Story Songs: The Banks of the Cumberland

"Every picture tells a story, don't it?"

Story Songs is a recurring series on MLNP, where I share the evolution and inspiration behind a song I’ve helped create.

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When we first came together as a band, the commitment was, we each had to bring a couple songs to that first meet-up.

Simply by the way it was built—forming one new band out of the parts and pieces (ie, players) of three other bands—we naturally came at it from our own camps. And that meant Chris and I would work together on the songs I was bringing. 

I had two ideas.

The first was to write a tune that was a tribute to a local music super-fan, who had supported each of our bands without abandon—and who lived his life like, well, like a character in a song. That number was called “Sing Me a Song.”

The other idea I brought was a long, story-driven song called “The Banks of the Cumberland.” 

This song was borne out of the genealogical research work my Aunt LaDonna had done to discover and document our family’s history. 

Around this time—early 2005—she had shared books, binders and prints of her work with my mom and their two brothers. She gave my mom a copy for me, too.

LaDonna’s deep, comprehensive research into our family story (all done at our local library’s Genealogy Center) was presented in narrative form, and was spun up like a Mark Twain yarn. 

Well, a Mark Twain yarn, or a song off Music from Big Pink.  

I ran with it.

The lyrics to “The Banks of the Cumberland” are pretty much just the facts, exactly as my aunt reported them, except made to rhyme. 

The song is written from my grandpa’s point of view; the Geneveive in the song is my grandma, and they had four kids, one of whom is my mom. 

The song tells the multi-generational tale of my grandpa’s family moving from Jackson County—east of Nashville and along the Cumberland River—to Fort Wayne, Indiana, and our three rivers. 

My grandparents eventually met at the Indiana Hotel, where my grandma worked.

Grandpa, who was tall, lean, and had a profile like that of Abraham Lincoln, worked a construction job at the Embassy (Emboyd) Theatre.

He would stroll over to the Indiana Hotel on his break, and ride the hotel’s elevator with Gen—she ran the lift—flirting with her, and singing her favorite song, “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.”

Chris and I got together to figure out if something was happening with “The Banks of the Cumberland”—I had never made up a song on my own, and still haven’t—and we made this little acoustic demo to share with the band: 

I burned a CD of that recording for my mom, and left it on her doorstep with a copy of the lyrics. (Other than becoming the parent to three radiant kids, I’m pretty sure my mother still thinks that CD is the proudest she’s ever been of me.)

I was encouraged not to talk about music by referencing other music, but: it’s too late. I can’t resist using the shorthand, again, now. 

The demo’s vibe is a bit like the original Blood on the Tracks sessions. 

Later, when we got the song in front of the band, it transformed; its hackles raised, its daggers drawn, its vibe careening. Blood on the Tracks? More like Rolling Thunder. 

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The band’s name is The Legendary Trainhoppers.

Okay, let’s dig into that. 

My aunt’s research work gave us the story for “The Banks of the Cumberland.”

But it also did another thing. And that was to, like, give us the entire idea for the band. 

As I went through LaDonna’s work, I found this photograph:

On the left is a gentleman named Lafayette Bacon—my great-great-grandfather on my grandma’s side. 

The photograph was taken in 1905, and just look at it. 

I printed a copy of the photo and carried it around with me. 

I’d make eye contact with those five musicians, every day. 

I wondered about what their day-to-days were like, and what role music played in their lives. 

To me, they looked like a band that had come to town on a hopped train, and later on that night, oh lordy me, they’d be singin’ songs and shaking sugar at the local dancehall. 

I’d daydream about what they sounded like playing together then, in that dancehall and along those rail lines, yet also, my mind wandered to what they would sound like now. 

Which, at the time, was exactly 100 years after the photograph was taken. 

I couldn’t break free of the photograph’s grip, and frankly didn’t want to. 

So, I crafted a fictional history of the band in letter form, full of tall tales and legend-making adventures, and anonymously sent the letter (along with the photo of Layf Bacon and the boys) to some musician friends.

The letter concluded with an invitation to meet at a specific place and a specific time; an invitation to come together and dream up what that band would sound like a century down the line. 

(To raise the ante on the tall tales, I also sent the letter to myself, and then carried it around with me, running into the other guys and asking, “Hey, got this strange dispatch. Anyone else receive something mysterious in the mail?”)

In the letter, I suggested that the 1905 band’s name was The Trainhoppers—which, to me, was exactly what they looked like—and that we would recognize, resurrect and carry forward their vision. 

