Out of the soft gray clouds looming above a sweltering August mist, a single ray beamed into the tall trees as a lone wanderer plodded silently through the woods. Step by step, the soft trudging formed deep tracks into the untraveled road. While a wild, hot, swirling wind surged through the hill traces, visible was a solitary figure with a broad-brimmed hat and brown, woolen cloak. Marked by years of hard work, the shrouded image slogged clumsily, crunching the terrain beneath.

Under the roof of his sagging cabin, barely subsisting, there had been years of isolation, a self-imposed exile of loneliness in this remote area of Middle Tennessee near Nashville.

With a fiddle by his side, he pressed forward through the hills on the newly paved road to the city. The old tunes, like wistful memories, were embedded in his mind and soul. The frustrated wayfarer muttered, “If I could get to Nashville, life would get better.”

As the sun began to light the way, slowly illuminating the moss-covered ground, a determined cry arose from a voice within: “Gotta get out of his holler and down to the flatlands on the Cumberland!”

Life on the paradise ridge had kept him trapped in simple survival. Now, he was eager to leave his lifestyle near the ravine on the limestone knob. Unknowingly, he would share his folk culture, the old stories, and the singing of old songs with the world. His focus was finding work and creating a better life in Nashville, Tennessee.

In 1925, the connection for entertainers to the Opry in those early days meant a long drive by car, wagon or buggy and required passing through some of the most rugged terrain in the state. For many of those early entertainers, the trip meant leaving by car early Saturday, getting to Nashville before noon, unloading, tuning their instruments, performing on WSM 650 radio, and then the long drive home in the wee hours of the morning. Although the connection was difficult, the early Opry was an assured pipeline to the rural folk culture that it claimed to celebrate. It was this setting that thrived in those early days, with artists like Dr. Humphrey Bate from Gallatin, Sid Harkreader and Jack Jackson from Lebanon, Kirk and Sam McGee from Franklin, Uncle Jimmy Thompson from LaGuardo, and our own Uncle Dave Macon, hailing from the Kittrell community near Murfreesboro.

Radio had come to Nashville rather late in the game. By 1925, radio stations had already been broadcasting for three years from Memphis, Atlanta and Dallas. The tiny rural community of Lawrenceburg, some 80 miles south of Nashville near the Alabama line, was broadcasting gospel music on WOAN. Since 1923, the station had been owned by the largest publisher of old-time shape-note gospel songs, James D. Vaughn. It boasted having the first radio license in Tennessee.

Vaughn sold his equipment to Fred “Pop” Exum and L.N. Smith, which allowed the opportunity to upgrade the equipment and boost the signal from 150 watts to 500 watts broadcasting from a radio supply store in Nashville. By September 1925, Nashville’s first radio station aired. Within two weeks, the broadcast reach was impressive, claiming to transmit 2,000 miles away and having received mail from New York, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Des Moines, Iowa and Dayton, Ohio about its musical programming.

But by Oct. 5, 1925, the station came up against competition when WSM went on the air. On Nov. 28 of that same year, the Opry was born with the airing of its famous fiddle performance by Uncle Jimmy Thompson on WSM. Not long after that, the station dominated successfully with other old-time musical performances. The key factor was the development of the hoedown bands at the beginning of the barn dance show on Saturday night called the “Grand Ole Opry.” George D. Hay was the program director and the decision-maker in starting the barn dance. Hay became the Opry’s founder. Hay’s vision of himself as a preserver of American folk culture did not fully emerge until the Opry had been established much later as an institution.

The early broadcasts from the Opry were steeped in the rural traditions of the South and the old-time tunes of the culture that area listeners were familiar with. As WSM began to perceive the dimensions and tastes of the audience, old-time music became the basis for the early success of the Opry. As proof that the programming was on target, switchboards lit up and letters came pouring in from surrounding cities. These became the barometer demonstrating that their audience preferred banjo and fiddle music—the old tunes that had been played and sung for years.

What exactly is a hoedown? The actual word “hoedown” has American roots. Specifically originating from the Southern tradition, it is generally believed that the word is a literal derivative of putting a “hoe down.” Easily, we can romanticize visions of the early American farming communities in the days of agricultural lore. We can well imagine the farmers putting away their spades, scythes and hoes at the end of every long working day in the fields. Perhaps, we are then left to wonder if, on certain evenings, these versatile farmers would instead busy their hands with musical instruments. These special nights would become their regular fun times, with impromptu dancing being creatively performed by musicians and non-musicians.

These became known as “hoe downs” or “hoedowns.” The hoedown bands on the Grand Ole Opry continued to be a tradition through the 1940s. They became window dressing for the Opry, forming, as Hay would say, “the backbone, and it would lend a rural flavor to the entire Grand Ole Opry.” He was always careful to schedule the bands in regular intervals throughout the show just in case the other acts became “too uptown or too western.”

The Chicken Band, which included Uncle Dave Macon and Mazzie Todd, both hoedown musicians in the early days of the Opry, was known for their love of fried chicken after their performance, payment for a performance was sometimes a fried chicken dinner.

As Hay would say, the classic old-time tunes played by the old hoe-down bands like the The Chicken Band, Fruit Jar Drinkers, the Crook Brothers, the Gully Jumpers, the Possum Hunters and Uncle Dave Macon would “get us back to earth the minute they plunk the first note.”

Throughout the early years, the hoedown band was a paragon of continuity weathering various fads and innovations of country music that swept across the Opry stage. Their wonderfully archaic string-band style, with uncompromising zeal and drive, became the standard for the Opry.

Somehow once again, we yearn for some of that authenticity—the uncontaminated and unspoiled old-time music of those days. We are craving this musical expression. Not only is it filled with fun and frolic, but it is healthy and healing to the soul. The endearing quality of the musical expression in those old tunes has an indescribable effect. An evening of hoedown is not usually an acquired taste. The taste is usually acquired immediately. Having said that . . .

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Experience “From Harvest to Hoedown,” the 2024 Roots Rendezvous presented by Uncle Dave Macon Days, Sept. 6–7 at Hop Springs, 6790 John Bragg Hwy. Hop Springs is just a stone’s throw away from where the hoedown bands originated and performed on the front porches, in the parlors and at the barn raisin’s during the 19th century and early 20th century. Find full festival details at rootsrendezvous.com.