Jared May

In the past two years I have stumbled onto a great musical outlet that I never knew existed. Quality music is often hidden. All over the South there are body shops and barber shops, and even the occasional country store, where once or twice a month the "closed sign" goes up promptly at five o'clock and people of  every age pull up and unload worn fiddle, guitar and banjo cases and play music for their favorite three hours of the month.

Those are the places that I knew. I played in those places for much of my life. I knew that there once were coffee houses and tea rooms where people got together and played songs with simple chord progressions and complex, profound meaning.

I thought those places were only somewhere far off, San Francisco, maybe New York.  I had no idea that they could be found with fifty miles of the horse lot. These venues give an opportunity to hear extraordinary music.

Unfortunately I have come to realize that while all of the places are good, it is only those who serve no alcohol that are great. The only thing worse than trying to hear good music while drunken laughter explodes from the next table is to try to play good music under those circumstances.

That is why I love the tea houses. There is always a variety of musical styles presented and it is in such an environment that one realizes that apples cannot be compared to oranges. For example, John Westbrook is, hands down, the best western performer that I have ever heard--great musician, clear, clean voice and first rate song writer. And his talent is best appreciated when viewed as a western musician. Tony Mata is a amazing jazz guitarist and his talent is best recognized in that genre. If one asks which of the two is the best, then one is asking the wrong question.

Jared May's voice is the best voice that I have ever encountered. It was only when I heard him in the quiet of a tea house with a sober audience that I had the chance to appreciate his talent. It is a perverse twist of fate that he does not have a much wider audience. More than most of the performers his age, he understands the importance of the lyrics. He does not drown them out with violent assaults on his guitar strings. He plays his guitar. He does not punish his guitar. His guitar notes walk in softly behind the lyrics and politely take a seat where they won't create a disturbance.

I would not exactly say that I am jealous of his voice--but I am as close to jealousy as a grown man should be. I wish that I could write words like Steve Earle. I wish that I could play a guitar like Doc Watson. I wish I could fill a stage with my presence like Levon Helm.

And I wish I could sing like Jared May.

If you see that he is going to do a set anywhere around, drop what you are doing and get over there. (Unless the performance conflicts with the time of a funeral in which you are one of the pall bearers. If so, go on to the funeral, walk real fast with the casket and then hustle on over the catch the last song or two that he does.)

You will be glad you did.