Guest Contrib: Matt Miller talks about 1SASP Festival

An original music festival will take place this Saturday, March 21st, from 4-10pm, at Ploughman Taproom in Gettysburg. Its name, 1SASP, comes from it being the 1st Saturday of Spring. I want to tell you about the amazing folks who are playing, but I also wanted to talk a bit about why an original music festival is so important, and so powerful. The best way to explain is to relate a few stories about my own experiences playing and listening to original music. It's been a crazy journey, full of serendipity and good fortune. If you prefer, you can scroll to the end to hear what I have to say about John Dolly, Jonathan Ingels, Bekah Foster, Billy Jones and myself (a bit), the Mimic, and Pale Barn Ghosts. I'm so honored to share the stage with them, and excited to hear everyone play. But if you can spare the time to read the rest, it'll give you some idea of how I arrived at my love for original music, and came to appreciate how much it can mean to a community. Along the way, I'll relate some of  the history of live music in Gettysburg. I'm grateful to have been here to see a lot of it; and so appreciative of where we are as a community, and a scene.

There is something special that happens when you listen to original music live.

Let me clarify, quickly, that when I say “listen to original music”, I mean you hear music performed by the writer, or written by the performer, or however you'd like to frame it. You are listening to someone present their own work.

When you do, every shade of meaning; every overtone of emotion; every word, every chord, every note, is aligned with the moment it was created, because it's coming from the person who created it. It's impossible for anyone else to replicate that presentation, or give that depth of experience.

That might sound like a lot of mumbo-jumbo, and maybe it is. To be honest, I'm trying to figure it out myself, in a very real sense. I've been performing for lo these thirty years (yikes), and in that time I have witnessed innumerable original songs being played; and they always cut right through me. At open mics, in coffee shops, in bars, on street corners, hearing someone play their own music always hits hardest. Sure, hearing someone play a cover tune that you love can be nice, but for me it has never come close to the experience of hearing someone play a song they came up with themselves. (When you think about it, when you go see your favorite band, you're listening to their own original music, too. Is it such a stretch to say, one of the reasons those shows are so powerful – apart from you maybe knowing all the words by heart – is that you're getting it from the source?) So, when I say that there's something special that happens when you listen to original music live, that's simply been my experience. The rest is just me trying to express my understanding of the phenomenon, based on three decades of experiencing it.

I hosted my first open mic in 1998; I shudder to think what a terrible sound guy I was. It was in Santa Fe, New Mexico. There was a music store in town, named Strings and Things, that would let you borrow a PA as long as you plugged their store a few times during the night. Amazing. And, fortunately for me and everyone else, there were people who came out to play, who did know how to run sound, who were happy to help. That was my first experience hearing a variety of people play their own songs. There was one guy named Kevin Miller (no relation) who played a fretless acoustic-electric bass and sang; he had a song called The Uptight Meat Song (“And now it's tiiime, to eat your vegetables...”); he sang about someone stealing a pack of steaks by hiding them in their pants (“Don't try that with a real cow”). The first time he played that song at my open mic, I sat in with him, came up with a chord progression on the spot, and laughed my ass off. He returned the favor for one of my songs, and came up with a slick bassline. We made a band, kind of; he sat in on a number of my shows. I don't know what happened to him; we always said we'd try to find a drummer whose last name was Miller, and call ourselves No Relation. It didn't happen, at least in part because I left Santa Fe in the fall of 1998. But obviously, he made an impression. He wasn't the only one; there were dozens of songwriters. There was a guy who had written a movie script, and the soundtrack; he'd describe the scene as he was playing the opening chords (I remember something about a helicopter flying towards, or along, the coast). There was a guy who played piano, and wrote his own tunes; the room (the Petroglyph Lounge in the Marriot) had a grand piano. There was a girl who played bass and sang. And so many others, playing their own songs, all different, sincere, and powerful.

