Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

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Buck and a Quarter

Celebrating the Queen of the South

By Lee Pace

The first day of 2025 represents the launch of year number 125 in the existence of the Carolina Hotel, the grand and glorious structure commissioned by Pinehurst founder James W. Tufts to serve as the centerpiece for his fledgling wintertime resort.

The hotel was built with four stories in a T-shape, “thus all the rooms are open to sunlight and air,” noted The Pinehurst Outlook. It had 250 individual rooms and 49 suites, each with telephones, fireplaces, electric lights, steam heat and velvet carpets. The east wing featured a music room where the Pinehurst orchestra played nightly.

“It is painted in colonial colors, yellow with white trimmings,” said the Outlook in early January 1901. “It commands a view of the whole village and the surrounding country in all directions. The grounds appropriated exclusively to the hotel are extensive and laid out in walks, bordered with trees, shrubbery and flowers. Roses, pansies, pinks and English violets are still in bloom.”

And most notably, it was located just a short stroll or trolley ride from “the most extensive and diversified golf ground in this country.”

The Carolina has been building on that legacy ever since.

The most famous names in golf have spent the night at The Carolina. Golf administrators and rules officials from the USGA and the R&A have checked in. Writers from Golf Digest and commentators from NBC Sports have been guests.

“Staying at The Carolina is like going back in time, to a much simpler time,” says Scott Straight, a frequent guest from French Lick, Indiana. “The history of this place is amazing. It’s like going to Yankee Stadium.”

“Looking at all the old photos on the walls, it’s amazing what it looked like 80 years ago and thinking, wow, all the greats of golf have come through here,” adds Charlotte’s David Williams, also a long-time regular at The Carolina.

The hotel, christened the “Queen of the South” upon its opening, has been a bucket list destination around the world of golf. It’s never looked and functioned better than it does today after an extensive renovation and upfitting that ran from November 2021 through the spring of 2024, when changes were completed in time for the U.S. Open Golf Championship.

The guest rooms have been renovated and are brighter, featuring new fixtures, finishes and custom-built furniture. The bathrooms have been expanded and upgraded with improved lighting and soundproofing. There are espresso machines on desks beneath wide-screen televisions. The previous guest rooms included large closets built originally to store the bulky trunks that travelers took by train and steamship on two- and three-week excursions. Now golfers pop in for a weekend, carry compact synthetic clothing and need only a wardrobe to hang their bags.

The lobby features new furnishings, comfortable seating areas and brighter, modern lighting fixtures that create a warm and welcoming atmosphere. The public spaces are accented by the return of notable touches from the past, such as the arched windows framing the exterior. The new design also includes updated check-in and concierge desks. There is a new coffee shop and just on the outside of the structure is an expansive patio and fire pit.

Construction workers addressing changes to the hallway ceiling as you walk from the central lobby toward the east wing discovered that some 40 feet of original arched ceiling and dormer windows had been covered up years ago. In the spring of 2024, they knocked out the drywall ceiling and removed decades’ worth of the accumulation of asbestos, sprinklers and wiring. Calvin Burkley, Pinehurst’s director of projects and planning, contacted the resort’s consultant, Glave & Holmes Architecture, for ideas on how to restore the old look.

Now as guests meander down the hall, looking at photos of Ben Hogan from the ’40s and Jack Nicklaus from the ’70s, they’ll bathe in natural light beneath a grand curved ceiling and dormer windows.

“It’s just lighter and brighter and brings a whole new look and feel to the hallway,” Burkley says. “Guests who’ve been coming here for 20 or 30 years walk through here and are just astounded. They love it. It’s such a majestic look.”

Burkley joined the Pinehurst staff in 2018 and is in charge of all construction that is “not green” i.e., those projects away from the golf courses and landscaping.

“We want to make sure this is the best place for people to come for a long time,” he says. “We want to make sure we protect the history of it; that it’s timeless, historic, relevant and forward thinking.”

