Introduction

Bill Livers (Aug. 3, 1911 – Feb. 7, 1988) appeared in my life at the perfect moment. Just back from Oxford with an MA and a good idea of what I didn’t want to do next, a friend told me I needed to meet this old black man in Owen County who played the fiddle. I had played bluegrass up to that point, and Bill was the first true old-time fiddler I ever met. The experience set my life on a different course that I’m still travelling today.  In retrospect, it seems appropriate that the first traditional Kentucky fiddler I ever met was black.  I was soon to learn that most of the older white fiddlers I encountered over the next few years had also learned from black fiddlers.

I relocated to Owen County along with a group of friends from college days. We were inspired by the writings and example of Wendell Berry, and we began putting down roots in the county across the river from his Port Royal.  We were moving into old tenant houses and paying rent by working in the owners’ tobacco crops and fixing up these houses that hadn’t been lived in for years. Eventually some of us were able to buy land of our own. I did, and I’m happy to say I’m still here.

The group that formed a band around Bill Livers started as the Progress Red Hot String Band, named after the drum stoves most of us heated with, and after a time we changed the name to the Bill Livers String Ensemble.  It was a continuing education for us as we got to know Bill, learn his music, and share his experience.

Bill grew up in a vibrant black music community in northern Owen County. His music came from a variety of sources. His grandfather Virgil Livers was a fiddler who traveled around central Kentucky playing music with his sons Albert and Claud Livers. Other black musicians around New Liberty that Bill remembered were fiddler Hood Livers, guitarist Chester Morton, jug and washboard player Navy Pitts, and drummer Sylvester Carl, an ensemble that sounds like it must have been a jug band in the style of the Cincinnati and Louisville jug bands.[1] Henry Gayle (1883-1956) was another black fiddler in the area that Bill went to learn from as a young boy. Yet another fiddler he learned from was Clarence Orr, a white fiddler who played left-handed. Bill also spoke of learning tunes from a piano player who played for the silent movies, from wax cylinders played on an Edison Talking Machine, from musicians who came through the area with the medicine shows, and from the musicians who would gather on Saturday afternoons to play in the yard of the Owen County Courthouse.

Everything Bill played, from the old fiddle tunes of his family to the popular blues and jazz songs he picked up along the way, was reinterpreted and transformed by his exuberant spirit and love for connecting with his audience. When performing, he seemed to go to another level and channel pure love for the moment and for the people who were lucky enough to be there with him.

Bill’s fish fries were the occasion for some raucous partying during the time that we knew him. People would come from surrounding counties and even from out of state. Bill’s wife Hattie was a great singer who sounded a lot like Billie Holiday, and she would steal the show when she made up her mind to sing. Unfortunately, Bill did not usually play his best in these situations where drink flowed freely, and consequently many people had the impression that he was a good entertainer but not a very good fiddler. But when he was around other good fiddlers and didn’t have too much to drink, he could turn it up and turn their heads around. One of the purposes of this project is to share some of those times when Bill was on his game and putting his soul into his music.  Like all great old-time fiddlers, he was great in his own way, and that is how he should be remembered.

The recordings we have of Bill were made under less-than-ideal conditions. We were young and wild and more interested in the moment than in posterity.  The settings ranged from festivals to bars to barns, and nearly all of it was recorded on cassette, but we think Bill himself comes through as he truly was.

The ideas we are hearing in discussions about race today do not describe the experiences we had working with, fishing with, traveling with, and playing music with Bill Livers. How could we as college-educated middle class white boys and girls understand and connect with this black man whose life was so different from ours? We played with Bill for eighteen years. When Bill laughed, we laughed. When Bill hurt, we hurt with him. Everywhere we went the racial codes were there just beneath the surface, but Bill had a way of disarming prejudice and touching people’s hearts. This may have evolved as a survival mechanism, but it was interesting to watch how it worked.  As Bill straddled and negotiated the color line, we struggled to see things as he saw them, and we learned valuable lessons. We would always be white, but we touched each other, and we were implicated in each other’s lives.

We know today, thanks to George Gibson and many others, how much our traditional music owes to black people. Whether the fiddle, the banjo, the guitar, or the vocal styles, our music is mixed-race in equal proportion, black and white.  We were most fortunate to experience this up close with such a remarkable and charismatic individual as Bill Livers. He was beloved in Owen County and beyond, and his memory will live on in the hearts of everyone who knew him.