As you do, in your 20s, you dream about greater success. But simply playing your songs at open mics, and having that emotional connection with audiences through your music; spending time with other musicians who were also writing songs; being part of that electricity that is the heart of such a community – it made so much sense. We knew we were doing something real, something great, something inspired; it must only be a matter of time til we made it, right? Honestly, though, for myself I enjoyed the experience of being in and of that community so much, that where we might be going wasn't nearly as important as being where we were, doing what we did in that moment. It was exhilarating, intoxicating, and transcendent; in short, it was the best.

It was also in Santa Fe that I had my first experience performing my own music for a roomful of unsuspecting strangers. There was a coffee shop there called the Aztec Cafe (now gone, alas) that was the height of hipness. They booked me to play in the spring of 97; they paid $20, and coffee, and you could put out a tip jar. No PA – fully acoustic, in the back room. There were 15 or 20 people there, drinking their coffee and having their conversations; I went in, sat down in the corner with my guitar, put out the tip jar they provided, and started talking and playing my songs. As a first audience for a solo show, it was probably ideal; my songs were sometimes overly intellectual and often weird, but so were they. They listened, responded, and were attentive to my stories, and I felt like a god when I went home with another $20 in tips – at a time when hourly wages were between $5 and $6 per hour, that was a full day's wages in two hours. I can only imagine that my inexperience, which must have been obvious, was endearing.

Knowing what I know now about the power of original music, the simple, heartfelt sincerity of the songs surely carried the day. It never occurred to me to try to sound like someone else; to strive to imitate a style, or present some appearance. That was a by-product of my absolute ignorance of these things. I'd never intended to be a performer when I started learning guitar. I'd simply always been fascinated by music (and, if I'm being honest, felt like it might help me overcome my awkardness and shyness around girls, or at least compensate for it). All I really knew how to do was be myself in that musical context. In hindsight, that inability to do what you were “supposed” to do – have a sound that sounded like the next big thing, I guess – was probably my biggest asset. People respond to sincerity; and there I was, unable to be anything else.

The truth is, everyone likes discovering new music; everyone needs that connection with that transcendent other, which you can call inspiration, god, or God, the muse, or the collective unconscious. We need to communicate with that – to commune. Music is, and has always been, the primary vehicle for that communion. And nothing does that better than hearing it from the source. The person who writes a song is in communion with it when they write; and when they play it for you, they provide as direct a connection to it as you can get without doing it yourself. The more unfiltered and sincere their moment of creation was, the more direct and unfiltered the connection they mediate.

There's truly nothing else like it.

When I left Santa Fe in 1998, I returned to Gettysburg, it was with a new self-awareness as a performer, and a songwriter; and a new awareness of what it could mean to be part of a community of songwriters. Finding places to play together, to meet, to hear, and to try new songs, to experience that communion together. It takes on a sort or religious language; but I'd argue, that is not just a coincidence, that's the point. It is very much a kind of religious experience. There was one person who regularly attended the Knob Hall open mic 7-8 years back who called it “music church.” There's an ecstasy that comes when you play and hear music together. Going to church as a kid, singing together, was my first experience with it. (All the talk was just window dressing, to my 8 year old self.) Being part of a songwriting community puts the power to evoke that into our hands, collectively, completely and thoroughly.

In 1998 the Gettysburg Coffee Company had just moved to their new location, where the Ragged Edge stands today. They had live music, and an open mic. I got to town in September, and wound up playing every Saturday night there, in the downstairs room. Kevin Mooney (whose songs are spectacular) played Fridays; and they had open mic on Wednesdays.. Sometimes, there would be a show Sunday.  That little enclave, and that opportunity to play, was enough for the same kind of community I'd experienced in Santa Fe to come into being. It was like a creative quorum; we listened to one another, played together, talked, and inspired each other. It was, again, the best. And again, it showed me – viscerally and unequivocally – that the spirit of music was everywhere to be found. That same transcendent experience was here, in little ole Gettysburg. We were all in it, and of it, together; making and listening to each other's original music.

