This week, punk music photographer Chelse Warren takes us into the pit. We hop a tiny train to discover the miniature wonders of a West Virginia model railroad. Then, we journey to eastern Kentucky, where they’re reclaiming their bootlegging heritage – along a new moonshine trail.
This week, punk music photographer Chelse Warren takes us into the pit.
We hop a tiny train to discover the miniature wonders of a West Virginia model railroad.
Then, we journey to eastern Kentucky, where they’re reclaiming their bootlegging heritage – along a new moonshine trail.
You’ll hear these stories and more this week, Inside Appalachia.
Over the summer, Mason Adams visited a two-day DIY music festival called The Floor is Gone.
In the middle of it all was photographer Chelse Warren, who goes by Openhead Takes Photos online.
Mason reached out to talk music and more.
Tiny Train Trouble
The Kanawha Valley Railroad Association got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in 1998. The county commission gave them some money to build a brick-and-mortar clubhouse. Members decided to use the new space to build one big, permanent model train layout.
Credit: Zack Harold/West Virginia Public Broadcasting
Along with trees and candy canes, trains have become a symbol of the holiday season. Think: the Polar Express, or Santa-themed excursions on local railroads. And generations of people grew up hoping to find electric train sets under the tree on Christmas Day.
These days, model train sets are enjoyed by grownup collectors and hobbyists.
Folkways Reporter Zack Harold visited a model train club in West Virginia and brings us the story.
Beyond Bourbon In The Bluegrass State
Kentucky is known for its bourbon. But that doesn’t mean it’s the only liquor with a history in the state.
A group of distillers wants to attract more visitors to eastern Kentucky by focusing on its historic ties to moonshine.
Shepherd Snyder has the story.
Remembering Travis Stimeling
Travis Stimeling, a musicology professor and the director of the Bluegrass and Old-Time Bands at West Virginia University (WVU), died on Nov. 15. They were 44.
Stimeling was a big figure in Appalachian academia, and played an important role in establishing the Appalachian Studies and Appalachian Music programs at WVU. Stimeling spoke with Inside Appalachia several times.
In 2021, Caitlin Tan interviewed Stimeling about a book they edited called, “The Opioid Epidemic and U.S. Culture: Expression, Art, and Politics in an Age of Addiction.”
In memory of Stimeling, we replayed that interview.
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Our theme music is by Matt Jackfert. Other music this week was provided by Collective Action, Dimension Six, Gaol, Sultry, Sean Watkins, Hurlbut-Kaukonen, Tyler Childers, Steve Earle and Gerry Milnes.
Bill Lynch is our producer. Zander Aloi is our associate producer. Our executive producer is Eric Douglas. Kelley Libby is our editor. Our audio mixer is Patrick Stephens.
You can send us an email: InsideAppalachia@wvpublic.org.
Lots of folks have picked up new hobbies and passions during the pandemic, like knitting or growing a garden. In Harlan County, Kentucky, a 20-year-old punk musician turned to the banjo. And that led to a search for a 97-year-old banjo maker.
Everything I Was Doing I Couldn’t Do Anymore
Southeast Kentucky is home to a vibrant punk rock music scene. Bradford Harris is the guitarist and lead vocalist of the punk band L.I.P.S. of Harlan. They used to play out a couple times a month, but had to stop playing live shows because of COVID-19.
Courtesy of Bradford Harris
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Bradford Harris plays guitar with their punk band L.I.P.S at a show in Harlan, Kentucky. Harris started booking shows at 12 years old.
“All I’d been doing was booking shows and touring and playing with bands,” Harris said. “And then everything I was doing, I couldn’t do anymore.”
Without an outlet to play loud punk music, Harris recently started playing old-time music. In this part of Kentucky, it’s common for punk musicians to also play old-time. And during the pandemic, Harris started messing with the banjo.
“It wasn’t until this year that I actually really started appreciating it,” Harris said.
One day, Harris was looking up tunes on YouTube and came across a video of someone talking about making banjos. Harris’s dad, Steve, runs the woodshop at the local community college. So Harris got the idea that the two of them should build a banjo.
“I’m not an instrument-maker,” Steve Harris said. “I’m a cabinet and furniture guy.”
To figure out how to build a banjo, they ordered a kit from the internet, and pulled out the family’s set of Foxfire books to reference the chapter on banjo-making. Then the two of them got to work.
Courtesy of Bradford Harris
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Steve Harris (left) and Bradford Harris (right) showing off the first banjo the two of them built together. Steve’s father and grandfather were both carpenters, so Steve has been passing on the family trade to Bradford as they’ve been building banjos together.
