Just outside of Morgantown, IN, southbound on State Road 135, was a sign reading Bill Monroe Memorial Highway. Immediately after that came a sign that said Bean Blossom, 7 miles. The rain lessened and then stopped as I neared my objective, the near-legendary Bill Monroe Music Park, better known as Bean Blossom, after the nearby town. Bean Blossom is best known as the site of some long-running bluegrass festivals, but it also hosts gospel and blues events, and this year, for the first time, old-time music.

I parked, and hiked up the muddy road toward the stage, listening to The Jeff and Vida Band’s alt-country sounds. Gathered around a single microphone, the trio used two guitars and a bass, although Jeff would play a banjo or mandolin at times, and Vida’s feet added some extra pulse. They were followed by Mark Johnson and Emory Lester, playing a brand of music dubbed "clawgrass". The term comes from Johnson’s unique style of banjo playing, essentially an old-time clawhammer right hand, and a bluegrass left hand. Lester’s fingers danced up and down the fretboards of his guitar and mandolin, as both musicians gave a virtuosic performance.

Next up came a zany ensemble called The Tennessee Mafia Jug Band. "Folks, we didn’t come here to put on a show," said banjo maven Leroy Troy. "We are one." They weren’t quite what I think of as a jug band -- there were hardly any "found" instruments, and I couldn’t hear Lester Armistead’s jug at all, although Troy proved to be an able washboard player, and the bass player (addressed only as "Superman") had a board mounted on his bass that he occasionally beat with a drummer’s brush. The group was highly entertaining, mixing corny comedy and old country standards.

The Crooked Jades then took the stage, wearing black suits (and black dress, in Lisa Berman’s case) and serious expressions. They unleashed some incredibly high-energy music with inventive arrangements, anchored by some driving bowed bass. The Wilders followed, in suits, cowboy hats, and constant motion. They used one microphone, huddled so close that it’s a wonder no one lost an eye to the fiddle bow. Their set included classics from stars like Roy Acuff and Hank Williams, and fitting for a band from Kansas City, a rendition of Roger Miller’s "Kansas City Star". The Wilders’ set was followed by a scheduled supper break.

I decided to forgo supper in favor of a visit to the Bill Monroe Museum and the Bluegrass Hall Of Fame. The museum is small, but crammed full of memorabilia -- photographs, suits, hats, and of course, instruments. The Bluegrass Hall Of Fame is at the end of the short tour, a room containing only the portraits of the inductees.

I beat feet back to the stage area, where the Hammer Dan String Band were well into their set. Though they played mostly bouncy dance tunes, their strongest number was a stark gospel song, "When We March Through." A local band, The Lost Mill String Band, followed with a set of old songs and old-sounding originals.

By this time, the day had cooled to the point where spectators could see their own breath. While I sat wrapped in a serape, one woman found another way to keep warm; setting down a board she was holding, she began clogging to the music.

Leroy Troy returned to the stage, carrying a couple of banjos, and accompanied by bassist Superman. "I’m gonna cut a monkeyshine for ya now," he announced. Indeed he did. Troy played "Bottle Of Wine", spinning and flipping his banjo throughout the song. He let out a burst of eefin’ on "Alabama Jubilee", coaxed gunshot effects out of the banjo on "Jesse James", and swung the banjo like pendulum for "Grandfather’s Clock." At the end of each song, Troy would tip his hat to the audience.

There were still a couple of hours left to the festival, repeat performances by groups I’d heard earlier, but it had been a long day. It had been cold, wet, and muddy. It had been a great time.

I can hardly wait for next year.