The Ryder Cup Lounge was a mainstay of the lobby for years and paid tribute to Pinehurst having been the venue for the 1951 competition between the American side and the Great Britain and Ireland team. But since hosting the 1999 U.S. Open, with three more to follow over a quarter-century, Pinehurst has developed a close kinship with the USGA, rendering its interest and chance of hosting another PGA of America owned-and-operated Ryder Cup null and void.

The Carolina Vista Lounge resides where the Ryder Cup Lounge once sat and is built around an expansive, rectangular bar. Specialty cocktails salute the game of golf. “The November Nine” is fashioned after the nine points the Americans won in winning that 1951 Ryder Cup by fusing bourbon and Carolina pecans. “The Amateur” is made of mezcal, lime and pomegranate juices and chipotle syrup to salute the North & South Championship — an event open to amateur men, women and seniors that began in 1900 as a means to draw golfers to Pinehurst and publicity to the resort.

All the improvements aside, the rambling hotel has preserved one of its charms. The floors in places still squeak. And not every golf ball struck with a putter on a late-night putting session before lights-out rolls perfectly straight. May those things never change.

Sporting Life

SPORTING LIFE

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A Sad Sign

Reeling in an omen

By Tom Bryant

Linda and I were camped in our little Airstream at our favorite Florida winter destination, Chokoloskee Island, right below Everglades City. It had been a hectic trip. Usually we try to take our time on the adventure south, trying to avoid other snowbirds who are in a bigger hurry to escape the winter cold. But on this trip, it seemed that the migration had doubled. Camper trailers and motor homes were elbow-to-elbow at the campgrounds, and we were lucky to find sites at the transient encampments along the route.

We always stopped along the South Carolina coast to enjoy special landmarks and good seafood, especially at Pawleys Island, Georgetown, Charleston and Edisto Beach. But on this trip, like the campgrounds, the restaurants were packed and had waiting lines. It was shaping up to be a different kind of winter sojourn.

The managers of the campground and marina we call home for a couple of weeks in Chokoloskee had caught the snowballing of the snowbirds, and they had increased the number of parking sites. The problem with that was each site was smaller, or it seemed so. With the park being slam full, maybe the sites just seemed tiny. We were determined to make the best of it, though, and just enjoy the surroundings and camaraderie of the many friendly people there.

Everything was perking along nicely. We were getting used to the tight surroundings, catching a few fish, and enjoying the warm weather. We had about four days left before heading back home, so I decided to try fishing from the causeway that connected the compact island with Everglades City.

Early the next morning I decided to walk the nearly 2-mile hike to where I wanted to try my luck. Later, Linda was going into town to get a few groceries and said that she would pick me up if I was ready. The walk was uneventful. I only saw three or four cars on the causeway and thought most folks must be sleeping in.

I found a good spot under several alders that had been trimmed for shade and threw out a hooked shrimp on my bait casting rig and sorta hoped nothing would bite. The plan was to kinda kick back and use this morning to remember days gone by when I fished the bay with my grandfather. Back then, Chokoloskee was a true island, accessible only by water.

A soft warm wind was blowing out of the southwest, and ripples splashed gently on the bank. It was a contemplative time. It was like my mom told me years ago when I was in a hurry to get some chore or another finished. “Slow down, son,” she said. “Build memories, because when you reach old age they will be a pleasure to you.”

About a hundred yards out in the bay I saw a couple of porpoise dive and roll as if they were playing. I had seen them before from my canoe. They would approach the boat like friends, surf across the bow a time or two, then dive, and I wouldn’t see them again. They became a welcome diversion, and I was glad to have their company on one of my last days of fishing.

Early boaters were heading out to the gulf while the tide was in. The bay gets almost impassable to bigger boats when the tide is out, thus the value of fishing from a canoe. I used to haul my Grumman on our winter trips but found it was easier to rent from the marina and save all that lifting and toting.

It was a wonderful morning. Cumulus clouds floated like cotton puffs, moving slowly across the beautiful blue sky. I had an optimistic feeling that nature would remain the same for years to come. But then, here came empty plastic water bottles all attached to the holder that kept them together, floating in on the high tide.

