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"The albums Aereo-Plain and Morning Bugle introduced a new musical synthesis: bluegrass, played through a sort of whimsical, modern, Rock sensibility-sometimes called 'Hippiegrass'".
— Roger Collins

John Hartford was a radical. He made radical music that inspired some people and offended others. His unkempt beard and hair on the cover of Aereo-Plain identified him as a hippy who'd traded in '60s counter-culture for a backwoods farm and a little patch of marijuana. The music he made acknowledged him as someone who wanted to return to simplicity, but who had no intention of copying anything that had come before him. It was bluegrass and folk with a just-for-the-hell-of-it attitude. Hartford would let his eccentric point of view run wild, surround himself with good musicians, and let the tape roll. His bizarre though innovative approach spearheaded both the progressive bluegrass and new traditional movements in the early '70s and acoustic music would never be the same. As Sam Bush wrote of Aereo-Plain, "All of us acoustic music freaks found an undeniable joyful noise".

Not that you'd guess this from reading any of Hartford's obits. The writers of these pieces seemed to be under the impression that a fiddle player who'd written "Gentle on My Mind" deserved a 1000-word write-up. Obituary after obituary gave every impression that Hartford had always worn his hair short and been accepted in the innermost circles of the musical establishment. No one seemed aware that Hartford's musical stance had been a matter of debate and controversy in the early '70s, or that he'd basically done everything in his power to turn tradition inside out during this era. Nor of the fact that the release of Steam Powered Aereo-Takes a few months after Hartford's death created a strange juxtaposition. After all, a number of rather tepid albums, old and new, had been issued around the same time. Rounder had released Hamilton Ironworks and 1984's Gum Tree Canoe, while Blue Plate issued two career overviews, Live from Mountain Stage and A Tribute to John Hartford. In the wake of this barrage of mediocre albums, Steam Powered Aereo-Takes, the outtakes from Hartford's most infamous album, recalled the rebel/innovator Hartford had once been.

Back in the Goodle Days

My first memories of listening to John Hartford date back to the mid-'70s. My back-to-earthy Dad had a copy of Aereo-Plain on reel-to-reel, and I'd sneak off to his hobby room to listen to it on headphones. Even though I was too young to understand some of it, it sounded pretty cool because Hartford had such a warped point of view. He sang about doing the boogie, which sounded like sex ("We can do it in the house, we can do it in the yard/Come on baby, it ain't very hard"), and falling in the lake in wintertime and freezing his ass. I also liked the sad melancholy songs about the first girl he loved and tearing down the Grand Ole Opry. For a long time I remembered Aereo-Plain as a product more funny than good and knew little of the other recordings Hartford had made.

Years later while working as a DJ at a college station I came across Aereo-Plain, Nobody Knows What You Do, and a number of other Hartford records. What really caught my attention, though, was that Aereo-Plain sounded so good musically. It was still funny, but the looseness of the arrangements and original material captured something elusive. Later Rounder sent the station a copy of Morning Bugle, an album that I'd never heard of. The album took a while to get used to. The CD cover was boring and the sound was much sparer than its predecessor, but Morning Bugle slowly became my favorite Hartford album. It also inspired me to collect the rest of his work.

Tryin' to Do Something to Get Your Attention

"...Bill Monroe's the biggest hippie of all. He's always been a nonconformist, he's always had long hair and he's always been very dogmatic about what he does and he hasn't been ashamed to be". John Hartford

In 1970 Hartford was ready for a change. He'd recorded six albums for RCA, and while some of the results were good, he was dissatisfied. To get away from the staleness of the studio, he cut an album called Radio John with no overdubs, but RCA chose not to release it. Around Christmas time in 1970, Hartford drifted together with guitarist Norman Blake, dobroist Tut Taylor, and fiddler Vassar Clements. Latter, bassist Randy Scruggs would join them in the studio. The band only remained together for a year, recording one album and appearing at festivals, but that was all the time needed to make acoustic music history. The Aereoplane band started cutting tracks with David Bromberg at the helm around April, 1971. Bromberg had never produced and Hartford's only instructions were to keep the tape rolling. Hartford laid down equally loose guidelines for the band. If someone felt like playing lead, that was fine; if they felt like laying out, that was fine.

According to Bob Carlin's liner notes on Steam Powered Aereo-Takes, 80 reels of material were recently discovered while cleaning out someone's garage, much of it representing the Aereo-Plain sessions. The fact that there was so much material, and that it could've been assembled in a hundred different ways, brings up an obscure historical question. Some people note that Aereo-Plain represents only a small portion of the material the band played live, and this makes sense because a number of the album's songs were written during the sessions. The band, in fact, played a great deal of bluegrass, making the live Aereoplane band less progressive than the tracks released on the album. While someone could argue that Hartford was really more conservative than Bromberg's compiled album, it's doubtful that the album would've been issued without Hartford's approval of the chosen tracks. It also seems likely, from the chosen tracks, that Hartford and Bromberg were trying to make a statement.

