Old drive-in theaters, fairgrounds, and backyards became a safer way to keep live music rolling through the last half of 2020. With a forecast that looks pretty darn murky, Jay Moye talked with performers and organizers who expressed cautious optimism and gratitude.
“With so much confusion about the future, music is one thing helping us all get through.” — Andrew Marlin, Mandolin Orange
Story by Jay Moye
Header Photo by Marisa Muldoon
Jason Isbell and Amanda Shires just left the stage at the Maggie Valley Festival Grounds, nestled in the shadows of North Carolina’s Great Smoky Mountains, when a chorus of car horns beckoned the married duo back for an encore.
For a venue that normally hosts classic car shows and bike rallies, these sounds are fairly familiar. But in a live music setting, they’re a decidedly 2020 phenomenon thanks to the mid-pandemic emergence of drive-in shows as a socially distanced alternative to indoor concerts. Honking has temporarily replaced applause, and flashing headlights are the new flickering cigarette lighters.
“One day we’ll bring the whole band, and we’ll get out of our cars and just lick all over each other,” Isbell joked with an unlit crowd he could barely see, his breath visible in the crisp November air. “Not now, because it’s not safe. But when it’s safe, I’m coming to lick your faces.”
Western North Carolina is a frequent tour stop for Isbell, usually backed by his muscular rock-and-roll band, the 400 Unit. His most recent shows in the region were held in much larger, louder, and more urbane venues like Asheville’s Thomas Wolfe Auditorium, with a few thousand fans standing shoulder to shoulder, singing along while swilling local beers and lining up to buy T-shirts at the merch stand.
The scene in Maggie Valley — about 35 miles west of Asheville — had a homier, more agrarian vibe. We were waved into the lot, located directly off the family resort town’s main drag of vintage motels and mom-and-pop craft stores, and directed to our parking spot. We climbed atop my car for a clear sightline of the stage and adjacent video screen, clutching BYOB glasses of wine under a blanket to prepare for dropping temperatures. Our neighbors could be seen reclining in pickup truck beds, perching on SUV tailgates, or poking through open sunroofs.
Vehicles arrive for a drive-in concert in Waynesville, North Carolina (Photo by Marisa Muldoon)
With large-scale concert tours and festivals on pause for the foreseeable future, and clubs and theaters shuttered, venue owners and promoters have been forced to think outside the box. Drive-in shows began popping up this summer in stadium parking lots, county fairgrounds, ski resorts, and other bespoke (and mostly dormant) outdoor concert venues. Livestream-fatigued fans could watch their favorite artists, live and in the (safely-distanced) flesh, for the first time in months. Tickets for the rain-or-shine events were sold per vehicle and assigned to private tailgating zones with room for camp-chair seating.
The concept harkens back to the drive-in movie theaters that became a staple of midcentury Americana. Baby boomers flocked to drive-ins for an affordable family outing or cozy date-night destination. In the late ’50s, more than 4,000 drive-ins were in operation across the country — mostly in rural areas. With gas prices spiking in the ‘70s, thanks to the oil crisis, Americans downsized their vehicles to save money. This trend (smaller cars are not as suitable for stretching out and catching a flick), along with the invention of the VCR, diluted the appeal of the drive-in. Additionally, suburban sprawl enticed theater owners to sell their multi-acre parcels to developers to build shopping malls or subdivisions. Around 300 drive-in theaters remain.
Country megastar Keith Urban was one of the first acts to apply the drive-in model to music in May with a surprise gig for frontline medical workers at the Stardust Drive-In in Watertown, Tennessee. Live Nation jumped on board shortly thereafter with a series of drive-in shows in Atlanta as restrictions on large gatherings eased, and The Avett Brothers played two sold-out dates at Charlotte Motor Speedway, reimagining the massive NASCAR track as a makeshift automobile amphitheater.
A couple enjoys a drive-in show in Waynesville, North Carolina (Photo by Marisa Muldoon)
Spectators and artists, as well as industry professionals whose livelihoods depend on live music, are reluctantly making the most of this “new normal.”
“It’s different, for sure, but so is everything else right now,” said Russ Keith, owner of the Grey Eagle Tavern and Music Hall in Asheville, North Carolina.
The Grey Eagle’s last full-capacity indoor show was March 13. The 550-capacity club launched the Maggie Valley series in September as one of its many pandemic-prompted pivots, which also include hosting small performances on its outdoor patio, livestreaming shows from an empty music room, and partnering with a local brewery to open two new outposts of its in-house taqueria.