And with that goal in mind, we would call ourselves The Legendary Trainhoppers.

 

At the time, Chris Dodds and I were in a band called Go Dog Go, along with Eric Federspiel and Mark Winters. We were mainly known as a cover band, though we’d made an album and an EP of original songs. On any given Friday or Saturday night at Columbia Street West, we’d play 35+ songs. Of those, maybe three or four were our original songs. (And we didn’t announce a song as an original until after the song was performed, lest we create a dangerous race to the bar or restrooms.) 

Our peers on that Columbia Street circuit included The Brown Bottle Band; four fellas a few years younger than us—Damian Miller, Dan Smyth, Phil Potts and Rick Weilbaker—that were playing classic rock covers reverently, unrestrained, and without a drip of irony. Our bands bonded deeply at an event called Homesick Blues, where four or five acts did half-hour sets of Dylan songs. (This event later evolved into an event called Down the Line, at the Embassy Theatre.) The thing was, the Brown Bottle boys were also writing original songs, and rarely playing them in their own sets. (And when they did, not announcing them as originals until after the song was performed, lest we create a dangerous race to the bar or restrooms.) 

Also on the CSW circuit—our friends in The Matthew Sturm Band. Sturm had recorded his own album of original music. They, too, would play a truckload of covers, and a handful of originals, and … you know the refrain at this point. 

Even though we were each presenting a distinct repertoire in our cover shows, the thing was, when we would sit around in the basement at Columbia Street and talk about music together, we quickly found that each of our streams had come from the same river, which had wound through the same valley, down from the same mountain. 

We liked songs that were vaguely country and ramshackle and boozy and imperfect, like “Dead Flowers,” like “Every Picture Tells a Story,” like Bob Dylan’s basement tapes.

We liked groups that had more than one lead vocalist and lonesome harmonies, like The Band and the Traveling Wilburys.

We liked a performance that felt like it might break apart at any time, bending, tilting, pitching and swaying, bouncing into and off of itself.

And we found great joy in the act of creating things. Most of all, we liked writing songs. 

So I sent that letter to Chris and Dan and Phil and Damian and Rick and Matthew. And they each accepted the invitation to meet at a specific place, at a specific time. 

That first meet-up was on the abandoned third floor of an old building that was once a meat-packing and butcher shop (and later a speakeasy) at 1301 Lafayette Street in downtown Fort Wayne.

The third floor, unfinished and unused for decades, had dust on the hardwood, broken out windows and an icy wind blowing through. 

We stood in a circle and went around, one by one, timidly shared our blossoming songs.

We’d strum the first verse and chorus alone, then others slowly started picking along on the second verse, maybe stomping the beat by the bridge, joining the chorus on the third pass.

“Sing Me a Song” and “The Banks of the Cumberland,” “C’est La Vie” and “Don’t Let the Door Hitcha in the Backside (When You Walk Away),” “My Lost Friend (Alcohol)” and “I’m Not Waiting” and “Ramble On,” and so many more, ’round and ’round we went, let’s start it again, what if it was a little faster, could we drop out on the final chorus, ’round and ’round, and ’round and ’round. 

We got together every Sunday for a few months, honing the songs, adding to them and taking things away, figuring out the energy and potential and, yes, danger of a seven-piece band, and then decided: somehing’s happening, and we have a set.

We have a set, and we should book a show. At a specific place, at a specific time. 

We did so.

And when we did, there was a bit of buzz—members of Go Dog Go and Brown Bottle Band and the Matthew Sturm band were getting together to form a new group.

A bit of buzz, and a dabble of dread: because instead of a well-chosen, curated selection of fun cover songs, we were going to play original songs.

And not just any old original songs. But original songs that were vaguely country and ramshackle and boozy and imperfect.

And yet. 

And yet. 

And yet…

Something happened. 

Somehow, it worked.

Soon enough, we were not just as popular as the bands we came from, but we were more popular than the bands we came from. 

We broke free from playing from 10PM–2AM at Columbia Street West, and would play tight, 75-minute sets in non-traditional, vibe-laden, all-ages venues. (Often outside.) 

Our shows found a band full of disbelief—this was actually happening—and we would roar through our sets laughing and colliding with joy. That joyousness became contagious. 

And we had the absolute time of our lives. 

Jon Ross—from Definitely Gary, another band of close friends on the local circuit—joined the band. Jon had a snap on the drums, like he was frying eggs, and added high harmonies that made it feel like a grease fire just broke out in the kitchen. 

