Old Hands
Old Hands
The Story behind Yonder Mountain String Band's Old Hands Tour Poster
Shoal Creek Country Music Park, Lavonia, Georgia — Late 1960s.
Slowly biting into a piece of fried chicken, the juice runs down my chin onto my scrawny, sweaty chest. A steamy summer breeze swirls around me, kicking up dust devils.
I take a swig of lemonade and shoot a glance over to a big slice of ice cold watermelon sitting in the cooler. Still sticky from a previous slice (as a pre-chicken appetizer), I contemplate another.
The sun is slowly sinking behind the hills, bringing much needed relief from the day's heat. Still soaking wet from chasing crawdads in the creek, I eagerly await what is to come next. The main event. The big show; what I've looked forward to all week.
Twinkling fireflies and strings of glowing multi-colored 40 watt bulbs crisscross the small, packed outdoor venue. Rows of weathered and warped benches, groaning from the weight, stretch in long crooked lines across a dusty, red clay hillside. They're showing their age, as are many of the people they hold.
The crowd resembles an evangelical revival tent full of devout believers waiting for the second coming. Anticipation is in the air, the congregation ready. The lights go down.
Cheers and hoots ring out, filling the night air. The stage, now bathed in ethereal blue light, is quickly filling with musicians in simple matching suits and ties, greased back hair under cowboy hats, cradling the tools of their trade.
The MC strides out, his Nudie suit ablaze in sparkling light. In a low southern drawl, he introduces the band. It begins.
Slow wailing sounds of a fiddle gather steam, whining like an old tomcat gearing up for a night of courtin'. The stand-up bass picks out the rhythm of a slow moving locomotive chugging its way out of the station. Banjos and guitars pound in tempo, music is rising to a crescendo, suddenly the melody breaks into a full run. The crowd, clapping in time, jumps to their feet. The Orange Blossom Special is leaving the station.
Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys have us under their spell. Buck dancers flood the space in front of the stage, stirring up billowing clouds of dust. I stare in awe, goosebumps on the back of neck, a snaggle-toothed grin on my little face. I take another bite; the escaping juice carving fresh paths on my dust covered chin. A piece of watermelon never tasted so good.
Growing up in a rural North Georgia home filled with music, Mom, Dad and I attended country, rockabilly and bluegrass shows since before I could walk. They saw Bill Haley & His Comets, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis shows in a local gym while Mom was pregnant. That might explain my affinity for rebellious, rowdy rock & roll.
Considering myself very fortunate, I got to see most of the country megastars of the 60s and 70s. Hee Haw was a religion around the house. Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, Porter Wagoner, Dolly Parton, Flatt and Scruggs, the Osborne Brothers, Stringbean, Grandpa Jones, Roy Clark, Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, Buck Owens, George Jones and Tammy Wynette, all showed up on the stages we visited.
Elvis and many others made appearances on our little black & white TV set late into the evening as I sat glued to the couch. Eagerly, I consumed it all. I still remember Mom singing as I drifted off to sleep, the console stereo beneath my bedroom pumping out cry-in-your-beer songs.
We had little extra money, but going to shows and music always found a place in our home. Of course, in the early 70s, as I grew into my pre-teen years, my interest turned to loud rock and roll, much to my parent's chagrin, but they understood. At one point, they had been there too; when rock & roll was born. I got to witness it come of age.
January 2003, a blustery, wintry day in Athens. I was downtown dropping off posters to Josh Moore of JOMO Productions. Often, I would hang around and talk about music, upcoming acts and other things he had going on at the Georgia Theatre and 40 Watt Club.
No longer working in the corporate world, I was doing promotional posters for the bands he was booking; Rev Horton Heat, Iggy Pop, Patti Smith, etc., mostly the punk and alternative stuff that was coming through town.
The conversation somehow drifted to my love of bluegrass music and his eyes lit up. He asked me if I would do a poster for a band out of Colorado he had booked at the Theatre next month. It was Yonder Mountain String Band. Never heard of them, but I said yes, sure. It might be fun. He told me they weren't your traditional Bluegrass band, often doing covers of Pink Floyd's music and other rock songs.
Ok. Cool. I could throw a Blacklight poster at them. Maybe they would dig it. I went home to the studio, pulled up some music online and listened. I was an instant fan.
Designing the poster for the Theatre show, I used an old pic of Stringbean Akeman, aiming to print it in day-glo colors. I sent a comp off to the band's management for approval. Shortly thereafter, I got a call from their manager saying the band loved it.
He said that they were excited and honored to have me do a poster for them. Huh? Come again. Honored? He told me he had my Widespread Panic posters from Colorado shows framed in his office. I couldn't help but feel humbly awestruck. It had never registered with me on the reach that some of my previous posters had made.
I wasn't blind to the whole jam band market, I had been doing posters for Widespread Panic for a few years, but I was so heavily invested in my punk rock world I did not pay attention. Stupid me. I had many close artist friends that worked in that scene heavily; I had no excuse.
The night of the show, Judy and I made our way to Athens, with the gig posters bundled under my arm. As I approached the theatre, a line was forming at the door.
When people saw me with the posters, they started nudging each other, saying "the posters are here, the posters are here". Ok; what's happening?
Once we were inside, a small group of fans surrounded me as I approached the merch table. The merch guy graciously thanked me as he hung a poster and started selling as a line formed. They were moving like hotcakes.
