Bill Monroe, David Grisman, Richard Greene, Clarence White, Jerry Garcia, Vassar Clements, Tony Rice, and countless others all have Peter Rowan in common. It is said that he was born with a guitar in his hands, which must have been uncomfortable for his mom, but lucky for his soon to follow brothers.
When I Was A Cowboy
He’s a fixture, shining brightly, at every festival and has been for years immemorial. He can’t play a bad set. His songs touch bottom in the deepest places. He’s smiling, warm, and, at this point, downright avuncular, or whatever the grandfatherly equivalent is.
Stay thirsty, my friends.
The Free Mexican Airforce
He’s the kind of guy who brings his guitar everywhere and, also, brings his own campfire, with the sound of the river off in the darkness. We get to sit around, occasionally joining in, and enjoy the trips he takes us on. Old timey, bluegrass, newgrass, tejano, reggae, rock and roll. His old friends are ours. He’s sharing his stories and his moments and his and ours are all getting mixed together. He follows a trail he’ll continue on until all that is left is a cloud of dust and a faint, Hi Ho, Silver.
So many songs, so many performances, so many records, so much great feeling. And, don’t forget the yodeling.
Before All The Streets Were Paved