by Mitch Greenhill

As I tiptoe deeper into my ninth decade, I find myself peering over my shoulder at the years behind me. I guess that’s normal – I have more to look back on and less to look forward to.

A couple of recent events have brought these reflections into sharper focus. Both of them involve playing music with and for friends, colleagues and fellow enthusiasts. That’s something that I’ve done for nearly 70 years. Not sure how much longer I’ll be able to do it, so its pleasures feel dearer than ever. I can still work my way around a guitar neck, not as fast as a half century ago, but perhaps with more purpose and intent. My voice has lost its earlier tenor range, but I’m finding much to explore in its lower regions.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to play guitar behind Jack Landrón. Jack’s characterization of the event as his farewell concert is the subject of some debate, but a full house at a friendly church in Santa Monica was determined to witness the occasion. Several people drove some hundreds of miles to attend.

I’ve been playing guitar behind Jack, on and o , since 1961, when he brought me to Detroit as his accompanist and opening act. Even earlier, at age 16, I gave him a few guitar lessons. Back then he was known as Jackie Washington, and he was a hot commodity in the East Coast folk music world. After the Co ee Gallery in Detroit, we played the Second Fret in Philadelphia, the Club 47 in Cambridge, the Hibou in Ottawa, and a host of other musical sanctuaries.

Now both of us have lost a few hairs and gained a few pounds. But thankfully, we are still able to communicate through song. A musical thread – along with a personal one – still binds us.

Some weeks after Jack’s concert, I found myself on stage with pianist Dave Holt, my old bandmate in The Frontier. That was a resolutely local band based in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco. In the late 1960’s and early 1970’s we performed up and down the West Coast, in funky honky-tonks and august universities. After the band broke up, Dave and I performed some as a duo, including on a cross-country jaunt that climaxed in Rosalie Sorrels’s recording sessions for her album Whatever Happened to the Girl That Was. (When Rosalie passed in 2017, she and I had been making music together – on albums, in concerts, or after one of her sumptuous meals — for over 50 years.)

For these recent gigs, I asked Dave to join me in a group that I call Mitch’s Kitchen. I think of each its members as a dish in the meal that I am preparing for the audience. The audience in these Northern California venues was largely comprised of people from my generation. That means that they were dancing and toe-tapping to these tunes back when Dave and I first teamed up. The history in the audience was as strong as the history on stage. Dave and I could feel the connection with them, as well as with each other.

How does that happen?

Adding up the years, my musical bonds with Jack and Dave cover more than a century. That’s a lot of music. And when you make music together, there’s a give-and-take that rewires your brain. When it works, a deep connection is formed. No one and nothing can take that away.

It feels great to be playing music like that, with a level of personal respect and friendship that feels as intimate as family, even if we get together only now and then. I call that “good music.”

Sometimes it doesn’t work; we call that “bad music.” And sometimes it used to work but, for one reason or another – deteriorating skills, loss of focus, whatever – the spark is no longer there, or is harder to rekindle. Let’s call that “lost music.” I imagine we’ll all wind up in the land of lost music at some point, groping around for that missing G chord.

In those early days of playing with Jack or Dave, we would leave the bandstand full of energy. The music gave us a jolt that carried on to post-gig activities. We would go out for a drink or an early breakfast. We would put the moves on ladies in the audience. We would troop over to somebody’s home to play more music or to look at an interesting guitar or to listen to a new record.

These recent gigs, by contrast, left me physically exhausted. All my energy had been spent on playing the music and sending it out to receptive listeners. I’m grateful to be able to do that much, and I’m determined to keep on doing it for as long as it sounds good.

I loved playing with Jack and Dave. They are my friends and musical partners. We hugged as we said goodbye. At Jack’s concert we hugged on stage, after Jack gave a brief recap of our long relationship.

But even more than the people with whom I’ve formed musical partnerships, there’s another relationship that has guided my life. Through it all, the music itself has been a constant and nourishing companion for all these years. In a sense, music has been my best friend. It has comforted me in sad times and celebrated with me in happy ones. Even though I’m no longer a diligent practice of scales and arpeggios, music is with me every day. At night, when I drift o to sleep, a tune is always running through my brain. It’s something that I can count on, without thinking.

My relationship with music has outlasted a slew of others. I think it’s here to stay. As I’ve heard tell, you can’t make new old friends.