Those days at GCC, it was like we were all taking a turn, throwing another log on the fire, sitting around the blaze of light that was our own creativity and inspiration. I know it might sound exaggerated, like I'm laying it on thick through nostalgia-tinged glasses. I'm sure to some extent I am. But the truth is, that first glow of that musical community, that creative quorum, was raw and pure, the more so because it was so new. There had been a prior iteration of a downtown coffee shop, named Food for Thought, in the early to mid-90s; their sign hangs in the alley beside the Ragged Edge now, in fact. I wasn't in town as much then, so I can't speak to the scene that happened there. It was only around for a couple years. Gettysburg Coffee Company was the new flag planted in the ground; and the scene there was like a breath of the freshest air.

I count myself as extremely fortunate for many reasons; but perhaps none more so, than for having been a part of that scene in Gettysburg back then. For me, personally, it happened at the perfect time. You can sometimes identify providence in hindsight. In the ensuing years, I went on to play music a lot. In fact, between then and now, I've only spent a very few years not making a living playing music. That would not have been possible without that formative experience here in Gettysburg; from Fall of 1998 to Spring of 1999, when I left town to be a tour guide around the country; and from the Fall of 1999 to the Spring of 2000, when I left town to play music out west. Those years here were formative in a way I can't encapsulate. I am humbly grateful for it, in a way I'll never be able to express. It was my first experience finding an audience for my songs; and being part of an audience for other people's songs. It is the foundation of my certainty that there is an audience for original music here, and everywhere.

At that time, I played out in Gettysburg at least once a week. At the coffee shop for a while, then at the Blue Parrot, on Thursdays. I wrote songs, and honed my craft as a performer, and tried to find gigs in the area. The going was tough in those days, which is why I wound up going out west in 2000. That all proved to be providential as well, but that's another story. The short version is, I found myself enfolded in another community of songwriters in Arizona, in a region that also offered seemingly boundless opportunity – enough to really make a living at it, when at that time it had been a struggle to do so in Gettysburg. Original music was central to my experience out west as well, and further solidified my love for, and determination to play and listen to, original music.

I remember very distinctly being back in Gettysburg for the holidays sometime around 2006 or 2007, shortly after Garryowen had opened; and for the first time seeing a band play there. I was blown away that it was happening, finally, in Gettysburg. Bar scenes at that time naturally lent themselves to cover bands, and that's what they played; but they played songs I had never heard in bars before – Holiday in Cambodia by the Dead Kennedys; Secret 77 by Bad Brains. It was a foot in the door for music in town, and it would lead to original music being played in bars in town, more and more; which, long story short, brings us to today, and 1SASP.

But first, let me go back to 2020 for a moment, and 5SAFE.

2020 was a leap year; that's not the most important fact about that year now, of course. But leap day was on a Saturday that year; and I realized that only happened once every 28 years. How cool, I thought. And, as I'd been thinking of doing a multi-venue local original music festival for a while, that seemed like a great moment for it. Little would we imagine, of course, that two weeks later we'd be hunkered down at home, afraid to touch doorknobs; but that's how it went. I'd done a single venue original music event at Waldo's the previous year, named SLOM (for Support Local Original Music), that had been a smashingly good time. With six local original acts, headlined by TxBxDx – who, if you ever saw them, will remember were absolutely awesome. I'd been scheming something at multiple venues ever since.

You see, from 2007 to 2011 in Flagstaff, AZ, I'd organized a monthly singer/songwriter event, where we'd have around six venues, with two or three songwriters at each one, playing original music on the second Saturday of each month, from 6 to 9. I called it Song Walk, in close parallel to Art Walk. It's astonishing now to think of how many original songwriters I got to know out there, who had an hour and a half or more of really good material. Basically, it was a monthly mini original music festival; so I knew it could work, and I was pretty sure it would work here, too. It's not a deep insight, to realize that people would be down to listen to their friends & neighbors play their own songs; really, it's something people have been doing for thousands of years, I think. The only mystery is why people don't do it more often.

