot of tension in the room: “I’ll tell you: It was the strangest recording session I have ever worked on. Bob barely ran down the tune to us and then we were recording it. Then the engineers immediately backed up the tape so he could hear it. And while they played back the song we had just recorded – loud! – Bob was running down the changes for the next tune to us. At the same time! I had never seen anything like it. Completely unorthodox studio method. I didn’t really enjoy the session, and I can’t imagine that Bob enjoyed it.”
Eric Weissberg and Deliverance appear on one song on Blood on the Tracks, “Meet Me in the Morning.” So, when he mentioned chord changes for a second tune, I immediately asked about it: “As I recall, we did two songs – the one that shows-up on the album and one other. Seems like it was a blues, but I can’t be sure.” He was correct; the other tune was, in fact, “Call Letter Blues,” which would later be released by Columbia in 1991 on the first of The Bootleg Series albums.
I asked Weissberg if multiple takes of either song had been recorded: “I think we did each tune once. Then we packed up and it was over.” For years, it was thought that only a single take of “Meet Me in the Morning” existed. But in 2012, an alternate take of the song was issued as the B-side of Dylan’s single “Duquesne Whistle.” Weissberg’s memory was evidently hazy on this point, but what was clear to me was his lack of interest in dwelling on the specifics of this date.
With the interview concluded, I thanked Eric Weissberg for his time, and he departed. Then, after their boss was well out of ear-shot range, members of his backing band chimed in with force: “That session was an absolute joke. Weissberg was being nice about it. Dylan got so drunk that Eric had to re-string his guitar for him when Bob broke a string. And it wasn’t even good stuff — he was getting smashed on Ripple or some cheap-o crap.”
These guys had been there and were clearly not impressed. Anger in their voices, not one among them the least bit in awe of Bob Dylan. They sounded disgusted. I don’t know which band member was making most of these proclamations, but all were in agreement: It was a bad night. I tried to question them more about the date, but they had said their peace – everybody hated it.
The All Music Guide lists Deliverance’s personnel for live dates during this era as: Steve Mandell (guitar), Charles Brown (guitar), Tony Brown (bass), and Richard Crooks (drums). Clinton Heylin indicates that Weissberg, C. Brown, T. Brown, and Crooks played on the Blood on the Tracks sessions. But to repeat, I don’t know for certain who made these pointed remarks that afternoon. I do know that the live show Weissberg and these guys gave was as hot as anything the Great Northern Bluegrass Festival saw that year.
It did seem that Eric Weissberg had been taking the high road in our conversation, although he was clearly still frustrated when recalling the experience. He had reasons. Weissberg had never seen anything like it — had never been part of a recording experience run in such a manner. And this assessment from a professional studio musician who had played on hundreds of recording dates.
That was pretty much it. Later that night, the Mole Lake event ended and we began our long drive back to Iowa, largely drained of festival mystique. It had been a good time, often a fun time, but nothing to romanticize. And people hating on Bob! Go figure.
As we drove through the cold Wisconsin night, I saw in the distance what appeared to be a major forest fire. The flames were spread over several hilltops. The fire was miles away, but clearly outlined against the dark sky. I wanted to drive toward it for a closer look but was told that was a stupid idea. True, of course.
Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about that fire, even years later, and how beautiful it had appeared. Like the dangerous flames which had attracted me, I also escaped largely unscathed from my experience with a music festival. I saw up close some unpleasant business elements, social problems, and personality quirks. But I returned to Iowa largely undaunted – still the un-singed optimistic concerning the regenerative powers of live performances and of Music itself.
POST SCRIPT: What happened to those reels of music from the 1977 Great Northern Bluegrass Festival? Most of them were broadcast at least once on KUNI FM, but after that they seemed to drift away. This is odd, in retrospect, because I made myself safety copies of just about everything at that time. But not these. Because they were played over the air in a well-publicized special, air-check copies from the broadcast could be sitting in somebody’s Cedar Falls, Iowa, basement on cassette tapes. But where the master reels went, I don’t know. Over the ensuing years, I have asked former and current employees of the station to keep an eye out for these tapes, but they have not been found. That’s OK – they would be nice to have, but … perhaps anticipating their eventual return is even better.
Tom Wilmeth is a freelance writer who lives in Grafton, Wisconsin — former home of the Paramount Records label. He is the author of ‘Sound Bites: A Lifetime of Listening’ (Muleshoe Press, 2016). Available at Amazon.
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