Aereo-Plain is an acoustic masterwork. Although it isn't Hartford's only notable album, it's his best-remembered older effort, at least partially because of its wacky content. It's fascinating that the album opens and closes with "Turn Your Radio On", a religious ditty that offers no clue as to what lies within. You could almost believe you were getting ready to hear the most conventional acoustic music imaginable. "Steamboat Whistle Blues", however, pretty much removes this notion. In the first verse, Hartford sings, "I got stuck in the ice on Christmas Eve, and I froze my ass it's true," which is hardly the type of lyric Jim and Jesse would sing. If "Steamboat Whistle Blues" doesn't seem too odd structurally, "Back in the Goodle Days" does. A lazy, bluesy banjo plucks along as Hartford sings about a reunion that will take place at the city dump 25 years from now. Old friends will sit around smoking pot and drinking wine as they recall being in love "with people that we hadn't even met." The song doesn't really have a chorus, per se, but a refrain that works a slight variation on the melody. At this point, a listener might look again at the bushy-bearded man on the album/CD cover (he looks a little like Ted Kaczynski) and surmise that the album was made under the influence of drugs.

Even halfway through Aereo-Plain, a couple of disturbing elements would've become evident to a bluegrass fan. First of all, nothing on the album qualifies as bluegrass. The mandolin, for instance, seldom plays a prominent role, and when it does show up, it doesn't play a typical one. Worst still, the song structures owe a great deal to pop. Both the romantic melody of "First Girl I Loved" and the nonsensical harmony of "Holding" remind one more of Paul McCartney than the Osborne Brothers. Hartford's vocals are never high and lonesome, but lazy and slurred, and worst still, his lyrics are sprinkled with curse words and references to marijuana. It would be clear to the average bluegrass fan that Hartford had aligned himself with the back-to-earth movement. He'd also know, in his gut if nowhere else, that Aereo-Plain was a musical shot-across-the-bow of tradition.

Headin' Down Into the Mystery Below

The following year Hartford made his second masterwork, Morning Bugle. When the Aereoplane band broke up at the beginning of 1972, Hartford and Blake headed back to the studio with jazz bassist Dave Holland in tow. The content of the album, at least on the surface, lacked the immediacy of Aereo-Plain. The material also seemed more straightforward: just 11 three-to-five minute songs. But while the album was quite a different animal than its predecessor, Morning Bugle proved no less radical.

There are a couple of pieces on Morning Bugle that are unlike anything else in Hartford's catalog. After three catchy tunes, he takes a dangerous dip into "All Fall Down". The repetitive delivery and elliptical lyrics inject a sense of darkness into the song. The bizarre phrase, "The Whirly Pig is coming and we all fall down" is repeated over and over, and the song remains stuck in A-minor for three minutes and 11 seconds. The bare sound, a banjo, bass, and guitar, compliments the ominous lyric. "On the Road" uses a persistent 5/4 time to mirror the monotony of life of the road. As with "All Fall Down", Hartford delivers the lyrics in lazy drawls, making little effort to clarify what he's saying. On the chorus, a dobro mimics Hartford's lyrical slur, adding a ghostly echo. The timing, material, insistent bass, and stoner vocals all give Morning Bugle a harder edge than Aereo-Plain, but artistically, Hartford reached his pinnacle here. Unlike the massive recording sessions for Aereo-Plane, he knew what he wanted to achieve and did so with little fuss. Producer John Simon recalls that there were only three sessions for Morning Bugle, with ten-to-20 tunes recorded each night.

After cutting Morning Bugle Hartford, as Rodger Collins notes, had made his musical statement and it was time to move on. He proceeded to drop out of the recording scene for four years to indulge in his love of riverboats and the river life. It was a beautiful statement. Most musicians seem to keep at it, whether they have anything to say or not. Hartford just dropped out and lived his witness if you will. You might think of him as bluegrass' version of John Lennon. Music was wonderful, but there was more to life.

When the spirit moved Hartford to return to the music scene in 1976, he recorded a number of good songs. His music, however, would never be the same. While some argue that Mark Twain is his best effort, a number of trivial items sink this otherwise excellent album. "Don't Leave Your Records in the Sun" and "Trying to Do Something to Get Your Attention" are funny -- the first time you hear them. I actually prefer the wild and wooly, Nobody Knows What You Do, also made in 1976, and as fully produced as Mark Twain was under-produced. It's probably the weaker effort, but bizarrely entertaining. "Joseph's Dream" is one of the best love songs Hartford ever wrote, and "In Tall Buildings" is a great anthem to the sterility of employment.

As the '70s wore on, however, it became increasingly difficult to take Hartford seriously. He still made good albums, like Headin' Down Into the Mystery Below, but his forays into electric-grass sounded half-baked. He'd always had a left-field approach, but now he sounded like a burnt-out hippy who really didn't have anything to say. Sure, "Boogie On Reggae Woman" (from Permanent Wave with the Dillards) seems kind of funny now, but at the time no one wanted his or her hero reduced to a parody of himself.

