No. 137 - Jerry Douglas’s “Intro” changed my life

Nick Rubin on the transformative, infectious joy of a 1992 music festival

Apr 17, 2026

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• 4 min read •

In 1987, I was a bookish but irreverent high school senior in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, with predictable music tastes: the Beatles; college rock; some jazz and classical. This being the peak of “new age” music, Michael Hedges and George Winston also made the mix, and one day, I bought a record that looked to come from that soothing realm: Rounder’s New Acoustic Music Sampler. The tracks were indeed acoustic, but earthier than the Windham Hill stuff — less candlelight; more campfire. My favorite, the burbling “Intro,” came from 1982’s Fluxedo, by dobroist Jerry Douglas.

At college that fall, on my maiden pilgrimage to Philadelphia’s Tower Records (a total wonderland — it had a freaking escalator), I found Fluxedo. I loved it, and while I still mostly listened to the Feelies, New Order, Replacements, etc., I kept exploring Douglas’s catalog. His new album, Changing Channels, was gauzy and boring. But 1979’s Fluxology had the refined twang of Fluxedo alongside bluegrass standards like “Wheel Hoss.” It burbled, but it also ripped.

After graduation, I moved back to Winston. I fell in love and got my heart broken, badly. I felt dissolved, nullified — I couldn’t compute, could barely speak.

One late winter day, a letter came from a college friend, written on the back of a flyer for the Merle Watson Memorial Festival, happening in Wilkesboro, just an hour up the road. Amid the sprawling lineup, he had circled one name: Jerry Douglas. Three-day student tickets were $18, so I xeroxed my ID and sent a check for $36, and on the last weekend in April 1992, my high school buddy Andrew and I headed to Wilkesboro.

Douglas’s set was sweet indeed, but just a morsel within a weekend-long feast of mind-blowing chops, impossibly tight vocal harmonies, and sheer exuberance. No mumbling slackers disavowing their entertainer status; uncomplicated, unabashed entertainment was the point. Riders in the Sky’s corny-clever cowboy schtick included fucking lasso tricks.

Imbuing everything was host Doc Watson, manifesting kindly country cool, albeit with a poignant cast, having lost Merle, his musical partner and son, just seven years earlier. Watson, blind since childhood, was led onstage over and over to sit in with Ricky Skaggs or Peter Rowan, or to play a set of his own — cuing solos with a quick “Pick it, Ricky!” “Tell ‘em about it, Jack!” And whenever he said “Lemme get one,” he tore it up.

The crowd utterly adored Doc. I adored Doc. And I adored the crowd — everyone radiated pure pleasure, and the joy was infectious. When virtuosic freak Mark O’Connor steered a solo fiddle piece into a blazing cyclical riff resembling Terry Riley, the guy in front of Andrew and me leaned towards his friend and drawled, “Bill, I think we lost ‘im.” We cracked up, and he turned, grinning, pleased as punch. While the audience was as racially homogeneous as you might suspect, a palpable kinship united good ol’ boys and soccer moms, barefoot farm kids and barefoot preppy-hippies — NASCAR and NARAL, living in harmony.

The communal ethos extended to practical matters: when the gates opened each morning, folks spread out their blankets and camp chairs in front of the stage. But it was understood that when they broke to have lunch or wade in the nearby creek, you could borrow their spot, even sit in their chairs, until they returned. Andrew and I perched a lot that weekend, and on Sunday afternoon, as the crowd started heading home for good, we moved way up front, sitting next to a couple young dudes who had driven from Canada — from, like, Manitoba. This wasn’t their first fest, and while I was excited about the band setting up — which included Tony Rice, Bela Fleck, Sam Bush, Mark O’Connor, Jerry Douglas, and Mark Schatz, all of whom I knew from the Rounder compilation — they were ecstatic, immediately yelling “‘Whitewater’! Play ‘Whitewater’!” explaining that it was a ripper off Fleck’s album Drive that featured most of the players onstage. We watched in wonder as these six wizards took turns picking songs and singing lead, playing 100% off the dome at 100 miles an hour. About three tunes in, Tony Rice pointed at the crowd and said “Somebody out there yelled ‘Whitewater.’” And they destroyed it. Holy sheep shit.

I felt transformed by the festival — by the music, yes, but even more by the sense of communion, of a great society. I didn’t give up the Velvet Underground, but for the next five years, I went deep into bluegrass history, hosted a bluegrass radio show, hit more festivals. Bluegrass fans talk about their conversion experiences, and the 1992 Merle Watson Memorial Festival was undoubtedly mine, born of a seed planted five years earlier, a song with a prophetic title. ◆

Postscript: The videos are available by pure serendipity; North Carolina Public Television had filmed the festival, subsequently airing a series of performances and eventually compiling a two-hour movie called Pickin’ for Merle.

About Nick

Nick Rubin lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. He runs a tutoring company; co-hosts a community radio show; plays music; and wages war with creeping Charlie and Japanese stiltgrass.

Instagram, X, Bsky @nickvrubin

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