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THE PLACE TO HAVE BEEN: Green Acres Music Hall
By J. D. Edwards (January, 2001)

As I read the slew of testimonials, my only reaction was devastating disappointment. Sure, I had seen the collapse threatening for several years, but that did little to soften the blow of losing one of my favorite places ever to see live music. The result of the whole situation is that the popularity of Steve Metcalf's Green Acres Music Hall has finally outgrown its small plod of rugged land in Rutherford County in Western North Carolina. And now the harsh reality appears that we may have lost it for good.

The testimonials to which I refer were an influx of responses appearing on Acoustic Syndicate's website concerning their recent Halloween debacle at those hallowed acres. Despite not being in attendance (perhaps fortunately), those letters painted a grim portrait of the events that took place on Saturday, October 28th at the tiny venue. In those grievances, concertgoers listed a string of complaints that turned what should have rivaled a religious experience into a terrifying lesson on mob-rule mentality.
The complaints detailed reports of near-riots, teenage punks picking fights with and showering profanities at unsuspecting victims, cars windows being smashed out to steal radios, cassettes, coolers of beer, lawn chairs and camping equipment and wreckers galore towing away improperly parked vehicles. One respondent even expressed her reluctance to fall asleep because of the ongoing melee. These occurrences frighten but do not surprise me because they represent the culmination of years of unchecked free-for-all at Pan's personal pasture.

I find this downward spiral especially disheartening because my most meaningful and profound musical experiences outside of Dead tour have taken place in those emerald confines. My first experience at The Acres occurred in the summer of 1995 when Leftover Salmon played their only show at the tin shed. I was instantly enamored with the venue's freedom, hominess, potential for spiritual communion and first-rate musicians in such unbelievable intimacy. Over the interim years, I have returned to those heavenly hills dozens of times for music that can best be described as the true symphony of the soul.
Most memorably on an autumn evening in 1997, Darrell Scott and Guy Clark teamed up to punctuate the overwhelming importance of singing and songwriting to folk and bluegrass, altering the way in which I perceive songs forever. Then, Sam Bush's personal purging of the soul that same year on the anniversary of former band mate Courtney Johnson's passing boldly demonstrated music's power to heal and recharge the frail human spirit. And I will never forget Duckbutter's Kenny Lee playing slide guitar solos with everything from drug paraphernalia to full-sized lawn chairs to one woman's willing posterior.
Bela Fleck's ambitious escapades into the perplexing realm of banjo jazz and newgrass always represented the pinnacle of his quartet's performances. And I was fortunate enough to take part in the inception and growth of some of the finest local bluegrass bands of our generation: Acoustic Syndicate, Magraw Gap, Larry Keel Experience and Snake Oil Medicine Show. For these incredible memories alone, anyone who has ever seen music there owes Steve and Niles (the land's owner) huge hugs of gratitude for recognizing the necessity for spiritual musical consecration and having the wherewithal and patience to cater to that need.

And it wasn't only the music that made Green Acres special; the post-show parties are equally legendary among local Bacchanalians. Among the hedonistic debauchery, I have witnessed two lovers who felt not the slightest compulsion to return to their car for an amorous encounter, preferring instead a captive audience. I have also seen crazed drunks jumping back and forth through a six-foot bonfire to the cheering satisfaction of a circle of stunned onlookers.

And nothing will ever match the surreal sight of being rudely awakened around dawn to the sight of a hot-air balloon hovering just above the line of vehicles, looking in vain for a place to land. And most significantly, the wee-hour campfire jams up on the hill were sometimes as entertaining as the shows, as additional pickers just seemed to materialize out of the dark woods. And the simple joy of the delectable barbeque sandwich I devoured at the last Sam Bush show just cannot be described with words (except to say that I returned moments later for another). I've had mostly positive experiences and met mostly kind people during my excursions down Pea Ridge Road, despite the all-night drum circles disrupting my sleep or a pilfered lawn chair here or there.
But I must be honest. Despite the fact that the music was unparalleled elsewhere, Green Acres must be the worst place in the Carolina foothills to camp. Oftentimes, finding a square foot of level terrain is eclipsed in difficulty only by finding the venue itself. The ground there is hard, uneven clay with a network of roots, rocks, branches and broken bottles to impede the most inebriated slumber. I've ruined more stakes than I can count trying to secure my tent to that sedimentary surface. The camping area is almost always too crowded to find a decent campsite without arriving at noon for popular shows. And forget about finding a sliver of available shade from the scorching heat.