“He knows so much about woodworking that I can’t even fathom to know about,” Harris said about Steve. “And I know stuff about instruments that he wouldn’t even consider.”
The two of them built their first banjo this past summer, and they haven’t stopped since. Harris even quit a job at a local car wash to focus on building banjos. They’ve joined online banjo-building forums and Facebook groups, and they’ve connected with banjo players and makers from around the area.
The Search For Al Cornett Harris stumbled upon one of their best sources of instruction while using a sander at the shop one day.
“Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a banjo neck hanging out of the shelf,” Harris said. “And I was like, ‘I will worry about this later. I just saw something cool.’”
Courtesy of Bradford Harris
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Tools that were handmade by Al Cornett, who was the resident luthier at Southeast Kentucky Community & Technical College in Cumberland, Kentucky before retiring in 2013. Bradford Harris uncovered the tools one day while working at the college woodshop.
Harris went to investigate and uncovered a stockpile of handmade tools, banjo templates, and detailed, handwritten notes about building instruments. They had been left behind by a man who used to work in the shop. His name was Al Cornett. Cornett retired years ago after working at the college as an instrument-builder and teacher.
“He would write down things that I would have never thought about. You could tell he was writing down years of experience. And his drawings are superb,” Harris said. “Although he hadn’t been in that shop for 15 years, he’s been one of the most monumental people in me learning how to build.”
Harris knew that a luthier had previously worked in the shop at the college, but didn’t know much else.
“I had just heard about him,” Harris said. “And somebody was like, ‘I doubt he’s still alive.’ And I was like, ‘Well, I mean it’s worth checking.’”
Harris started asking around the college to see what people knew about Cornett and where he might be. All anybody knew was that if Cornett was still around, he was probably in his 90s. Undeterred, Harris posted on social media, looking for more information.
“And somebody was like, ‘Yeah I know, Al. I go check on him every now and then.’ And I was like, ‘This is it. The search begins,’’ Harris said.
With confirmation that Cornett was in fact still living, Harris was determined to meet him. Finally, after several weeks of searching and trying to get in touch with Cornett, Harris was able to visit with him. They sat down in Cornett’s living room, and a friend, Will Major, recorded the meeting on video.
“How old were you when you started building instruments?” Harris asked on the video.
“I started in 1977,” Cornett said.
“So you said you first started building dulcimers?” Harris asked.
“I started building dulcimers, yeah,” Cornett said. “I have the first one I built.”
Courtesy of Bradford Harris
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Al Cornett sits in his Cumberland, Kentucky home, playing a banjo built by Bradford Harris. Cornett primarily made dulcimers, but also built other stringed instruments, such as banjos and mandolins.
During the visit, Cornett talked about his experiences as a luthier, and he shared some tricks of the trade with Harris. Cornett even talked about some of the more challenging projects he worked on, like the one time he built a fiddle.
“I worked seven years on a fiddle,” Cornett said.
“Have you made more fiddles than that one?” Harris asked.
“No, I quit after this one,” Cornett said. “It takes too long.”
In pre-pandemic times when punk shows in southeast Kentucky were still going loud and strong, Harris would not have thought they would be tracking down someone like Cornett.
“If you would have told me a year ago that I’d be playing old-time music and doing this old-time history stuff and going and meeting old banjo players and stuff, I would have been like, ‘No, probably not,’” Harris said. “But I also wouldn’t have thought there would have been a pandemic.”
Harris is eager to book and play punk shows again, but for now at least, they’ll keep making banjos. And Harris is grateful to have had the chance to thank Cornett in person.
“I just felt that it was important for this rad 97-year-old man to know that somebody is carrying on this tradition in the same workshop that he was,” Harris said.
This story is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia and the Folklife Program of the West Virginia Humanities Council. The Folkways Reporting Project is made possible in part with support from Margaret A. Cargill Philanthropies to the West Virginia Public Broadcasting Foundation. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts, and culture.
From West Virginia Public Broadcasting and A Change of Tune, this is 30 Days of #WVmusic, the interview series celebrating the folks who make the West Virginia music scene wild and wonderful.
And today’s interview is with an Appalachian acoustic punk rocker who isn’t afraid to sing about hills, pills and unpaid bills. This… is Sheldon Vance.
<a data-cke-saved-href=”http://sheldonvance.bandcamp.com/album/northbound” href=”http://sheldonvance.bandcamp.com/album/northbound”>Northbound by Sheldon Vance</a>
How did you start playing music?