I've been a fan of semi-mysterious festival abbreviations since I first went to South by Southwest in 1996, which of course is known as SXSW. A simple, shorthand for the name was 5SAFE – for 5th Saturday in February. And so it went; the weather was, thankfully, cooperative. We had folks at Knob Hall Winery (now gone), upstairs at the Garryowen, at Gettysburger – and at Ploughman. Three acts each, from 6 to 10pm, playing original music. It was a co-op music festival; every venue threw in a guarantee, which we pooled, to divide evenly among the performers. One person at each venue brought sound equipment, and they got an extra share; and I gave myself an extra one for organizing the whole thing.

I also had the not-so-brilliant idea to pool half the tips from each venue & divide it among the performers, so if one place had a more generous crowd, all could benefit. That proved to be an enormous, time consuming task, which most people would probably have seen coming. (I could not have handled it without the unlooked-for but deeply, truly appreciated assistance of Marilyn Dolly, who helped me count it and then divide it into piles.)  It took way too long, but the serendipitous side effect was that everyone gathered at Ploughman to wait for their cut. It took over an hour, I think; I'm not sure, as I was in a highly altered state of consciousness, from the excitement and stress of putting on the event, performing myself, and watching the other two acts. I had played at Ploughman, and started things off there; followed by The Mimic, which was then just Austin Greene and Jeff Colby. (They'd gotten their start playing at my open mic at Knob Hall, where they would just improvise songs on the spot; Jeff would start playing some cool, weird chord progression, and Austin would make up words and a melody. It was incredible.) followed by the Pomona Trio – an original jazz act, made up of Marc Jalbert on guitar and some vocals, Lisa Cadigan on vocals, and Bret Crawford on sax. I loved every moment of it. I was so proud of them all, and proud to be a part of it.

I was buzzing like crazy, completely intoxicated by the music that had been played there that night. As everyone filed in after their respective events, it was evident that they were all right there with me; faces aglow with the utter joy of playing and listening to each other's original music. The conversation, the energy in the room was cacophonous, electric, and joyful, and the high was indescribable. Long after we'd parceled out the last of the tip money (in most cases, the guarantees for each venue just went to the folks who played there – the math had worked out evenly, by some miracle, so we didn't have to make change; and I think I only needed to take one share from one person to give to another at another venue), people stuck around. I don't remember how long we stayed, but it was probably well past 1am, if not later. The high stayed high the entire time. It was extraordinary.

For many folks, it had been the first time they had played a show where they were explicitly asked to play their own songs, and only their own songs. In some cases they were surprised to see there had been an audience for it. It did not surprise me, because my experiences had shown that people everywhere love hearing new music. I would go so far as to say there's an under-served demographic for it; an invisible, unmet demand, that goes ignored because the conventional wisdom is so fixated on the mistaken idea that you have to play stuff people know. It was incredibly gratifying to see that mistaken idea wholly and resoundingly refuted; and to help other songwriters have the experience of playing their songs before a willing, eager audience.

Which brings me back to here and now; and to Ploughman Taproom.

If you go see music in town, you know that Ploughman has become the place to go see it. People travel from miles away to play and to spectate there. And it's all thanks to Ben Wenk and Rob Leib. In the years since they opened, Ben has been staunchly devoted to music; and Rob has proven to be incredibly adroit at finding and booking excellent original artists. It's evolved into a room that is known far and wide as a place to hear the best original music the region has to offer; and music from far outside the region, as well. It's become my favorite place to play in the area; and stands as one of my favorite places to play of all time. So this year, when I wanted to bring 5SAFE, Ben Wenk was the first person I talked to about it. I asked him at Cidernalia in mid-December, and he was into it immediately. As it happened, shortly thereafter events would transpire that meant I didn't have the bandwidth to put together a multi-venue event again; when I told Rob that, in early January, he proposed doing an event only at Ploughman, and 1SASP was born. 