At one end of the "camping area," yelping beagles receive similar accommodations to redheaded prisoners-of-war. At the other end, bands of disgruntled roosters refuse to honor biology and wait until daybreak to crow. Up at the main stage, the seating area consists of crumbling, splintering wooden theater seats and school desks that barely stand upright and leave sizable Popsicle sticks in the under thighs of their occupants. Additionally, the scant trash receptacles are usually overflowing long before the show's end, causing litter to get dispersed everywhere except where it belongs. And most egregiously, the lack of adequate port-o-johns quickly causes the few that are there to look and smell like they haven't been serviced since the venue opened decades ago.

Even the musical experiences haven't been consistently rewarding, at least of late. Over the last three years, I have returned to the venue less frequently because of several incidents. The first was David Grisman's performance during the summer of 1998. The normally laid-back Dawg nearly got into a shouting match with the audience because a few inconsiderate idiots utterly refused to show the musicians onstage the respect they deserved. In the end, Grisman played a shortened set that left his band and the audience with bitter aftertastes in our mouths.

The Bela Fleck and the Flecktones show in September of 1998 continued this trend. The show became so overcrowded that the main parking lot was closed off by two o'clock in the afternoon. Drunken revelers walked back and forth along a windy country road to get to the other camping lot, stumbling in front of passing vehicles and nearly losing their lives. The seating area by the stage was overrun with boisterous throngs of troublemakers who did everything except listen to the music. Eventually the large unruly crowd cost Steve the use of the second parking lot because of the inherent danger, all but guaranteeing that the Flecktones, or any big name acts for that matter, could never play there again.

So after 1998, I decided only to venture out to see local, less crowded acts like Acoustic Syndicate, which I did for their release party for Tributaries in May of '99. After that show went smoothly, I decided that the Syndicate's Halloween show that year would be safe to attend. The night proceeded as planned until I left the main stage for minutes only to return and find my recording equipment buried under a pile of school desks and my microphones turned completely backwards. Nothing serious happened thankfully, but the close call reminded me to never leave anything I care about unsupervised even for a few minutes out there. I began questioning whether it was safe to see local bands there anymore.

The only show I have seen this year was Sammy B's recent gig at the end of September. I didn't know what to expect, but I was determined not to let a few negative vibes destroy the joy and transcendence that Sam (along with several BBQ sandwiches) can achieve. Surprisingly, the show was not too crowded, and if there were any incidents, I didn't notice anything major. I began to believe that the trouble had passed- that these adolescent hoodlums causing all the negativity had already latched on to the next big thing.

But I was mistaken. Like any other piece of paradise on earth, there are too many individuals who want their piece and too little responsibility about how they get it. Word spreads quickly, and there is no fair way to weed out the "bad karma" set because they're paying customers too. And I don't think any Green Acres regular wants a precinct of country cops nosing around those sacred acres. So all that remains is a certain level of self-policing, but that is very limited in its effectiveness (i.e.- the offending party must have some degree of cooperation and accountability) and often creates situations that are worse than the original incident. Besides, most hooligans are beyond the point of engaging in rational discourse anyway.

So what can the conscientious concertgoer do to save those fabled fields from foreclosing forever? Some people on the web page suggested that Steve should raise admission prices or change all shows to twenty-one and over. Being over twenty-one and financially independent, I concur that that might be a good place to start. But some impoverished eighteen and nineteen-year-olds must appreciate Green Acres as more than a place to escape from mommy and daddy and Johnny Law. Do they simply lose out on the opportunity to enlighten themselves because they are too young or poor?

The web page also indicated that many young punks either didn't know who Acoustic Syndicate was or didn't care for their music if they did. Those are the true culprits that, if they haven't already, will spell the end of live music at Green Acres. So I am proposing that if someone can't name the band that is supposed to play and a few of their songs, then they absolutely, utterly and unequivocally do not belong at that concert and should be denied entry, no matter how much they are willing to pay. A bit unrealistic for sure but now so are future Green Acres concerts.