I started playing solo after almost a decade’s hiatus from music. I spent almost all of my teens and twenties traveling around the country with my old band on DIY tours. When that fell apart, I became disheartened and all but gave up.
But there was an ember that would never die. My wife bought me an acoustic guitar and all but shoved it into my hands. Then a lifetime’s worth of influences and experiences started to come out in song in a way they never did when I was in a band with an amp blasting behind me.
Credit Amanda Miller
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Sheldon Vance
Songs started pouring out, and for the first time in my life, I was writing songs and lyrics that I was truly proud of and knew meant something. And without any intention of going for a particular sound, the music I heard growing up was showing itself in these new songs, including the Appalachian music, gospel, old country and bluegrass that my parents played on the stereo and my dad walked around singing.
I’m not sane or healthy if I’m not playing music; I found that out the hard way. I have to play in order to have a healthy, happy life. I have to have my voice, and songwriting gives me that.
Why did you use your own name to play and perform music?
I tried using a band name or stage name because I was afraid of people thinking I was egotistical. I just couldn’t get past thinking it would be weird to have my given name on shirts and such. But using stage monikers just confused people and muddied things up. So after some prompting from friends and family, I started using my own name.
How has your sound changed over time (if at all)?
I went from full-on, fast, hardcore punk to playing acoustic. It seemed like a big shift, and it was, but I still incorporate some of that energy and spirit into my stage performance even now. I’ve had to learn to embrace the subtleties and differences and not approach everything like I used to in a band. This is a different beast, with its own beauty and merit. I have to let it be what it is and get out of the way sometimes and let the songs and their spirit shine through.
What’s been the highlight of your musical journey thus far?
It’s not any particular show, but the highlight for me is when people started singing my songs back to me on stage. Especially at the all-ages shows, the young kids have so much heart and energy, and they’re there for nothing more than the music. I’d walk away from the mic and down off the stage, singing right into their faces, and they’re singing right back… I’m smiling, and they are too.
I put every fiber of my being into my songs, and they’re a part of me. And to have someone think enough of something you created that they would remember the words, then for the crowd to shout them back to you? I’ll take that to my grave. That means something.
Credit Alexis Faye
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Sheldon Vance
What’s it like making music in West Virginia?
There’s plenty to write about growing up here. I came from Logan County, and hard times were the name of the game. I think those experiences are common here and around the country like any human experience. But locally, there’s little subtle things that us West Virginia musicians pick up on and can rally around. It’s an honest common thread.
Do you feel held back by being in West Virginia? Or does it feel like a musically-supportive place?
There are a ton of roads that lead out of the state if you want to grow your music elsewhere. But it’s a good home base. I’ve never felt like living here specifically held me back; I’m the only one guilty of holding me back.
When me and my friends were younger, there were no bands coming to West Virginia we wanted to see, and we couldn’t get into bars. Instead of crying about it, we put on our own shows. We rented out school gyms, unions halls and community centers, and we booked bands and did our thing. You can’t use where you live as an excuse as to why nothing is happening. Make it happen. You can do it. I’ve seen it done.
There aren’t a ton of venues, but that makes for a more tight-knit scene. You get lost in the mix in bigger cities, and I’ve experienced that firsthand. When you come from a small town like I did, you appreciate the hell out of the bands who come to play on Saturday night. In bigger markets, they have bands playing all the time, and they get jaded.
Credit Amanda Miller
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Sheldon Vance
What, in your opinion, needs to happen in the West Virginia music scene for it to move forward?
Maybe just a touch more unity. It’s getting better, and artists do support one another for the most part. But I do feel like there are folks who hold back on showing the love a little. I think they’re afraid people will confuse their showing support as deferring to someone. But as it stands, I see things moving in a really positive direction more than it ever has.
What’s your advice to anyone starting to make music?
Write honest, real songs. Write about what you know. Mean what you say. Be humble, kind and gracious. Play each show like it might be your last because it very well could.
Sheldon Vance’s latest release is Northbound. Keep an eye (and ear) on his social media for tour dates and new releases. Hear more #WVmusic on A Change of Tune, airing Saturday nights at 10 on West Virginia Public Broadcasting. Connect with A Change of Tune on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. And for more #WVmusic chats, make sure to go to wvpublic.org/wvmusic and subscribe to our RSS / podcast feeds.
Support for 30 Days of #WVmusic is provided by Kin Ship Goods, proud supporter of DIY music and the arts. Locally shipped worldwide at kinshipgoods.com.