“Once it became painfully obvious that there was no end in sight for the COVID era, we knew we had to start thinking of other ways to keep doing what we do,” Jeff Whitworth of Worthwhile Sounds and talent booker for the Grey Eagle, recalled through a mask backstage at the Isbell/Shires concert. “We saw drive-in shows as a way to stay relevant while also providing a service, in a way, to the community by offering a safe way to experience live music.”
Keith spotted the Maggie Valley Festival Grounds site on the drive back to Asheville from one of his restaurants. With a built-in infrastructure, including a permanent stage, bathrooms, and multiple entry and exit points, it seemed like an ideal destination for the drive-in concept.
After securing required permits from local government and health officials, Keith hired his Grey Eagle crew and a few local out-of-work roadies to staff the series. He made the difficult decision to forego permits for food and alcohol sales, allowing patrons to bring in coolers to limit movement or lingering in close-quartered beer lines.
“It was hard to turn away, considering that’s where a lot of our revenue comes from, but we always want to put safety and health first,” Keith said, adding that the logistics of each drive-in show are comparable to producing a single-day music festival. “The response from people thanking us for bringing [live] music back in some fashion has made everything worth it.”
When Whitworth began reaching out to his network of booking agents in April, many were skittish. “Nobody wanted to be the first,” he said, “because there was so much uncertainty about whether this was the right move or a socially conscious decision.”
Eventually, the first dominos fell with back-to-back bookings of bluegrass legends Sam Bush and Del McCoury. “When we put the Sam and Del shows on sale in the same week [in August], the floodgates opened,” Whitworth said. “Suddenly, no one wanted to be left out. They saw how seriously we were taking this from a safety standpoint.”
Mandolin Orange performs in Maggie Valley, North Carolina (Photo by John Zara)
One of the Grey Eagle’s next drive-in bookings was the folk/Americana married duo, Mandolin Orange. Andrew Marlin and Emily Frantz bundled up for a sold-out show on a chilly October night.
“We needed that, man,” recalled Marlin. “We stepped onstage with a huge adrenaline rush and stepped off feeling like we’d accomplished something for the first time in eight months.”
Like many artists, Marlin and Frantz tried their hand at streaming from their Chapel Hill, North Carolina, home in the early days of the pandemic. But the novelty quickly wore off for the band, which has toured nonstop for the last decade.
“The difference in playing in front of people, whether or not you can see or even hear them, is huge,” he explained. “It’s so much more rewarding onstage with an audience because you can feel that raw human exchange. It’s just an energy that’s indescribable and something we’ve really missed. As performers, we just need it. We’re creating these parts of ourselves to share with the world, and livestreams just don’t capture it.”
Fans are equally hungry for the experience. “With so much confusion about the future,” Marlin added, “music is one thing helping us all get through.”
Goose performs in Waynesville, North Carolina (Photo by Marisa Muldoon)
St. Paul and the Broken Bones played the fall finale of the Grey Eagle series. The eight-piece soul band rolled into the mountains after a pair of socially distanced “walk-in” shows in Charleston, South Carolina, over Halloween weekend — its first since March — followed by a handful of similar gigs in its home state of Alabama. Each one felt a little different.
“It’s the Wild West out there right now,” said bass player Jesse Phillips. “You just don’t know what it will look like until you’re there. We express our wishes for how things should be, then hope for the best.”
While Phillips admits to feeling some anxiety about sanctioning shows in such uncertain times and without full control, he’s quick to applaud the agility of the Grey Eagle and other organizers working to curate safe and fun environments for artists and fans alike. “We’re just grateful for the opportunity to dip our toes back into the waters and play for a live audience again,” he said.
The distanced setup has required some adjustment for some performers, however. “There’s a strange parallel universe quality, but you get used to it quickly,” Phillips explained. “The audience is farther away — up to 40 feet from the front monitors — and everyone is confined to their pods or cars, which makes it hard to tap into the energy of the crowd. You can’t see or hear much from the stage, which forces you to get into the headspace of playing versus feeding off that live energy.”
The Avett Brothers found themselves tailoring their performance for the cameras as they would on the set of a late-night TV show, knowing that many, if not most, eyes would be on the big screen towering above the Charlotte Motor Speedway stage (another 10,000 fans paid to watch the livestream from the comfort and safety of home).
“And that’s more about bringing people from the opposite side of the camera in — instead of reaching out to people,” Scott Avett told The Charlotte Observer, adding that the experience wasn’t much different than a large festival experience. “It just feels like they brought their car along to Bonnaroo or something.”
Woody Platt, lead singer and guitarist for Steep Canyon Rangers, concurs. “It’s not like it was,” he said. “But it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.”
