By Jack Rafferty
The album Bourbon & Rosewater (2011) by Jerry Douglas, Vishwa Mohan Bhatt, and Edgar Meyer is one of those records where I don’t really recall when I first heard it, but it has been one that I have relied on during times of stress and hardship in my life. Oddly, this album was my introduction to Jerry Douglas, and stood out to me when I discovered it, given its blend of bluegrass and traditional Indian music, with three virtuosic musicians coming together to perform such alchemy. I had never really heard anything like it.
As of writing this, it has been a while since I listened to Bourbon & Rosewater. Upon revisiting it, some of the compositions seem to meander a bit, though I do think there is a good deal of distinctiveness on display here, and these notes still resonate powerfully with me. I do think that Edgar’s work is unfortunately rather buried in the mix, but otherwise the sound is wonderful. There is a flowing rhythm that has a meditative quality to it, which reminds me of the river depicted on the cover, flowing between the two lands from which these musical traditions call home. The interplay between the gorgeous acoustic notes bringing these traditions of music together is beautiful. The many memories I recall listening to it, good and bad, serves to remind me of how integral this album was for a certain time in my life, and I am very appreciative for its presence during those times.
This album was the one I would always go to when I needed something to soothe me, particularly on hard nights working in the backcountry. We used to do eight-day hitches, and my stubborn ass would get tired of setting up and taking down a tent every night, so some nights I would just elect to sleep in the back of the truck cab. The nighttime temperatures were typically in the 90s, and I would have to keep the windows closed to keep the bugs out. This was not long after having injured my septum, so breathing in the best of conditions wasn’t great. Those nights felt like being buried alive above ground, and I would struggle to make it through each passing minute. It was times like these that I would pull out my cracked iPod, blow the sand out of the aux port, plug in my frayed headphones, and play Bourbon & Rosewater. Almost instantly it would make me feel better, and it put my mind more at ease. I would listen to the record on repeat until eventually my body would relax enough to fall asleep.
Another memory I can recall is camping in the Uinta mountains, lying near a fire while I played this album. I had been going through a rough spot in my life. Being able to simply watch the stars gently mingle with smoke between the trees, while the dobro and mohan veena notes softly played, was enough to ground me in that moment and induce a sense of great humility to the natural world, and my small place within it. A sort of significant insignificance overwhelmed me, as I felt infinitely small yet meaningful at once. There was a clarity and presence to that night that I remember well, and thinking about it now, amid such global catastrophe and interlinking crises, it serves as a reminder to allow myself peace when I can, not as an escape, but rather as an embrace of this life, this material existence, and of resolutely building the strength within myself needed to soberly face down such issues in community with others, to struggle for a better world.
Most of my memories associated with this album are entwined with the natural world, of big skies, lichen-covered rocks, petrichor, the smell of dust and cheap beer, woodsmoke, and the sound of a light breeze in raven wings. Rough nights and cold mornings. The sight of ponderosa pines and the song of canyon wrens. Listening to it is like returning to the earth, when lately it feels increasingly difficult and painful to bridge that rift. In a way, it still helps me tear down emotional and physical barriers that alienation builds between myself and the world. What it gives me I cannot fully explain, because it is so inextricable to my lived experience that joined with this music, and not just the music itself. I am indebted to it as a result, as it allows me to hold on to these moments, to continue to walk in the murky light of their recollection, and embrace the lessons that they taught me. I am grateful for the relief it has brought me in times when I needed it, and I revisit it now as I would an old friend, warmly and with a smile, and the desire to wander off into the trees for a while, and watch the stars once more.
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