I remembered what John MacDonald recorded in his Travis McGee book about all the garbage barges dumping their loads off the shores of Miami Beach. The same thing is happening in New York City. I’ve seen, with my own eyes, refuse barges being towed down the Hudson River out into the Atlantic to be dumped.

The older I get, the more I realize that this wonderful planet is gradually being used up. In my hometown, trees that we took for granted are mowed down to allow more and more construction. In my youth I hunted the swamps of Black Creek in South Carolina, not far from the family home place. Now a golf course in the gated community of The Country Club of South Carolina takes the place of giant cypress trees where I used to roam at will. Black Creek is no more than a fast water flowing ditch, a natural hazard for golfers.

One of the finest natural wild game habitat farms I had the privilege of using later in my duck hunting years was located in Alamance County, North Carolina, just 30 minutes from my house. That land has been sold and developed into 5- and 10-acre so called mini-farms. Wild game that used to frequent the acreage has dispersed or become semi-tame pests accustomed to the easy life of living next to humans.

I once declared that I would never, in my observations of outdoor life, exclaim noisily: “Things aren’t like, nor nearly as good, as they were when I was a boy.” That sad thing which I haven’t proclaimed until today is unfortunately now a fact.

I used my fishing rig to cast out and hook the floating water bottles. I reeled them in and stowed them in my fishing bag for proper disposal later. I decided to call it a day for fishing. Time to hike back to camp and begin the chore of getting the rig ready to head back north.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Oh, Canada

The goose who came to dinner

By Susan Campbell

That unmistakable honk — we have all heard it. Especially near golf courses, public parks or bodies of water. Canada geese can be found just about anywhere in our state. Their tan bodies, long black necks and heads with the characteristic white “chin strap” are unmistakable. Males, or ganders, are a bit larger than the females, referred to as geese, but other than that, the sexes appear identical. Pairs do remain together for life. However, if need be, they will seek a new mate in late winter. These handsome birds are vegetarians and well adapted to a variety of wet habitats.

At this time of year, aggregations of Canadas can number from hundreds into thousands of birds. Sadly, however, most of the birds are not wild individuals. The geese you are most likely to encounter are the descendants of farm-raised Canadas that were introduced for hunting during the first half of the last century. With no parents to show them where to migrate to and from, they immediately became sedentary, hence our ability to encounter these large waterbirds on any day of the year.

For many years, Canada geese were the most abundant of the larger migratory waterfowl wintering on our Coastal Plain. Tundra swans and snow geese were in the minority. Then as food became more abundant to the north — specifically as a result of agricultural practices around the Chesapeake Bay — the birds began short-stopping in the 1980s.

Concurrently, the number of snow geese has increased. There is greater availability of food on the tundra during the breeding season, with a decreasing snowpack as temperatures have increased. And in the winter, there is less in the way of competition from Canadas. Snow geese are leerier of hunters and not so easily fooled by decoys as they were 30 years ago. Swans, too, are far more challenging to hunt. Therefore, the number of birds surviving to breed come spring has boosted population numbers.

If you know where to go, you can encounter wild Canada geese in North Carolina though the locations are restricted to our coast. The larger wildlife refuges, such as Pungo, Mattamuskeet and Alligator River, host birds from up north each winter. These birds are as skittish as our local birds are tame. Although there is waterfowl hunting on these properties, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is careful to limit both the days when and the areas where hunting occurs. The majority of the acreage of these federal lands is truly a refuge for these and other species of waterfowl during the winter months.

Habitat on the refuges, as well as much of the adjacent state and private property, is managed to attract wintering swans and ducks in addition to geese. Cover crops such as corn, millet and a variety of native perennials are carefully fostered during the growing season as food sources for the visiting birds. Fields are flooded right before the flocks arrive to provide safety from terrestrial predators, such as bobcats, coyotes and even red wolves. These impounded areas have dikes with water-control devices that maintain the desired depth. Additionally, public access is controlled to reduce human disturbance.

