Only Johnny Gimble could make two bars of music feel like a magic trick.

There’s a line in Fiddlin’ Around—a quick D-augmented phrase that flashes by almost before you know it’s there—that gives the whole tune its lift, its grin, its spark. It’s the musical equivalent of Johnny raising an eyebrow right before telling a joke. And the more you listen to it, the more you realize how much is tucked inside something so small.

We’re not looking at the whole tune. We’re simply taking a closer look at a moment that slips by in a heartbeat and noticing the ways it changes depending on when, where, and how Johnny played it. It’s the fiddle workbench—where the bow, the ear, and the imagination get to wander purely for the joy of it.

There’s also something fitting about how the phrase we’re studying comes from a tune called Fiddlin’ Around. In everyday language, it means tinkering, trying things, letting your hands wander until something good appears. That’s exactly what Johnny did with this line across his recordings. He didn’t lock it in place. He let it breathe. He let it lean left or right depending on the moment. He fiddled around with it in the truest sense—not carelessly, but curiously. And by lining up these variations, we’re doing a little of the same: taking a phrase that slips by quickly and giving it room to show its shape.

Johnny recorded Fiddlin’ Around in several distinctive settings: the 1974 Capitol LP, the Honeysuckle Rose soundtrack, the Down Home TV performance with Aly Bain, and an earlier video floating around from the Ranch Radio upload. Each version shows the same melodic idea dressed differently—sometimes lower and warmer, sometimes brighter and more forward, sometimes loose and conversational. What begins to emerge across these versions is not just stylistic difference, but a way of handling melody itself: flexible, responsive, and shaped by circumstance rather than fixed on paper.

Here’s how that moment unfolds across those recordings.

The Honeysuckle Rose version carries that unmistakable late-’70s Johnny Gimble glow—smooth, relaxed, and a little playful. The opening gesture hints at a lower register that might reflect his five-string fiddle work during that era, where the added range gives certain double-stops a softer, fuller bloom. Whether it’s the instrument or simply Johnny’s touch that day, the whole phrase settles easily before lifting into the augmented color. It feels confident, unhurried, and fully in its own skin.

The Down Home variation leans toward conversation. Johnny plays like he’s trading stories between phrases—light bow, loose timing, everything sitting just a hair behind the beat. The line opens up, the spacing widens, and the swing feels like it’s carried in the breath rather than the hand. If the Honeysuckle Rose version is a studio smile, this one is a porch grin.

The earlier Ranch Radio cut brings a brighter, more forward edge. The bow attack is cleaner and more vertical, with less low-register cushioning beneath the phrase. The augmented figure lands more pointedly, and the rhythmic placement nudges slightly ahead of center rather than settling behind it. The line feels leaner—energy without rush, precision without stiffness. Side by side, the three versions remind us that Johnny’s voice wasn’t fixed. It grew, mellowed, and opened up over time. Same phrase. Same notes on paper. Three different attitudes.

And that leads to a natural question: What does this line look like when one fiddle carries it alone?

Some of Johnny’s touches—especially those lower double-stops in the Honeysuckle Rose take—belong to a slightly wider sonic world: five-string color, twin-fiddle harmony, or that gentle supportive line that sits just underneath a melody in Western swing bands. When you work with a single fiddle voice, you choose the pieces that speak clearly and still honor the feel.

Your version begins where the line sits most naturally on a four-string instrument while preserving the contour, lift, and playful swing of Johnny’s idea. The gestures that lean too far into the low register become implied harmony—something the ear senses even if the bow doesn’t place every pitch literally. What remains is the shape of the phrase, the forward motion into the augmented color, and the spark that gives the tune its pulse. It’s one way—among many—to let the gesture sing without trying to pin it down note for note.

Studying these variations side by side reveals something deeper than a technical detail. It offers a glimpse into Johnny’s way of thinking. He didn’t treat melodies like monuments. He treated them like living things. A phrase could brighten or soften. It could swing wide or tighten up. It could shift depending on the room, the players, the moment, or the mood.