Here’s “The Banks of the Cumberland,” live at Three Rivers Festival in July 2006. 

The songs were wild and loose when we played gigs; we wanted to wrangle ’em just long enough to get a recording and make an album.

It was challenging to do. The songs fought back—hackles raised, daggers drawn, vibes careening.  

We eventually made studio demos with our friend and long-time collaborator Jon Gillespie, then traveled to Mill Valley, California for a week of tracking sessions.

After some back and forth, we had an album: Ramble On.

The record was named after a song that Damian wrote, that didn’t make it on the record—but should have.

When it was time to do the album release show, we challenged ourselves to find just the right non-traditional, vibe-laden, all-ages venue.

And it occurred to us that the Indiana Hotel lobby—a beautiful, historic, seldom-used event space (and no longer a hotel) adjacent to the Embassy Theatre—might be just the spot. 

Might add to the story.

But do you want to know how not to make a lot of money as a band? Perform only all-original, vaguely country songs.

We were a scrappy, fuss-free group, playing for the love of song.

And the fact was, we just couldn’t afford the Indiana Hotel rental. 

But a few weeks later, I was talking to my parents about the album release.

My mom knew we couldn’t make the numbers work.

She found herself driving around and listening to that acoustic demo of “The Banks of the Cumberland,” with its lyric about her parents meeting in that very Indiana Hotel lobby.

And so she called me up.

And she—scrappy, fuss-free—told me that, for the love of song, she would figure out a way to front the money. And that we would play the release show at the Indiana Hotel.

This was February 2006. 

Well, we sold so many tickets, we had to do two shows in a single night.

Both sold out. 

The album release shows found a band full of disbelief—this was actually happening—and we roared through them laughing and colliding with joy. That joyousness became contagious. 

And we had the absolute time of our lives. 

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The band burned bright. Maybe a little too bright.

We rode hard and put it away wet, calling it a day in February 2007. Calling it a day, for about eight years. 

In the intervening time, we all gained a bit more perspective.

Petty frustrations had been replaced by deep gratitudes.

Preciousness replaced by openness.

Fit and finish replaced by what ifs and why nots. 

So in February 2015, Phil, Dan, Chris and I got back together. (Matthew had moved out east; Jon joined when he could; Damian had died.) 

We were made whole by our great friend Casey Stansifer—also formerly of Definitely Gary—on bass, and we welcomed Connor O’Shaughnessy, followed by Colin Boyd, and then Kevin Jackson and Daniel Hogan, on drums.

(As Kevin said, before moving to Montana and stepping away from the band: “It’s not that you are or were a Trainhopper, it’s only whether you’re active or not. I’ll always be part of this band.”)

We got back together in much the same way we got together the first time around—I mailed a letter.

This letter presented a new question. 

Whereas the first letter had asked, “Ever wonder what that band from 1905 would sound like today?,” this one—spurred by Phil Potts—went another route: “We made one album; do you ever wonder what a follow-up would’ve sounded like?”

Soon, we were back at 1301 Lafayette Street, this time in The B-Side at One Lucky Guitar, sitting in a circle and going around, one by one, timidly sharing our blossoming ideas. 

Not blossoming songs, mind you. 

Ideas. 

We’d play through a loose idea for a verse, and someone else might chime in with a thought about how a chorus might go. And then:
Is there a bridge?
How are we gonna end it?
Change the key.
Change the tempo.
Change the lyric.
Change the melody.
Try it, change it, try it, change it, try it, change it, try it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

All for the love of song. And not Chris songs, or Dan songs, or Phil songs, or Casey songs, or Matt songs; but our songs. 

We spent 2015 writing and recording those songs in The B-Side.

Answering the question, and in fact discovering, what a follow-up to Ramble On would sound like. 

In February 2016, exactly ten years after Ramble On’s release, we were able to share our second record: Family Tree. 

The new album even included a recording of the song “Ramble On,” bringing Damian into this era alongside us. 

Family Tree era; December 2015; photo by John Burkett

Since then, we made another full-length album, Let It Breathe, and followed that up with a double-record, Hard Times.

(I personally think each one is better than the last.)

And we still get together, every week, writing songs and feeling grateful for the irreplaceable fellowship the band brings to our lives. 

We play somewhere between five and ten shows a year, too, most often in non-traditional, vibe-laden, all-ages venues. 