I'm so glad he did, because let me tell you, this festival is going to knock your socks off, make your jaw drop, blow your hair back, make your head spin, and – as they say – blow your mind.

Let me tell you a bit about each act. (I mean, if you've made it this far, you're well past the point of me asking permission to ramble at you; but even so.)

John Dolly plays at 4pm. He teaches math at the high school; he's also the chess coach, which is how I met him, in a way. Back in 2017 or 2018, Knob Hall winery hosted a chess tournament, and I played (and lost). So when I started doing an open mic there, John would come in occasionally to play songs. He's part of a songwriting circle in Waynesboro, where you write a song each month, to a prompt voted on by the group, from ones submitted anonymously by the participants. The great thing (well, one great thing) about John is, he almost always hates the prompt; but always, always writes an incredibly cool, interesting song. It's wild, it's always unexpected, and I'm so thrilled he agreed to play, because he doesn't play out these days. I had the great pleasure of hearing him play my open mic a dozen times or so, and he was also a guest on my radio show on WZBT in the late 2010s. His songs span such a range of styles, by turns introspective, sardonic, heartfelt, strange, and silly. He's written one song a month for over ten years now, and I wish we could hear them all. He's terrified; it's adorable. But he played 5SAFE before, so I know he's got it in him; and I can't wait to hear him.

Jonathan Ingels is on at 5pm. He co-founded (along with Thomas Roue – more on him, anon) of the Waynesboro song circle. He played 5SAFE as well, but as he was at a different venue, I didn't get to hear his set, then; however, I've had the great, great good fortune to see him play songs at the song circle. He plays guitar with the same delicate, deft facility with which he writes and sings. Many of songs are, loosely defined, in the tradition of what you might call Americana; but his insight, his wit, transcend genre. Jon's songs are so thoughtful, and so relatable, and so good, that they are examples of the best you can find in that broad, broad category. (Really, when you say Americana, for me that includes every weird thing you might imagine; if you've ever listened to the 1957 Anthology of American Folk music, the six record set put out by Folkways, and reissued by Smithsonian-Folkways in 1997 or so, you'll know that American music has always been freaking weird, man). When he gets his teeth into a song, and an idea, he's relentless and fearless in pursuit; and he knows how to translate an idea into a fully-formed song, in in every detail. Jon is humble, soft-spoken, joyful, and a joy to hear. You'll love him.

Bekah Foster plays at 6pm. She needs little introduction around here. She's been playing music in the area, and playing excellent music in the area, for a long, long time. She's always occupied a place between folk and jazz, taking elements from both to make something that simultaneously and somehow effortlessly exceeds and preserves them. (The philosophical term would be “supersede”). She was a guest on my radio show as well, and I was blown away by the chords, progressions, and melodies she chose. Her songs, and her voice, are full of confidence and passion; the music she composes to accompany herself is often unexpected, yet seamless and transfixing. It is humbling and joyful to witness. The truth is, her voice is so good, she could be writing and playing three chord songs, and be wildly successful; that she chooses to take a path that is more complex – and hence, richer, deeper, more thought-provoking, and more engaging – is awesome, and a testament to the care and attention she brings; and, for anyone who has seen her play, a piece of great good fortune. I can't wait to hear her.

Going on at 7pm will be myself – Matt Miller – and Billy Jones. It would be entirely self-serving for me to tell you about me, here; suffice to say that I can't wait to play, and I am honored to share the stage with all of these folks. Instead, let me tell you about Billy, and how it is that he and I came to play together for the festival. And, to do that, I need to go off on one final brief tangent.