And maybe that’s why this two-bar phrase still feels so alive. It’s not just a lick—it’s a small window into a musician who kept his music moving, always listening, always shaping, always fiddlin’ around.

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Listening Notes

1️⃣ Johnny Gimble — “Fiddlin’ Around”

From Honeysuckle Rose: Music from the Original Soundtrack (Columbia/Legacy, 1980)

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2️⃣ Johnny Gimble — “Fiddlin’ Around”

From Down Home (Aly Bain TV Series, 1985)

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3️⃣ Johnny Gimble — “Fiddlin’ Around”

Early performance (Ranch Radio YouTube upload)

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4️⃣ Johnny Gimble — “Fiddlin’ Around”

From Fiddlin’ Around (Capitol Records, 1974)

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Written as part of the Reflections Series for The Fiddle Canon Project — exploring the living traditions, histories, and voices within American fiddle music.

© 2026 Brian Arrowood. All rights reserved.

Long before microphones and contests, “Sally Goodin” was just a tune that made people move. Its earliest traces reach back to the southern Appalachians of the 1800s, where it existed in two simple parts — enough for a dance floor and a long night. Like so many mountain tunes, it traveled not by ink and paper but by ear and memory. Each fiddler bent it to their own rhythm, giving the melody new life every time a bow met the strings.

Some say it wasn’t even called “Sally Goodin” at first. In Kentucky, it may have gone by names like “Boatin’ Up Sandy” or “The Old Bell Ewe and the Little Speckled Wether.” One story claims Confederate soldiers under John Hunt Morgan were camped along the Big Sandy River during the Civil War when they renamed an old local tune for the woman who ran the nearby boardinghouse — Sally Goodin, who fed and cared for them while they rested. Another tale tells of a fiddle contest, where Sally chose her future husband — a fiddler named Goodin — by the tune he played for her. Whether fact or folklore, the name stuck, and the tune became inseparable from it.

As the melody drifted westward, “Sally Goodin” took on a new identity. In Texas, where fiddlers prized inventiveness and tone, a two-part dance number became a multi-part exhibition. A fiddler might stretch it into ten or twelve variations — long phrases, double-stops, and bow pulses that tested skill and imagination. What began as a social dance tune turned into a personal challenge, a way of saying, this is who I am through the fiddle.

That evolution reached the world stage in 1922, when a fiery red-haired Texan named Eck Robertson walked into a New York studio and recorded “Sallie Gooden” for Victor Records — one of the first commercial fiddle recordings ever made. Robertson’s version exploded with energy, cross-tuned in AEAE, and brimming with the rhythmic drive that would come to define Texas-contest style. He claimed to have played it “up to fourteen different ways,” and listening to that record today, you can feel the confidence of a man standing at the border between folk tradition and recorded history. It was a watershed moment: fiddle music had entered the modern age.

By the time Byron Berline brought the tune into Bill Monroe’s band in the 1960s, “Sally Goodin” had already become legend. Berline’s version carried the Texas fluidity into the sharper edges of bluegrass — fast, elegant, and meticulously phrased. From there, it became a standard in nearly every fiddler’s vocabulary, the kind of piece you could call at a jam anywhere in America and someone would smile and take the lead.

What makes “Sally Goodin” remarkable isn’t only its endurance but its adaptability. In the Ozarks, players like Bob Holt kept it closer to the old two- or three-part dance form. In Texas, it remained a contest showcase. Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys swung it through dance halls with steel guitar and drums. The same melody could sound like a frontier ballad, a jazz improvisation, or a contest warm-up — depending on who held the bow.

And next year, as the United States turns 250 years old, it’s worth pausing to notice what that means. A tune like “Sally Goodin” — born in the hills, shaped by movement, redefined in each new region — is America. It carries the fingerprints of migration, imagination, and reinvention. From Appalachian porches to Texas stages, it’s a melody that keeps traveling, keeps changing, and still belongs to everyone who plays it.