We love what we get to do, and it’s not lost on us what a gift it is to have each other, and the support of our families and friends, and the still-astonishing fact that there are people in the world interested in hearing these songs we dream up together. (Thank you, if you’re one.) 

At pretty much every show, we play “The Banks of the Cumberland,” along with a handful of those first, original songs that way back when, we stood in a circle to timidly pitch to one another. Songs that gave us a notion—a notion that maybe there was something happening.

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So that’s us, “The Legendary Trainhoppers”—who we were is who we are, whether in 1905, or 2005, or 2015, or 2023. 

We’re a group of friends, who saw a photograph of another group of friends, separated by generations. Given the chance and the choice, we hopped on.

And yes, on certain quiet nights, at a specific place and at a specific time, we sometimes pause to imagine what our own kids, and their kids, and their kids’ kids, will think, should they stumble on a photograph of us, a hundred years down the line.  

I’m hoping they wonder what we sounded like—and then get together with their own friends, and dream up the answer.

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You can find our music on Apple and Spotify, or buy physical copies from our Bandcamp page.

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Some things in life transcend time; hoppin’ trains, singin’ songs and shaking sugar with your friends is amongst the best of ‘em. 

Here’s the studio version of “The Banks of the Cumberland,” from Ramble On. Produced by Scott Mathews at Tiki Town studios in Marin County, California; executive production by Monkey Wings. And yeah, that’s David Grisman on mandolin. (All of that, a story for another time.)

PS If you wanna play along, you can find the chords after the lyrics.

“THE BANKS OF THE CUMBERLAND”

VERSE

Grandpa was a blacksmith way out on Gallatin Pike
In the heart of Jackson County, just outside the Nashville light
We went down once to see him, danced the jig with Eveline
He said, “I can temper copper, boys; I’ll shave the mare’s head clean.”

We came from those with headrights, James County long before
My family lost its land when they went and rendered us ancient and poor
But Betty Brown and Mary Lamb, they loved John just the same
Lincoln County and a revolution, to the army signed his name

Now Jane Moore and J. Lewis, in the Marshall County boot
Gave birth to my old granddad, started them Tennessee roots
My pa he was a train-hopper, sang songs ‘bout one and all
Wrote one that got famous, called it “The Wabash Cannonball”

PRE-CHORUS  /  CHORUS

The river keeps a-flowin’, and the train keeps a-rollin’
I left the banks of the Cumberland for the Maumee and St. Joe
St. Mary keep on rising, and Geneveive, we gotta go

Now Dycuss poisoned Davenport, stole the sheriff’s deed and fled the land
He was out bootlegging whiskey, ended up a wanted man
He came back talking secrets, about lawsuits, and horses too
He got shot straight in the back, my friend, as thieves so often do

It may have been in Louisville when I dropped right out of school
I was working in a peanut factory, dealing cards and running pool
We shot north to Indiana in a 1920 Maxwell
Took us three long weeks to get there, that old car just giving us hell

PRE-CHORUS  /  CHORUS   

My mom was a preacher’s daughter, she hailed from Bowling Green
She was a Scotch and Irish girl, with the long black hair of a Cherokee
My pa he died too early, and welfare tried to take us boys away
We lit out on the water, all searching for a better day

Put a chicken in a bucket in an old jerk-water town
Big black Caddy pulled up, with the chauffeur’s window down
He threw out his cigarette, it burned through our luggage rack
We raced up the road behind him, and we swore we’d never look back

PRE-CHORUS  /  CHORUS   

There was hot talk about the union down at the Studebaker rails
I got a job at the Embassy laying limestone and hammerin’ nails
I fell in love with you, Gen, at the Indiana Hotel
I rode that elevator, girl, I was dyin’ to know you well

Had that Abe Lincoln profile, and Gen you sure did swoon
I sang that song for you, “By the Light of the Silv’ry Moon”
We’ll get married and have a horse farm, raise four kids in our name
Every one will have a story; every one will chase a train… 

PRE-CHORUS  /  CHORUS   

Verse:
A / / /  D / / /  E / / /  E / / /
A / / /  D / / /  E / / /  E / / /
A / / /  D / / /  E / / /  E / / /
Bm / / /  D / / /  E / / /  A / / /

Pre-chorus:
F#m / / /  A / / /  D / / /  E / / / 

Chorus:
A / B7 /  D / E / 
A / B7 /  G / / /  D / / /  

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“The Banks of the Cumberland” written and performed by The Legendary Trainhoppers. All rights reserved. © (P) The Legendary Trainhoppers

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