In Northeast Oklahoma, the summer heat consumes multiple senses. Stepping out on the front porch, one immediately feels beads of sweat racing each other down an already damp neck, spurred on by the humidity to create a salty adhesive between skin and shirt. Heated air rises above the road—dirt or concrete, depending on its proximity to a town center—creating that ominous, fuzzy mirage in the distance. And the bugs. They swarm, they screech, and they bite. If one thought of the region as an incubator, they might be referring to the all-encompassing climate, rather than the region’s penchant for producing musical talent.
It was on one of those relentless afternoons that I strolled down South Muskogee Avenue in Tahlequah, home to my dad’s alma mater, Northeastern State University. We were in town for the U.S. Mint’s launch of the new quarter, which features Wilma Mankiller, a Cherokee community activist and the first female Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation. Wilma passed away in 2010, but she and her husband Charlie came over to our family’s house for dinner when I was little, leaving a lasting impression on my sister and me. Charlie remains a close family friend, and we spent a few nights sitting around the campfire at his sprawling ranch this summer.
I lacked direction and hydration, so I ducked inside the nearest open storefront for some reprieve. It was a retail shop, displaying tote bags, men’s grooming supplies, and locally-themed apparel. I eyed a rack of t-shirts emblazoned with a tribute to NSU’s former mascot: “Redmen Forever.”
Realizing I was the only patron in the small store, I turned and smiled at the cashier, a blonde woman in her mid-thirties. “Hot out there,” she offered in that polite Oklahoma manner which blends Midwestern and Southern sensibilities, making clear that she noticed I did not lack for perspiration. “Are you gonna float the river tomorrow?”
She was referencing the Illinois River, which runs through the green hills east of town and is filled with inner-tubes, kayaks, and adult beverages on days like these. I explained that I was visiting and didn’t know much about it, other than that one Turnpike Troubadours song. Her face lit up.
"Everyday I’m workin’ on the Illinois River get a half a day off with pay! Old tow boat pickin’ up barges, on a long hot summer day.” Her rendition was prideful as she shuffled over to re-adjust some “TUCK FEXAS” hoodies.
I told her I was a big fan, and was going to see them play in a few months. “It’s just crazy how big they are now. Y’know, they used to be my next door neighbors, right over there.” She pointed across the street. “R.C. always hangs out over at Ned’s. Maybe you’ll see him tonight if you go.”
The encounter was illustrative of Turnpike’s trajectory, which has accelerated exponentially since they reunited last November. The band broke up three years ago and hasn’t released any new music since 2017, but they’ve packed every show on their comeback tour, revealing a pent-up demand that catapulted them to larger venues than ever.
After a raucous return to the stage at Tulsa’s historic Cain’s Ballroom in April, Turnpike has traversed the hallowed trail of country music cathedrals, selling out the Ryman, Billy Bob’s, and two shows at Red Rocks. Evan Felker & Co. are no longer a regional Red Dirt attraction but a nationwide phenomenon, attracting Okies, folky hipsters, and urban cowboys alike to their brand of heady fiddle and steel.
I’m not quite sure which of those categories I fall into, but it was my turn to join the masses on Friday night in Raleigh. The 5,000 seat Red Hat amphitheater sits downtown under the rapidly growing capital city skyline, a cosmopolitan setting indicative of independent country’s broadening appeal.
Hometown crew American Aquarium opened around 7:30, and B.J. Barham stomped and belted his heart out. I’ve seen B.J. and his band twice this year now, and I’m impressed by his Energizer Bunny-esque presence on stage (and unintentionally hilarious, strained facial expressions as he delivers impassioned verses). For a well-known act, he does something rather unique before playing the last song. “I’ll be over by the merchandise table after this,” he announces. “I’d like to meet you, I’d like to shake your hand, and I’d like to thank you for supporting live, independent country music.” As I approached the line to buy a poster in between acts, a group let me cut in front of them. “We’re waiting for BJ. We always do.”
I’d venture to say the band is better live than in studio, as they’re a bit snappier and add texture with up-tempo medleys from a very talented steel player. I’m not sure why B.J. doesn’t utilize the instrument more. Nevertheless, I enjoyed AA’s new album Chicamacomico, and Barham is rightfully recognized as one of the most thoughtful, grounded songwriters in the country/americana/roots/folk/whateveryoucallit scene.
I recently listened to an engrossing interview Barham did with Whiskey Riff, in which he discusses the relationship between songwriting, performing, and sobriety. Barham and Felker have both struggled with addiction, which led in part to Turnpike’s breakup. Both men are now sober, which reminded me of Barham’s comments in reference to a tweet he sent last year.
“Turnpike are some of our oldest friends. I also had to hear ‘you’re not as good as you were when you were drunk’” Barham remarks. “I had to re-learn how to be a front man. I had never done it sober. I had his back when they were cancelling shows, I had his back during the hiatus… it’s an honor to be besides someone like Felker.” As Barham went off to shake hands and passed the baton to his longtime buddies, I thought of the bands’ semi-parallel journeys, and was thankful for the personal growth that allowed them to be with us.
I drove down from D.C. with a friend, and we quickly made a new one who was in from Blacksburg, home to Virginia Tech. We placed bets on what we thought the opening song would be. I went with “7 & 7,” a classic foot-stomper from the 2010 debut Diamonds & Gasoline. Our Hokie companion scoffed and said it would definitely be “Every Girl.” His confidence was quickly justified.
Felker is a rather subdued performer, especially following his opener’s non-stop kinetic accentuations. Yet, even from one of the last rows of a large-scale open-air setting, his voice retained its distinct, hard-edged tone, the vocal equivalent of a sip of fresh Folgers in the chill of a late autumn dawn.
I’ve been to a lot of country shows, and while the crowd is usually nodding along, it’s a rare and wonderful occurrence to witness a sea of people point back at the stage as they go word for word with the frontman. The only time I’ve seen it this year was when Zach Bryan, the crew-cut Navy vet (who also happens to be from NE Oklahoma) ignited an uncharacteristic fervor of emotion among the mostly white, male, twenty-something mosh pit of dudes Youtuber Grady Smith has lovingly dubbed “Zwifties.” The intensity was not quite as palpable for Turnpike, but it was more diverse in age and gender. A middle-aged woman standing near me turned to her husband with a knowing stoicism as the banjo started and remarked, urgently, “we’ve been waiting years for this.”
My favorite Turnpike song is “The Bird Hunters,” which was greeted with fanaticism towards the end of the show. Over Kyle Nix’s driving fiddle, Felker details a trip to the woods with shotguns and bird dogs as he revels in the joy of returning home to Cherokee County after time on the road. I always chuckle as he switches to a hunting friend’s perspective, remarking that “your time spent in Tulsa did not help your shooting.” Tulsa, just an hour west, which to some boys from Tahlequah can seem like a million miles away. I wonder, after all the years away, how distant it must feel under East Coast skyscrapers.