—John Harrod – From an interview with Bill Livers by Burnham Ware in Living Blues Magazine (No. 51, Summer 1981)

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Encountering Fiddling Bill Livers

I first encountered African American fiddler Bill Livers on a night I will never forget. He was a tall, lean man in overalls, carrying a fiddle and bow, being led into an active party scene. As a young college student from a small town in Georgia, I had come to Kentucky State University to study chemistry and biology and to be part of the university’s renowned marching band. While there, I also shared my passion for dance with the community. It was through a dance collaboration that I met Bill Livers.

That night, I found myself at a Halloween party in Owenton, Kentucky, hosted by someone introduced to me as “Scum Boy” and his sidekick, “Scum Dog.” My dance colleague Meriah had invited me, and I quickly realized I was the only African American guest. The party was held in a small wooden shack with an outdoor bathroom. While that detail gave me a moment of hesitation, I soon found myself immersed in the evening’s festivities drinking, laughing, and enjoying the company around me. Then, the atmosphere shifted.

The shack’s front door creaked open, and an elderly Black couple entered. Their presence immediately caught my attention. Though the crowd welcomed them enthusiastically, I noticed how the woman gently guided the older man as he shuffled forward, gripping her hand with one of his and carrying his fiddle in the other. As I observed him closely, he appeared blind as she led him to a spot, reassured him, and disappeared into the night. And then, he played. Later, I learned that he had cataracts that challenged his vision.

At first, the fiddle’s sound was piercing, almost a screech, but it quickly transformed into something mesmerizing. The music filled the room, shifting from raw and unfamiliar to deeply moving. I had never witnessed a performance like this before, especially not from a Black man standing at the center of a mostly white crowd in this tiny shack. He played with passion, his foot stomping in rhythm as he sang, the tempo intensifying. The room erupted in dance, the energy infectious.

I had always thought of this kind of music as just  “country music,” something I had only seen white musicians perform on television. But that night, I felt something different. The music took hold of me. It was exhilarating, celebratory, alive. I danced with everyone until the first light of dawn peeked over the horizon.

On the drive back to campus, I held onto two names: Bill Livers and his wife, Hattie. Something about that experience stayed with me, embedding itself deep in my soul. As I matured, I found myself asking who was this extraordinary Black fiddler, blind yet full of life, playing music with such unrestrained joy? I needed to know more.

Looking back, that night taught me an invaluable lesson: no one should dictate the kind of music a person can love, especially when it speaks to their soul.

—Carol Tucker-Burden

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Comments from band members

Bill offered the world a simple invitation to enjoy his music. He offered it to anyone with a point of his bow or a turn of his eye toward individual listeners. I always claim that I was a graduate of the Bill Livers School of Performing Arts.  It takes a certain amount of insecurity to stand in front of a crowd and make everyone love you, but Bill did that more often than not.  Looking back through the lens of years, I can more appreciate the courage it took for him to play the many audiences and venues that were so foreign to the culture he was raised in. The many hours we spent together riding to gigs are cherished times for me of both laughter and tears.  —Ben Griffith

Bill was more than a musician for me. He was the consummate performer, as well as friend, mentor, and sometimes accessory. His entire life was writ large in his performances: his being happy with much less than we are used to, his sense of fun, and more than a few heartaches. As much as he played up the “no fool, no fun” routine, he had more dignity and gentleness in his heart than anyone I ever knew.    —Eric Larson

Bill’s way of swinging every tune and making it jump more than other fiddlers immediately made any audience move and smile. He was an immense gift to a world that had long denied equity and peace to an entire race. In his life and in his music, Bill succeeded in transcending his societal chains.    — Jane Harrod

Bill was a force of nature.  His music was an extension of his desire to make people happy.  His goal was to have everyone in the audience smile back at him.  And he put the same effort and love into his fish fries. He would fish all winter with his friends and freeze the fish so that he could have several fish fries during the summer.  At every performance, he would invite the entire audience to his fish fries. There was no telling who might show up at those gatherings.
Bill showed me how to play the fiddle.  He would describe his style as “rough as a cob.”  It was only much later in life that I realized just how good a player Bill was.  He had a style all his own.  You have to know something about fiddling to appreciate what he put into his playing.  At the end of every show, he would always say, “God bless all you all”.   —Larry Green

There are two types of musicians. For one type, the artist is the center, and the music is there to highlight his or her virtuosity. For the second type, the music is the star, and the performer is there to bring it to life. Bill Livers made the music his message. His music was carried by his magnetic personality and his search to find the Good Times. Bill was not a virtuoso, but he achieved what he set out to do. Everyone loved him, and he brought the joy of his music to anyone who stopped to listen.       —Tom Rein