The Barn

As an outbuilding, it was so new that it hadn't been treated yet with stain or paint. When we first came to stay with Cynthia Dewick and David Gerbec at their Little House in Arden, you could still smell the fresh wood waiting to be cured by elements.  We sat with Cynthia and discussed the color she was thinking about staining it--a green to go with the trim of the house. The barn had been built by Amish men using the older methods and more secure connection of wooden pegs instead of nails. According to Cynthia, the builders sang as they built it. Perhaps that is what sealed its destiny as a music venue.

Our kids were the first people to sleep overnight in the barn in the blue swinging daybeds suspended from cables from the barn's high ceilings. Cynthia and David have a design sense that is at once sophisticated and casual--culled from magazines, a love of good typography, and travels in the Southern United States. Sitting on the swaying day beds, drinking good wine, if the motion overwhelmed us, we could catch our feet on the huge lacquered stumps of trees that were both coffee table and foot stool.

Joe del Tufo was the first to suggest that the barn be used as a house concert venue. Cynthia and David didn't quite know what this house concert deal was all about. But Cynthia approached a musician who was opening for an act at the Gild Hall, and soon she had booked Angela Sheik as The Barn's first act. From there, Cynthia has been able to book acts from all over the country. House concerts give musicians autonomy that few big venues can match. And the paydays aren't bad either; most places give them 100 percent of the house earnings. At $15-20 per person suggested donation, they can make more than they do in larger clubs that sometimes penalize artists if they can't bring in the crowds.

The Barn, photo by Joe del Tufo

Mark and I, living in Pennsylvania in the days before our Delaware dreams, didn't hesitate when we were invited to the first barn concert. I didn't matter that it was a weekday; we were there, driving the hour and half to Arden. We have been constants at The Barn shows, missing only one show in the three seasons of offerings. We have joked to Cynthia and David that they need to get engraved nameplates to affix to the backs of our chairs. We used to sit up front, but for the latest show, Keri saved me a seat on one of the the day beds, which are unhooked from their cables and set on the floor in the back to use as cushy seating for the shows. It is a different perspective seeing the show from the back. I got to witness the concert playing out on the faces of those three dozen lucky folks in attendance.

This past weekend, we were treated to the music of Matthew Ryan and the Northern Wires. Mark and I had heard Ryan play solo at Burlap and Bean, a coffee house in Newtown Square, PA, almost a year to the date of his show at The Barn. At that time, he was just returning to the stage from a hiatus, and he apologized as he stumbled on some of his own lyrics. While that, too, was an intimate listening room environment, it was a different concert than The Barn. Audiences in The Barn are leaned-in and primed for musicians' confessionals. It is as much a venue for story-telling as for song, and we always leave the place feeling as though we have been let in on a secret. Matthew Ryan was witty and self-aware as he referenced favorite poets Seamus Heaney and Leonard Cohen. He was coy when he revealed that he now lives in Beaver, Pennsylvania, a place name that is so lost on itself that residents fail to see the titillating double entendres in many of their town slogans.

Matthew Ryan performs at The Barn. Photo by Joe del Tufo

Then there is the music in The Barn. I am convinced that wood makes for honeyed sound. Something about the material adds richness to the vibrations. I've experienced it at The Gild Hall and heard tell of it when we toured Ryman Auditorium with its long wooden church pews. The amber lighting, a mix of bare Edison bulbs and mason jar candles, adds to the feel that you have stepped into back into a golden age before screens reflected blue light into our faces. At Ryan's concert, fabric artist Linda Celestian debuted a large artwork which acted as backdrop. The aquas of the curtains added another dimension. As did the band. Saturday night's concert marked the first time for a band, rather than a solo or duo act. As evidence, a huge van was parked in Cynthia and David's driveway, rather than the usual beater car of a traveling musician. They brought down the house and made Cynthia glad she preemptively told 84-year-old neighbor Ruth Bean to remove her hearing aids before she went to bed. After the show--in a continuation of the confessional and perhaps due to some celebratory Jameson shots-- we found out that band member Bones was the bass guitarist from Midnight Oil. Respect.

The Barn has ruined me for all other music venues. It is the place and the people, but it is also the music. If I had to reduce my CD collection to just the ones I bought at the shows--and one always buys the music offered out of the minstrel's suitcase--I would lead a well-soundtracked life. With Alternate Route's Nothing More and Barnaby Bright's Gravity, Angela Sheik's Run for Cover or Flagship Romance's Treason,  I could choreograph the rest of my days. Because it has no heating, The Barn only hosts shows in warmer months, and with the 2015 season open for business, I suspect that my CD collection will grow in spite of my current state of bliss.  To quote singer Susan Enan--Bring on the Wonder.

Snowtopia

March, and we are due to get our biggest snowstorm of the winter season. We are all so weary of winter. Not Boston weary. (Those poor folks.) Arden weary. Arden is a place that makes you confront the outdoors. We walk to our many local events because parking can sometimes be limited. We hike our woods, play on the Arden Green with our dogs, argue about when and in what form the playground committee is going to replace the sliding board on said green. And argue. And argue. Because being outside is important to us. 

