Mountain Jam
There's Gold in Them Hills (Non-fiction) (Based on a Prompt)
This is my submission for this week’s Stories from the Jukebox prompt, Mountain Jam by the Allman Brothers Band. Thanks to MJ Polk and Bob Beatty from Long Live the ABB. Bands in bold type. Song titles and lyrics in italics.
A lot of my stories touch on music, so for this prompt, I almost ran a story I first posted back on June, 16, 2025 titled Elixir - Music Moves Mountains.
I thought it would fit nicely but it’s a little too long, and when it comes to music… and mountains… the stories go on forever.
The neighborhood I lived in as a child, was located a couple of miles from the base of a small mountain.
I later lived on top of that same mountain.
A creek meandered through our neighborhood and then spilled over a waterfall about a mile downstream.
Back in 1979, I attended a music festival in the woods near those falls. The headliner that evening was Louisiana’s LeRoux, on tour promoting their hit single New Orleans Ladies.
My friends and I spent most of our free time in those days rambling around on mountain roads while listening to artists like the Marshall Tucker Band and the Allman Brothers.
The searing guitars of the Allman Brother’s long instrumental Mountain Jam, and the dreamy lyrics of the Marshall Tucker Band’s song Fire on the Mountain fueled a bevy of aspirations for me and my pals.
There’s fire on the mountain, lightning in the air, gold in them hills and it’s waiting for me there.
I just didn’t realize at the time, how prophetic that line would turn out to be.
These days, I live near another one of the mountains at the end of the Appalachian chain.
For years, that mountain hosted a cool little Hippie Fest in the woods, with a stage set up in front of a large boulder at the bottom of a naturally sloping bowl. It wasn’t quite Red Rocks, but it was quite a serene scene to check out live music and get close to nature.
Watching the Charlie Hunter Trio work their magic on a crisp fall afternoon was nothing short of sublime.
Seeing Zach Deputy rip it up under a cramped pavilion full of dancing wooks, as a frosty rain cascaded down, is another cool memory of that small mountain jam.
A couple of years before the pandemic, My wife and I attended a show in the high-altitude Chautauqua community above Boulder, Colorado. The show was staged in an old wooden auditorium next to the Flatirons, the massive sandstone formations fronting the eastern slope of Green Mountain.
After a brief opening set from Satsang, Trevor Hall took the stage and wowed the crowd with his fusion of reggae and roots rock.
In keeping with the mountain theme, one of Trevor’s most well-known songs is the stirring anthem, Green Mountain State.
The fans were seated for most of the show, but the slow simmering groove eventually took hold and got everyone up on their feet and raised the old wooden roof.
A crabby group of joy-killers sitting in the row directly behind us were not at all happy about the arena-wide dance party and eventually left in a huff.
I tried to offer up a few encouraging words on their departure… something along the lines of ‘See ya’ later alligator’ or ‘After while crocodile’ but Jodie’s dancing had me hemmed in.
The show ended on an ethereal note with the crowd singing along to a soft, hushed version of Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide as the lights dimmed.
A lump-in-the-throat rendition that had fans reaching for the tissues.
An emotionally touching end to a scorching night beside the Flatirons.
The Flatirons
Trevor Hall in Tennessee performing his song Green Mountain State
In late 2021, just as the pandemic was finally and mercifully ending, another show across the country proceeded to take our breath away.
A concert deep in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina featuring The Hip Abduction and Joe Samba, led to an explosion of joy unlike anything I had ever witnessed.
The crowd in Asheville, North Carolina, that evening, wasn’t the largest or loudest I’ve ever experienced, but it was by far, the happiest.
From the time we arrived you could just tell.
There’s something in the air tonight.
After spending months hunkered down, far away from the lights and the stages, music fans were chompin’ at the bit to get out and cut loose. And, that is exactly what they did that night in Asheville.
The room was on fire.
That entire show bordered on bedlam.
And, damn… it felt good.
Scratch a mountain… and you’ll find music.
In the East, the people of the Appalachians latched onto the roots of Irish music, fused it with early American Blues and Jazz, then added in a little mountain spirit, to form Bluegrass.
While in the West, the long legacy of legendary live musical performances at Red Rocks, one of the world’s premier venues on the edge of the Rocky Mountains, lives on.
Something special happens when you mix musical melodies with cool mountain air.
It turns magical.
Like mycelium.
Mycelium is nature’s underground network of highways, connecting all types of living things.
Music has a similar feel.
All of those songs, live shows and mountain jams swirl their way up into the atmosphere, crossing mountains, oceans and continents, linking music fans together into one big happy family.
Back to that mountain I grew up on.
One of my mother’s long-time neighbors was a local singer-songwriter named Albert Simpson.
One of Albert’s early gigs, was in a band named Highly Kind which featured Duane Trucks on drums. Duane is the nephew of Butch Trucks, and the younger brother of Derek Trucks, both of the Allman Brothers Band.
The Allman Brothers were an absolutely amazing live band. A sturdy group of phenomenal players all operating on the same wavelength.
Derek Trucks is now carrying the torch.
He and Susan Tedeschi’s band, the Tedeschi Trucks Band, is widely considered one of the world’s best bands.
The very first show my son attended was a Tedeschi Trucks Band and Trombone Shorty show at the Alabama Theater in downtown Birmingham.
That show in that beautiful hall, sent him straight down the all-encompassing rabbit hole of music.
And, he’s never looked back.
The same thing those old rock songs did for me many years ago.
I have traversed this country’s musical kingdom from one end to the other.
From St. Petersburg to Mission Bay, with plenty of stops along the way.
From a music festival on a mountaintop next to a waterfall, all the way to a music festival on the edge of another mountain some 40 years later.
Those two mountains sit just 20 miles apart.
But, in between those festivals, sits an entire lifetime of music.
I guess the Marshall Tucker Band was right.
There was gold in them hills… and it was waiting for me there.
Thanks for Reading!
Please check the archive for my other stories.
"Scratch a mountain… and you’ll find music." Amen Marty!
I've never experienced a live event like you describe, Marty. I'm not comfortable in crowds. But I admire the way you have followed your passion over the years. Music does bring people together.