Interested, I stood back and watched. Unbeknownst to me, the management had sent out a notice to their fans that I would have posters available at the show, thus the reason people were being so receptive.
Yonder took the stage and impressed me beyond belief. At one point, while looking over the cheering crowd, seeing so many people holding posters, I looked at Judy and said, "I'm a fucking idiot. We're in the wrong market." To which she started laughing and gave me an "I told you so" look. I had another shot of whiskey or two.
After the show, as we were waiting to settle with the merch table, Jeff Austin, the mandolin player, came over, shook my hand and gushed about the poster. He was so gracious. What a great guy.
Years later, sitting in a late-night coffee bar on Jam Cruise one night, I got to explain how much him saying that meant to me and the direction it lead me to take with my gig poster career.
In 2003, we started vending festivals with our interns. I had a booth at Harvestfest and was settling into the new environment. The jam band scene, and fans, were really into posters. It felt great being accepted so readily. We were building our fanbase.
Yonder played the Main stage, but was also doing a late night jam (that lasted until 4:30 in the morning). At some point, a fan handed Austin a mason jar full of moonshine. The band members passed it around, emptying the jar. He then asked if anyone had any weed, to which a shower of joints, nugs and baggies rained down on the stage. The crowd erupted into laughter. The band carefully picked it all up and filled the empty mason jar.
Harvestfest being a success, I traveled home feeling pretty confident in doing work with the band. It was time to design that tour poster.
Dad wandered into the studio with a glass of his homemade iced tea in each hand. It was a ritual when he came to hang out. As he passed me the glass, I looked at his rough and calloused hands. They had been through a lot in 66 years. Covered with scrapes and scars, they had stories to tell.
An idea started forming; the creative muse smiled. Yonder had themed the new tour based on their album "Old Hands". The image jumped into my head. I knew exactly where a set of old hands were to be found and exactly what to do with them.
Later that week, I wandered back to dad's work shed behind the studio. I spied a set of legs squirming in the dirt under a tractor. He heard me approaching and slid out from underneath, face covered in dirt and grease. I lovingly called it his war-paint. It always made me smile, watching him tinker.
I asked if he would model for a poster I had in the works. He grinned and looked at me a little strange. I explained the band's music to him and the concept I had in mind. He couldn't resist. A big smile shone on his face. I rounded up what we would need for the shoot; my camera, and a mason jar of moonshine from my stash.
A mischievous character, he always had a twinkle in his eye and a devilish grin on his face. Dad was a force of nature who had spent his whole life working with his hands. A butcher by trade, he was also a prolific farmer with multiple massive gardens on the property.
Being a handyman, he was also an expert (maybe that's a stretch) at building and fixing things around the house and property. Some of those fixes were hilariously comical and dangerous. We called it Jimmyneering, much to his amusement, and our often wary distrust and amazement at his solutions and wonky creations.
The photo shoot was a lot of fun. We spent the time laughing and joking around as I snapped pics. Once finished, he lifted the jar to his mouth and took a swig. My dad was not a drinking man, so this caught me a little off guard. Handing it back to me, I did the same. We both broke out into laughter.
He headed back to that old tractor, and me, back to my studio to start the poster. It was the only time I shared a drink with him. Years later, as I look back on that day, it still brings a smile.
The art came together nicely. Front and center on the poster was dad's hands holding a jar of shine, inspired by that night at Harvestfest. It was a hit with the fans and the band.
For me, the poster held a much deeper meaning. It was a tribute to my dad's mischievous spirit and hardworking nature. It was also a reminder of the special bond we shared.
With that poster, he became more than just an important part of my life; he became a part of my art.
He asked me for a copy of the poster to hang in his shed next to the chicken pen. He fashioned a rough lumber frame (with no glass), glued the print to some cardboard and onto the wall it went.
It was rustic, but true of his nature. It hung there for many years gathering dust, smoke stains from the many fires in his wood stove, buckled from the Georgia humidity, covered in greasy fingerprints from when he would pull it off the wall to show his friends.
On March 20, 2020, the day the world went into Covid lockdown, he passed away suddenly from a heart attack. He had turned 82 years old a few weeks earlier.
Still numb, I was wandering around the farm later that afternoon, trying to make sense of it all. It seemed the world was going to hell all around me.
In a week, Dad has passed away. The industry had cancelled all my work in the foreseeable future. The world was grinding to a halt and I have an 80-year-old grieving mother to console and take care of.
I went into his shed and saw the tattered Old Hands poster on the wall. Time had taken its toll. What remained after 17 years of being exposed to the elements was barely hanging in there.
Tears welled up, a smile came to my face, and I broke down. I took the remnants of the print and quietly sat in his old rocking chair, reliving the memories of that photo shoot, his pride in helping to make that the print, how proud he was of me for never giving up on my dreams.
I believe being an artist creating music posters is about documenting moments in time for people. It's an honor to draw the face on events for bands and fans.
The Old Hands poster documents a cherished moment in time for me. Every time I see that poster, I'm reminded of the fun loving, kind soul who loved me so much, how fortunate I was to have him as a father, the laughs we had along the way and that one long sip of moonshine we shared sitting among the cobwebs in that dusty old shed.
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In loving memory of my father, Jimmy Wood