So snow? How does nine inches of stuff impact life in the village? Our streets are more like camp roads in the summer, no sidewalks. We have a single crew of native sons in a truck with a plow attachment taking care of all our tight, vegetation-and-rock-lined roads. If you can catch them on their rounds and throw them a little extra coin, they will take care of your driveway. Mark has been resistant to do so. He takes his shovel and gives our huge, looping driveway all he has in his tank, which is enough to move 3/4 of the snow which, in turn, is enough to get our cars in and out. While he is doing this, I making a huge pot of tomato soup using a recipe from our high school cafeteria. Believe it or not, school cafeterias made homemade soup back in the day. Kids loved it, and I have been asked time and time again for this recipe. (My Uncle Ken  got the recipe upon his retirement as a teacher.) Great for a winter’s day, but even a scaled-down, cafeteria-sized recipe is too much soup for Mark and me as new empty-nesters. No matter. That is what Arden is about.

Out of out window,  we see our friends with their dog. They are out on walk, taking photos of the untouched beauty. I wrangle them inside in spite of protests that they are all snowy and that their dog is going though his rambunctious teen years. (Let our old man pug deal with him.) After we feed our friends unsolicited soup and grilled cheese and send them on their way, I deliver more soup to neighbors. We are waiting to hear if the evening’s concert at the Gild Hall will go off as planned. The Arden Concert Gild  and the musicians they attract there are subjects for a whole other blog entry. Suffice it to say, we have great and talented musicians from all over the world coming to entertain our village and that the whole enterprise is run by volunteers. Tonight’s offering is a sold out concert by Jay Farrar, a folk rock singer of the band Sun Volt. 

It’s on! The opening act has canceled due to weather and been replaced by a super secret act. Arden folks are encouraged to walk or carpool due to the snow. Being less than a half mile away, we walk and are surprised at just how light the world looks at 7:30 at night when it has snowed. We have to be careful. The roads are narrow, and when cars come, we don’t have much room. A friend of mine observed that you can differentiate Arden folks from out-of-towners at a concert by their footwear. Tonight I am wearing hiking boots with removable Yak Trax which accessorize beautifully with my all gray ensemble of knit dress, leggings, and chunky cowl.

photo by Joe del Tufo

I am music appreciation novice. I don’t listen to much radio, preferring audio books. But now that we are in Arden, I am being introduced to all kinds of live music. We go to more of the offerings than not. Why wouldn't we? When you can walk to and from the concerts? The hall is abuzz with the news of the opening act. Some people, those who volunteer, are in the know. They lord it over the rest of us while we get seats and go to the bar for Dogfish Head beers, sold for $3 because they are one of the concert gild’s sponsors. Our friend Larry has sneaked bourbon cherries inside sandwich baggies and offers us tiny cocktail forks to fish out the really super-soaked specimens at the bottom of the bag. The trick is not to stab the bag. 

The moment of truth arrives, and we are treated to the musical stylings and hip shakes of Rhett Miller. Those who are familiar with his work gasp and cheer at the “get”. His gig was cancelled at the Queen in downtown Wilmington tonight, so this worked out perfectly (for us). It turns out that our friend Cynthia was instrumental in this deal. She had already been making some secret deals of her own with Rhett, trying to get him to come to her barn, site of its own concert series, to riff with some local musicians in an after-party. 

photo by Joe del Tufo

The man starts playing, and I am an immediate fan. I can’t speak to Jay Farrar. After the energy and raw magnetism of Rhett, Jay’s voice and music puts me in a trance. It makes my mind wander. I cannot focus.  The number of encore songs he performs are lost on me. The buzz of bourbon-soaked maraschino cherries has long since worn off, and I’m ready for the after-party.

This is when we find out that Rhett has bailed on that front. He has an early morning flight to the west coast, but the local artists still want to hang and play. We walk another quarter mile to our friends Cynthia and David’s barn and help them set the stage with votive candle in assorted jelly jars, pillar candles in Ikea lanterns, and the essential plugging-in of the disco ball. They have never had a musical event in their barn in the winter. An exception was made for Rhett. Also for Rhett—a requisite bottle of Jameson, which we quickly avail ourselves of while waiting for the space heater to do its magic. 

Snow-covered creek in Arden Woods

What ensues is glowy and boozy and a little blurry around the edges. It involves lounging on pillowed sofas in the round, shaking percussion on dubious beats, and the ill-conceived passing out of harmonicas. A musical slurry with some good, honest, homegrown music at the center of it. It’s about 2:30 when Mark and I stumble out of the golden glow and into the silver glow to walk home. The moon is full and directly overhead, lighting all of the snow-covered branches and the still-white streets. It’s a school night, except that the local district has already cancelled school for the next day. Mark decides he will take a vacation day tomorrow which is today. We remind ourselves that the last time we were out and about this late at night, we were taking our daughter to the emergency room. (For that story, see the blog entry entitled Rebels and Ice Cream.)  When we arrive home, we discover that our driveway has been completely cleared. We find out later that Denis, one of our neighbors to whom I brought soup, finished our driveway and also helped open up who-knows-how-many other neighbors’ driveways with his snow blower. He has a new lease on life after finding out this week that his cancer is in remission.
After we wake mid-morning, have a big breakfast out, and take an achingly beautiful hike in the woods, another neighbor returns our soup container with homemade pecan layer bars inside. She is newly retired with time to bake. We are tired and sore from navigating the snowy terrain. A pecan bar never tasted so good.

Oh, yeah. I am so ready for spring I could cry, but if winter keeps giving us gifts like this, I can hold out for a little while longer.