Steep Canyon Rangers performing in Brevard, North Carolina (Photo by Seyl Park)
The Steep Canyon Rangers were on tour in Ireland when lockdowns sent them back across the pond on March 12. Fortunately, the Grammy-winning bluegrass group had three records in the can to fill the live music void during quarantine.
“It’s a blessing to have new music to share, but at the same time you want to get out and play these songs,” Platt said. With a traditional record release tour off the table, the group — which doubles as the backing band for comedian and banjo picker Steve Martin — had to find a way to promote their new music.
“We’re friends with an AV guy from Pennsylvania who developed a self-contained mobile rig specifically for the drive-in setup,” Platt said.
The stage folds down from the truck with a big LED screen overhead, full onboard production, and an FM transmitter to pipe the sound straight into cars. “And that was really important to us,” Platt noted, “because we wanted to keep the audience safe and in their vehicles.”
The Rangers announced a string of DIY drive-in shows in western North Carolina, starting at the Brevard Music Center, where they host an annual fundraising festival benefiting the local Boys & Girls Club chapter. The facility hosted drive-in movies all summer, so the staff was fluent in parking logistics and safety protocols. The Rangers recruited a few local sponsors and raised enough funds to cover production costs and make the shows free to attend.
“We had the mindset that although we’re struggling, we’re certainly not the only ones,” Platt said. “So if we could pull it off with sponsorships and make it free to the public, then it felt like a great thing to be able to offer. Because it’s a pretty unspoken fact that people are hungry for live music.”
Platt said these last few months have revealed the resiliency of the live music industry. “There’s no true handbook on what to do or how to do it, so we commend everyone who’s been willing to take a swing at it in these unique times,” he said. “Everyone is refining the model, and we wouldn’t be surprised if drive-in tours become a real thing in March or April. I think there are enough artists and fans that enjoy the experience enough to make it happen.”
When COVID-19 forced Jill Andrews to cancel a 30-date tour to support her new album, “Thirties” — first in April and then again in July — she brainstormed Plan B options. Conversations about a drive-in tour fizzled quickly. “It was hard to get a hold of those people,” the Nashville-based singer-songwriter said. “They’re not just sitting by the phone waiting on your call unless you’re Keith Urban.”
The smartest and safest solution, she decided, was to book small solo shows in people's backyards. Andrews had done several living room concert tours and was comfortable with the intimate, conversational vibe. This would be a similar setup, albeit outdoors and with face mask and social distancing requirements.
She even came up with catchy, clearly worded branding for the run: Outdoor Spaces and Covered Faces.
“We were very forward about what we were doing,” she said. “If I would have just said, ‘I'm gonna go out and play this tour,’ I would’ve been shamed all over the Internet, and for good reason.”
Before hitting the road, Andrews lost sleep. She questioned if she was doing the right thing, checking every box. But the tide turned during the tour. “We tried to fill every hole we could foresee as best we could, and my anxiety level definitely decreased as I saw how well it was working and how respectful everyone was being.”
She and her family crisscrossed the country in an RV, playing private outdoor shows for audiences of eight to 100. It was a team effort — her husband helped her set up the PA each night, and hosts were responsible for politely enforcing health and safety regulations with guests, who used their sanitized index fingers to sign a legal waiver on Andrews’ phone.
“Everyone was so grateful for the opportunity to see live music after such a long drought,” she said. “Some of them had never even heard my music and came out because I was the only show in town. They were just so happy to spend time around others — but not too close — and be in a public spot where they could feel human again.”
Andrews told me about one fan in Michigan who had just lost his job and credited her performance with brightening his outlook. “As a musician, you don't always realize how much it means to people,” Andrews added. “A lot of people look at music as a life need.”
Andrews also learned that the isolation of the pandemic had boosted fans’ collective tolerance for less-than-ideal concert-going conditions. “I played a show in Ohio, and it was piss-pouring the entire time,” she recalled. “There were about 80 people there, and no one left. They all just stood there and were so happy. Things people normally won't withstand, they will if they want them badly enough. And people want live music badly right now.”
With the 2021 live music forecast still murky due to spiking novel coronavirus case counts and uncertain timing of widespread vaccine availability, Andrews is considering another backyard tour in the spring. But she’s counting the days until normalcy returns.
“I’ll probably hug a lot of people,” she said with a laugh. “And just enjoy the simplicity of being a performer and not having to worry about asking people if they signed the waiver.”
Jay Moye is a writer, editor, communications consultant, and musician based in the mountains of North Carolina. This is his second piece for The Bitter Southerner.