Should you go in search of wild geese, there is plenty of access for viewing. There is a long history of bird- and wildlife-watching on our federal refuges. Birdwatching and photography are very popular activities — especially in winter when the number of birds is nothing short of spectacular. There are good maps of the walking trails and roads open for driving. Thousands of people flock to marvel at the phenomenon each year. Some of us head east to ogle waterfowl multiple times during the season.

Regardless of where you encounter Canada geese in the winter, be aware that other waterfowl may mix in to gain what we think of as the “safety-in-numbers” strategy. A lone snow goose, Ross’s goose or white-fronted goose may hang out with the Canadas for a few days or even a few weeks. This could be the case with the flock in your neighborhood. So the next time you pass a group of Canadas, it might be worth stopping to see if an unusual individual has joined the party.

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

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A Snowball for All Seasons

Another cat finds a comfy home

By Deborah Salomon

For the past 14 years, I have devoted this January column to my kitty companions, the last in a long line of adopted foundlings. Or so I thought. I am an animal person, happiest when in a relationship with a warm furball. But when coal-black, super-intelligent Lucky and fussbudget Missy died within six months of each other, I had a good cry, penned eulogies and announced my retirement, vowing not to weaken unless a hungry, sad kitty showed up at my door one frigid night. Which is exactly what happened. I opened the door. She walked in . . . and that was that.

In March I devoted a column to her, prematurely as it happens, since multiple feline traits have emerged since then. So you cat deniers will have to dread January a bit longer.

I named her Snowball for eponymous reasons: She is covered in fine, wispy, pure white fur — a striking contrast to her pink mouth, nose and ears and, especially, her baby blue eyes. I could have bestowed Farrah since her beauty/coloring reminds me of Ms. Fawcett. Names aside, Snowball is the most gorgeous cat I have ever seen. Maybe the most beautiful in the world. Simply staring at her makes me feel better. Even when she has just removed each kitty-food “shred” from the bowl and strewn them around the mat, a bugle blast attracting an ant army.

But that’s OK because she’s so beautiful, especially after loving a lifetime of tabbies, marmalades, tigers and calicos. I am mesmerized, watching her groom out a hundred tufts of milk-white fur which stick to the carpet like Krazy Glue.

After Snowball’s grand entrance I kept things low-key for a while, to let the newcomer adjust before our first visit to the vet. He declared her female, 2-3 years old, in good health. He was reasonably sure she had been spayed.

Hmmm. Then why the restless week when, more talkative than usual, she showed interest in getting out? No neighborhood toms showed up to serenade the damsel. It passed, as did any desire to explore beyond four window perches where she chatters at the birds and squirrels — a kitty version of The View.

Since I work from home, Snowball and I are best buddies. She quickly established a routine: eat, play, nap, window-gaze, snack, play, nap, eat, get under my feet. She takes wicked pleasure in coming between me and the computer. When I coax her off the desk, out come the claws, morphing Farrah Fawcett into Jane Fonda. When I sit down to watch TV she nips at my legs. Some nerve, she hisses, to prefer CNN’s Wolf Blitzer over my pulchritude.

Maybe Snowball needs a playmate, although I’m not sure her ego (or my shins or debit card) would allow. I Googled cat toys, finding one that promised “hours of invigorating and satisfying play for only $10.” Her reaction: a disdainful glance, not even a swat. Turns out she’s more into aluminum foil balls, easily swatted under the sofa. She does adore chasing the disgusting black water bugs that creep in the back door. Being brushed . . . heaven, the equivalent of the full monty at a Pinehurst salon.

Don’t get me wrong. Snowball is affectionate without being mushy. I’ve yet to hear a purr. She sleeps quietly beside me all night, demanding nothing. Early on I was able to get across that the kitchen counter is not her happy place. But Snowball’s attitude indicates that, beauty being in the eye of the beholder, she is an eyeful.

And doesn’t she know it.

Look, I can’t deny missing Pumpkin, Max, Sophie, Sam, Sadie, Shim, Oreo, Lucky and Missy. Each had a distinct personality, as well as long, healthy lives filled with love and chicken livers, as I hope Snowball will.

