From my favorite bay window of my favorite coffee shop, I noticed a jamboree hoppin in the long shadow of Market Square's church. Four motley men strummed, plucked, and tapped facing a horseshoe of bouncing spectators. I rushed to join.
The group made a sort of raspy sound. They sounded like a cross between The Decemberists and a Grand Old Opry regular. Their music reverberated and clanged and their voices sounded like minor chord, harmonized, yodels. From left to right:
The washboard and cowbell player was the only musician wearing jeans and a cotton t-shirt.
The banjo player beside him had a thick red beard that stuck out further than his nose. He was dressed as an Appalachian lumberjack in his red plaid shirt, high-water corduroys, and suspenders. His poor banjo was peeling and torn.
The singer-bass player wore bomber hat. His voice rattled and his head shook when his volume grew.
The accordian player was my favorite. A hat that may have belonged to Charlie Chaplin (as in that old) with a Yankeedoodle's feather in it, a black vest with a few brass pins and what other than silver spoons attached by diaper pins on his breast. He wore a pink pinstripe shirt under that and his pants rolled up to his calves to show his shiny, tapping, businessmen shoes.