As you probably know, Ploughman has an open mic on Wednesdays. It is my habit most Wednesdays, after I've had dinner and watched Jeopardy with my mom, to haul myself in there & play. Rob (who runs sound) and Derek (who tends bar on Wednesday nights) are indulgent of my late arrival, and will usually allow me to go up and play a few songs, even if it is after last call. I love it; the last few folks there in the audience are the people who just can't get enough music, and they are always the greatest crowd you could ask for. Rob is a superb host, and patiently endures my requests for more vocals and guitar in the monitor, or more bass on the guitar (I play a baritone guitar, and am always yearning for it to be thumpier). And, sitting there at the table in front of the stage, is Billy Jones, with his magic box of a million harmonicas. OK, he “only” has about twenty-five of them. But he will sit in with anyone who asks. He'll ask for the key, blow through the harp to make sure while you start the song, and then proceed to lay down the most incredible, improvised accompaniment you have heard in your life. If you ask him to go off and solo a bit, he will; and that will absolutely slay, too. He's a machine; I always say when I play with him, he makes everything better, and it's true. I asked if he'd like to play with me for 1SASP, and I can't tell you how excited and grateful I was that he agreed. We've actually gotten together and done a little recording – once last April, and once last week. You could call it a rehearsal, I guess, though really the only thing we did in that vein was to make sure to find the right harp. After that, leave it to Billy; he will play something absolutely spectacular on each tune. I mean, I'd have a good time on my own; but I can't tell you how stoked I am to play with him. It will be a joyful experience.

Taking the stage at 8pm are The Mimic, who, you'll remember from my earlier rambling, played 5SAFE, as well. Back then, it was just Jeff and Austin; they've added members, now, and are a 5-piece band – two guitars, bass, drums, and two vocalists. They'll be appearing in a four-person form this time. Seven years ago, I had the great honor of putting down some saxophone and some flute for their then new album, The Mimic; and I can tell you, the evolution of their sound, from that initial, germinal, improvisational form they took back in 2018, to the full band they are now, is astonishing. The music is still strange and surprising, but entirely compelling. It is a mixture of rock and something resembling funk, with hints of prog; like the Red Hot Chili Peppers met Iron and Wine, and gave Elliot Smith a ride. (I find it annoying, when people make absurd musical comparisons, or strange combinations to describe something; but sometimes, that's the best you can do). You might call it surrealist yacht rock. The lyrics are intelligent, and strange, the music has so many cool twists and turns. I can't wait to see them.

Finally, taking the stage at 9pm will be Pale Barn Ghosts. It all starts with the songs of Thomas Roue (pronounced “rue”). He hosted open mic at Ragged Edge 20 years ago, which is when I first met him. I was freshly back from two years in Europe, mostly in Germany, scruffy and broken-hearted, I'd play the open mic, and again found an incredibly welcoming, rich musical community. Thomas was at its heart; he was a kind, generous host, as well as a phenomenal songwriter and performer. His songs are quirky and enthralling; his guitar work is precise, delicate, and at times savage, his lyrics, thoughtful, deft, and clever. He's the kind of singer-songwriter whose music is so particular to themselves, that when you hear it, it is hard to imagine what it might sound like with a band. But that's the astonishing thing about Pale Barn Ghosts; the members of the band come together to form a single neurological network that is an extension of Thomas. They are: the aforementioned John Dolly, who's playing his own set to start the evening off, on drums; Dean Vaccher on bass, who plays in so many bands, it'd be quicker to list the bands he doesn't play in; and Klaus Funk on guitar. Rhythmically and musically, they operate in such complete synchrony with Thomas: every stop, every strange, ironic lilt, every unexpected rhythmic change. It's the rarest phenomenon, to see a singer-songwriter's work translated to the larger musical context of a band so well; and I can't think of another example where it so thoroughly enhances and accentuates the songwriter's essential nature, preserving their identity so completely, while expanding upon and adding to it. Pale Barn Ghosts are a phenomenon.

So yes – 4-10pm this Saturday, March 21st, 2026, the 1st Saturday of Spring, at Ploughman Taproom, will be a night to behold. People say all the time, “you don't want to miss it”; but trust me, really and honestly, from the bottom of my heart and in the name of all I hold dear – you don't want to miss it.