The Thousands

Jam sessions are events where musicians come together to show off in front of each other (read: masturbation contests). Old-timey jam sessions are different. There is as much listening as there is playing. There are no puffed-out chests, only hunched-over shoulders. It’s a cooperative effort instead (read: circle jerk).

This uncompetitive spirit is the reason why the old-timey jam sessions at the Lomond are as tight as an old man’s anti-embolism stockings, despite consisting of unrehearsed, word-of-mouth musicians. Every Saturday night, they put aside a few chairs at the Brunswick pub and pull out their fiddles, banjos, guitars, harmonicas, double basses, mandolins and ukuleles (did I forget to mention the washboards? Good, I meant to). While their slowed-down hoedowns lack the propulsion of bluegrass (that racket is too avant garde), these old-timers can still get it up. Anyone is welcome to join in but if you can’t keep up with their energy and drive, leave your instrument in its case and keep your eyes on your feet. Them feet be tapping, boy. Them feet ain’t got no choice.

All of the tunes follow a two-part structure: a “coarse” section (rhythmic) followed by a “fine” section (melodic). It is the natural flow between these two parts that gives the music its perpetual rolling feel. As a result, the old-timers will often repeat the same tune for over half an hour without even noticing. This is a testament to the hypnotic power of old-timey music. It is also an early sign of dementia.