That’s why it endures. “Sally Goodin” isn’t just one fiddler’s tune or one generation’s memory. It’s a real American classic — alive each time the bow draws its first note.

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Written as part of the Reflections Series for The Fiddle Canon Project — exploring the living traditions, histories, and voices within American fiddle music.

© 2025 Brian Arrowood. All rights reserved.

Kenny recorded it twice with Josh Graves — both times listed as “Windy City” — and later revisited the tune on his Spider Bit the Baby album under the same name. In many discographies, and in Alison Krauss’s recording, the piece appears as “Windy City Rag,” though in Kenny’s original releases and recording credits it’s often simply “Windy City.”

Interestingly, the title “Windy City Rag” helps distinguish it from her later 2017 album Windy City, which features Alison’s rendition of a completely different song — the bluegrass classic “Windy City,” written by Bobby Osborne and Pete Goble. The shared title across these, at first seemingly unrelated works, often adds to the confusion.

What I’ve been trying to track down is whether there’s an earlier recording of Kenny playing “Windy City” — perhaps a solo cut or studio take that predates the sessions with Josh. To follow that trail, I called Ronnie Eldridge, a close friend of Kenny’s and the person who first made it possible for me to visit him years ago. Ronnie arranged those first visits — the ones where I got to sit in Kenny’s home, show him my fiddles, record some video, and take a few photos while we talked about music. Kenny was in good spirits then — relaxed and generous with his stories.

Later, after his health declined, I returned again — this time to the hospital, where I played his own version of “Pass Me Not” for him in the critical care unit. Two very different moments, but both reminders of what it means to stand close to the music that shaped you.

I haven’t heard back from Ron yet, but if anyone might remember the earliest session for “Windy City,” it’s him. Sometimes tracing a tune isn’t just about discographies or liner notes — it’s about memory, friendship, and the quiet persistence of the melodies that refuse to be forgotten.

1️⃣ Kenny Baker & Josh Graves — “Windy City”

From Tennessee–Kentucky Favorites (Montana Country, 1987)

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Featuring: Charlie Cushman (banjo), Josh Graves Jr. (bass), Josh Graves (dobro), Steve Whitter (dobro), Burt Hoffman (drums), Kenny Baker (fiddle).

2️⃣ Kenny Baker & Josh Graves — “Windy City”

From Flying South (Ridge Runner, 1986)

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Featuring: Don Van Winkle (banjo), Stephanie Macchia (bass), Kenny Baker (fiddle), Marty Javors (guitar), Hank Harrison (mandolin), Slim Richey (producer), Buck Graves (dobro).

3️⃣ Alison Krauss — “Windy City Rag”

From Two Highways (Rounder Records, 1989)

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4️⃣ Osborne Brothers — “Windy City”

From Bobby & Sonny (Decca Records, 1972)

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Written as part of the Reflections Series for The Fiddle Canon Project — exploring the living traditions, histories, and voices within American fiddle music.

© 2025 Brian Arrowood. All rights reserved.

This space is where I share reflections, thoughts, and progress from the ongoing work of The Fiddle Canon Project — a journey of tracing, preserving, and celebrating the voices that live within our music.

The Canon continues to grow quietly behind the scenes — sometimes through research, sometimes through performances, and sometimes just through listening. Each small step feels like another thread in a larger tapestry that connects tunes, people, and stories across time.

I’ll be posting occasional updates and reflections here — thoughts from the workbench, glimpses into the music, and maybe a few things still finding their shape.

Thanks for being part of this unfolding path — your presence and curiosity mean more than you know.

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Written as part of the Reflections Series for The Fiddle Canon Project — exploring the living traditions, histories, and voices within American fiddle music.

© 2025 Brian Arrowood. All rights reserved.