by Ron Andrico
November 2, 2023

See Kerry Blech, Appalachian Master – FRC751

I first met Kerry on a sunny April 22nd in 1970, the original Earth Day. I was in high school and had taken on the task of clearing trash and debris from the west bank of the infamous Cuyahoga River. After filling more than a few trash bags, I encountered a throng of other young Earth Day people, among them a very tall, thin specimen wearing a long army surplus coat and sporting wire-rimmed glasses that sat atop an impressive beak. He didn’t have much to say, and neither did I.

I soon graduated high school and [a buddy] sold me his banjo for $20. Looking for advice on how to approach [playing it], I read that if you wanted to learn to play folk music, you had to have the Harry Smith Anthology of American Folk Music. So I legged it down to the Kent Community Store, and when placing the order, the [fellow] at the checkout counter stopped and said, “If you like this kind of music, you have to meet our folk music guy working in the back of the store.” After a few moments, out sauntered Kerry, and away went I down my musical path.

Kerry talked about people in the local music scene and the band in which he was playing mandolin, the Standing Rock Stringband. At that time, he was mad to learn the fiddle and spent his free time traveling a few hours south to meet and record old fiddlers. He invited me to come back to the shop and gave me a pile of tape recordings he made on Tommy Jarrell’s front porch. I was hooked. I found myself visiting the record shop often and carrying away more tapes from Kerry than LPs purchased from the shop, but I suppose that was part of their anti-profit ethic.

Shortly thereafter, I had the recurring itch to move out West, and I kept those treasured tapes playing on a loop until I had memorized every squeak, grunt, snort and cough…and the tunes. Kerry was an excellent correspondent and sent frequent letters scrawled in minuscule cursive on the backs of flyers that he designed for concerts and folk music events. He also kept sending tapes of new repertory, which I soaked up.

Returning to Kent, the first things that happened were informal music with Kerry and jams at the Boulder Junction folk music venue in Uniontown, Ohio. We formed a trio with Gary Dulabaum and named ourselves the “Champeen Catgut Ticklers” after Kerry and I won ribbons in a few fiddle contests — Kerry even fashioned a band logo. We had a blast for the year that we played together, playing concerts at Boulder Junction, visiting fiddler Rector Hicks, and playing at the Portsmouth “Canal Days” festival. But I was again suffering from wanderlust and wanted to make another go of it out West. Before I left, I recorded Kerry playing a bunch of tunes for me to learn, with the proviso that no one else will ever hear the tape. I’m sticking to my promise.

After a few years, Kerry decided to make the move out West himself, stopping at my place in Portland for a few days before making his way to Seattle. The Seattle fiddle music scene was quite active, and he had met his partner Sheila by that time. We still kept in touch, compared child-rearing notes, and visited frequently. I did quite a bit of carpentry work on their house, stopping for long sessions of tunes on every occasion. But as time passed, I delved more and more into the lute and found myself playing less and less fiddle music. One of the last times we got together was a stop off at Kerry’s with an all-night session, ultimately on the way to a gig on Orcas Island. This was to play for the wedding of Caleb Klauder and December Carson with members of the band that eventually became Foghorn.

I may have mixed up the dates, but Dave Mount and I made one last trip from Portland to Seattle in September 1995 to hang out with Kerry, and at that time I took the photo that adorns the top of the page. The setting was Allen Hart’s back garden on a typically drizzly Seattle afternoon, and I think this was the last time I saw Kerry in person. We sat in the garden, played tunes, passed around banjos and fiddles, and generally did the abnormal sort of things fiddlers normally do. Soon after, I moved back East once more, and then he high-tailed it to Florida. We kept in touch occasionally until his health problems interfered with his ability to correspond.

Kerry was at the same time warm and generous, opinionated and judgmental, curious to learn, yet certain of his knowledge. Whenever I asked him about a specific tune, I would end up with a dissertation on that tune, its possible origins, who played it, all the cognates and variants good and bad, and ultimately the “right” way to play it. Recently revisiting my collection of old cassette tapes, I was reminded yet again how much influence he had on me, my repertoire and my approach to music — not just fiddle music but my entire musical persona. It has everything to do with diligent research, honoring the sources, sharing the repertory, maintaining a sense of community, playing like you mean it, and leaving everyone wanting more.

That is a bit of what Kerry taught me, and I’m sure I will continue to be reminded of his presence when a misfiled photo tumbles out of the pages of a book, or a letter scrawled on the back of a flyer surfaces amongst files of sheet music, or when I am squinting at his tiny handwriting on the label of an old cassette. Thanks, Kerry. I remember.