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He was the last of the old line, the rag end of whatever Johnson started.

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Or he would have been. Something happened fourteen years ago, in Boone, North Carolina, to change the story. Joe Thompson was an honored guest and a featured performer. Many of the attendees had come expressly to see him.

Among the scholars and the players and the scholar-players were three passionate young revivalists, black musicians who had been getting lost in the old stuff. Two of them were multi-instrumentalists: Justin Robinson, from the mill town of Gastonia, North Carolina, had studied the violin since childhood, and Dom Flemons, at the time still living in his native Arizona, had already begun turning himself into an old-fashioned songster.

They were walking around and, for the first time, seeing people with faces like theirs who were digging, and making, the kind of music they loved. The third musician, a twenty-eight-year-old singer from Greensboro, was starting to experiment with stringed instruments. She was picking up new instruments. Thanks to a job as a hostess at a Macaroni Grill, where her duties included singing old Italian arias, she earned enough to buy a ninety-nine-dollar Chinese fiddle and her first banjo, a Deering Goodtime. Conway told her that Joe Thompson was still playing and that he would be performing in Boone.

It was the first of many meetings and conversations throughout the past four years, a running discussion about the origins of the music she draws from, a style that she transforms in her playing, and which has been an obsession of mine for twenty-five years. That day, I started by asking her to describe Thompson. When Giddens and Thompson met, at the festival, Giddens mentioned that her grandmother Armintha Mint Morrow, who helped raise her, came from Mebane, too. The trio called themselves the Carolina Chocolate Drops. The formation of the band was inseparable from these pilgrimages.

In playing with Thompson, they were learning to play with one another, and in reading his human songbook they established their own repertoire. Giddens watched his hands. It was, How did he engage with them? You just have to absorb.


I asked her to tell me about Greensboro. I have spent a lot of time in the city—my in-laws live there—and its vagueness has always struck me as compelling. Regionally speaking, it does not signify , even for people who are otherwise somewhat familiar, at a distance, with North Carolina. Charlotte folks sort of know it. Wilmington is the beach. Asheville is the mountains. Winston-Salem is cigarettes and the Moravians.


What is Greensboro? It has a lot to do with who I am. Because of the cultural mix here. She loves it. The food is unpretentious and Southern. It represents Greensboro, blacks and whites together. Theirs was a rare interracial marriage in a city where, cultural diversity aside, the Klan murdered five civil-rights activists in The years after the divorce were complicated enough that Giddens spent the first eight years of her life in the country, in Gibsonville, North Carolina, with her maternal grandparents and her older sister, Lalenja.

But Giddens dismissed the idea that her life was defined by a two-sidedness. When Giddens was eight, she and Lalenja moved back to Greensboro, to live in a house with their mother. Giddens, who was gifted at school, describes her younger self as bookish, withdrawn, not very social or popular. She says that she was a nerd, and the details she offers in support of that leave one unable to argue.

The first issue had Mario 2, and it had all the characters rendered in clay.

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So I started making all of these characters out of clay. Her family recalls that she sang constantly. In the car, they would listen to Peter, Paul and Mary. She took the harmony she had learned with her father and practiced it with Lalenja. The two girls would sign up for talent shows, but their parents would not let them audition with their voices, so they did karate demonstrations instead. We wanted to sing Whitney Houston!

Greensboro boasts a first-rate youth choir, which was overseen for more than thirty years by a local music teacher named Ann Doyle.

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It was with the choir that Giddens had her first public experiences with performing music. In the cafeteria at Kiser Middle School, Giddens hung out for half the year with the white girls and then for the other half with the black girls. Then at the end of the year I started hanging out with the guys. In high school, she became active in a group called Akwe:kon, which was dedicated to Native American culture and, more specifically, to its music and dance. She has never tried to claim a tribal affiliation, but she grew up with people calling her Pocahontas.

When I go to a powwow, I know what it is. When I hear that drum, I feel very connected. They shook things up by being black, of course, but, more important, by reminding people that the music itself was black—as black as it had ever been white, anyway—and by owning it accordingly. They remind a person of the Pogues, which made a statement about the continued relevance of traditional Irish music just by showing that it could be played by punks.

In the early days, the Chocolate Drops played coffeehouses, busking on street corners. They noticed that people were initially drawn to them by the novelty of the sight but would stay for the songs. It lasted less than a year, but their influence on each other as performers was enduring. He used to stop in the middle of a song to talk. That they would be drinking from the bucket. This was something else. This was the well.

photos: jan e watson

After Giddens finished, there was silence, and then a standing ovation. Within a few months, she was in L. A couple of years ago, I had lunch with Giddens in New York, shortly after she had returned from doing a concert for the prisoners at Sing Sing. Giddens told me that, on principle, she has no problem performing for mostly white audiences.

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The prospect of gaining a wider, and blacker, audience is, one imagines, always an option for Giddens, who could, if she really wanted to, cut a pop record and presumably ascend to a higher sales bracket. But she has been unwilling to compromise her quest, which is, in part, to remind people that the music she plays is black music.

Demeanor, a rapper who also plays the banjo. This threw me into the comical position of trying to sell her on the genre. On a rainy evening in , I visited Giddens on the set of the show, in an industrial-looking studio building on a remote road at the edge of Nashville. Earlier in the year, the show, which was originally broadcast on ABC, had been cancelled, but, after an outcry on the Internet, CMT picked it up.

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    The singing birds can wake spirits or grant sleep to mortals. While our riding one day, Pwell Lord of the Kingdom of Dyfed, saw a gorgeous woman dressed in gold and riding a white mare.

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