False Hearted Tenor Waltz

"Everybody wishes they could be up on that hill where you could boogie all the time, but they don't realize that those folks stop once in a while". John Hartford

Even as early as 1987, when Flying Fish issued the retrospective Oh Me Oh My, How the Time Does Fly, Hartford's career was already being edited for public consumption. First, the collection ignored Aereo-Plain and Morning Bugle (either Flying Fish couldn't get the material or didn't want it), with the exception of a lame new version of "Boogie" and a live take of "Nobody Eats at Limbaugh's Anymore" with the New Grass Revival. The really bizarre songs from Mark Twain and Nobody Knows What You Do were also excluded, and nothing shows up from his second electrified effort with the Dillards, Permanent Wave (perhaps for the best). The anthology had been issued just three years after Gum Tree Canoe, a tepid effort that signaled his return to the fold. Oh Me Oh My, How the Time Does Fly solidified the new Hartford, carefully choosing a conservative canon. That certain albums had gone out of print (some remain out of print), further helped to build the new, improved John Hartford. His studio work didn't get much better over the next 15 years, and while many enjoyed his forays into old-time fiddle music, I always found Hartford more innovative as a banjo player.

Over time, most radicals seem to get absorbed into the mainstream. Their ideas also get absorbed, and when something weirder comes along, the older artist seems a lot safer. Over time, the artist, who has said whatever he or she had to say, also mellows. But while the process may be natural, a number of things get lost or forgotten in the transition. Historically speaking, Hartford's music (and progressive bluegrass) was a threat to the establishment. His lyrical content was liberal and his music was open to a number of sources outside of any traditional canon. A lot of the old guard hated it. When Hartford decided to return to traditional music in the '80s, he was welcomed with open arms by the bluegrass/country music congregations (as are all sinners when they see the light). His inclusion reduced the threat of his earlier assault, as though to say Hartford's '70s albums had been not-so youthful indiscretions. Including Hartford also gave the establishment a chance to show that they were with it (even if they were 15 years behind). Over time, the conversion became complete, with even Hartford extolling the virtues of traditionalism. Finally, there was little likelihood that a listener could find out just how original Hartford's music had been by listening to Mountain Stage tributes or reading an article about him.

Bye-bye

Despite such stifling revisionism, clues occasionally surface to remind us that once upon a time, Hartford had been hell-bent on busting up crusty old traditions. In 1999, he recorded an album called Retrograss with David Grisman and Mike Seeger. The group drew a number of old songs from bluegrass, rock-n-roll, and folk and performed them in different styles than they had originally appeared. In other words, Bill Monroe's "Uncle Pen" was converted into old-time string band music, while "Maggie's Farm" was channeled through Dock Boggs. It was a screwy idea, but a perfectly designed one for the guy who sang about doing the boogie.

Hartford's six vocals on the album take the listener back to his early '70s work, and when he yodels -- yes yodels -- on "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay", it seems as though not much has changed over the past 27 years. His quick-talking delivery of "Memphis" and "Maybelline" offer fun new interpretations of overplayed classics, while his bass/grunt vocal on "Rocky Top" presents a wacky contrast to the Osborne Brothers' high, smooth harmony. Once again, he inspires us and makes us laugh by turning tradition on its head, and by offering us the unexpected. Once again, he reminds us how much fun music can be when original ideas and oddball approaches are thrown into the mix.

More recently, Camden Deluxe got the crazy idea to re-issue all of Hartford's RCA albums plus the never-before-issued Radio John. Although Hartford never worried too much about these albums being out of print, he seemed to be in the habit of rejecting his old work as he moved into new phases (as did Dylan). While none of the six official releases are masterpieces, each one carries a gem or two, and the first four are better as a whole than most anything Hartford recorded in the '80s and '90s. I particularly like Housing Project, which is filled with odd, lovely tunes like "Big Blue Balloon" and "The Girl With the Long Brown Hair". The production and arrangements of these albums grew successively bigger with each release until he stripped it all down for Radio John. While Hartford never seems completely natural in these settings, pieces like "Corn Cob Blues", "Front Porch", and "The Tall Tall Grass" are good songs, and he sounds like the Hartford we know.

Most interesting of all, though, is the release of Radio John. In many ways, the album is a trial run for Aereo-Plain and Morning Bugle. The arrangements are pretty simple, with the biggest difference -- in relation to his later albums -- being the presence of drums. Versions of "Skippin' in the Mississippi Dew" and "In Tall Buildings" show up here, and Hartford seems to be finding his way toward a looser approach vocally on pieces like "Self Made Man" and "Bed on My Mind". The first of these qualifies as something like folk-rap, while the latter piece features the kind of wild vocal he perfected on "Steam Powered Aereo Plane". Radio John captures an artist on the edge of finding his voice.