Because a thing of such beauty should be a joy almost forever.

Crossroads

CROSSROADS

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Bowled Over

Finding the right words

By Robert Kowalski

Fifty-one years ago, Ed Miller spoke. He didn’t speak standing at a podium in a crowded auditorium. He spoke sitting down, in a smoked-filled bowling alley, to five teenagers, in front of lane 20. Ed’s speech was brief. He spoke only long enough to utter three one-syllable words in a graveled, Brandoesque voice.

“Don’t get old,” he said.

Competitive league bowling was all the rage when my friends and I joined an adult league. We were still in high school. The grown men wore slacks and monogrammed bowling shirts. We wore bell bottom blue jeans and T-shirts. The adults were annoyed. We were cool. The nights we won they grumbled about those damn kids. When we lost, they wore smiles of satisfaction believing that order had been restored.

Ed Miller was the worst bowler in the league. If they gave a trophy for futility, Ed would have won in a landslide. He had deep-set humorless eyes. His ill-fitting attire made him look wider and shorter than he really was. He always sat at the edge of the bench closest to the rack: silent and stoic. He stared out at the pins seeming to be contemplating 10 personal tragedies. When his turn came, he’d limp to the rack, pick up the ball and, without aiming, take four short uneven steps and, instead of rolling the ball, drop it with a loud thud. It took an eternity to hit the pins. He never seemed as interested in the outcome as he was resigned to it.

We were playing Ed’s team the night he spoke. It was late in the season. If we won all three games, we’d clinch first place in the league. Ed occupied his usual spot at the edge of the bench. We won the first two games by comfortable margins. The third game was close. Due in large part to Ed missing a one pin spare in the last frame, we eked out a victory. My teammates and I were backslapping and trash-talking when Ed looked up and, to no one in particular, said those three little words. “What did that old man say?” one of my teammates asked.

“He said, ‘Don’t get old,’” I replied.

We looked at each other and dismissed Ed with a shrug. He was just a sore loser throwing shade on our parade, I thought. We went on celebrating. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of him as he struggled with his ball bag. I couldn’t help but stare as he fought to scale the two steps to the main level. I turned away for a moment and when I looked again, I saw the back of his head as he limped out the door.

When he didn’t show up the following week, I assumed he was still suffering from the sting of the previous week’s defeat. I asked one of his teammates where Ed was. I was told he fell at home and broke his hip. “He wasn’t a young man,” his friend said. I never saw Ed Miller again.

Through the years, Ed’s words have nagged at me. What is old? Was old a journey or a destination? Would it happen gradually or all at once? Would I know when it happened to me?

Recently, I was walking off the 18th green when one of the guys in our group said he had to hurry home because it was bowling night. Immediately my mind returned to those days when the kids battled the men for pots of cash and bragging rights. Ed Miller’s ghost returned as well. This time I had an epiphany. Maybe the lesson was less about getting old and more about staying young. If we weren’t so cocky that night long ago and Ed wasn’t so sad, his words might have been different. Instead of a dire warning, he might have said, “Stay young, my friends, as long as you can.”

Wisdom isn’t the only thing that comes with age; it can also bring regrets. If Ed Miller and I could have parted with a smile and handshake that night, our victory over the men would have been so much sweeter.

Focus On Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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This Old Chestnut

Sweet and nutty soup for a frosty day

Photograph and Story by Rose Shewey

Not only is the chestnut tree an icon of the American wilderness, it is also the namesake of the original dad joke. Long before social media shaped everyday speech, a cheesy pun was simply known as an “old chestnut,” going back 200 and some years. Apparently, generations of dads before yours had a cringeworthy sense of humor, imagine that!

All jokes aside, why do foragers, folklorists and foodies go all googly-eyed at the mention of chestnuts? There are many reasons, and the nearly extinct American chestnut tree is one of them. Known as the “redwoods of the East,” these native chestnut trees wouldn’t just grow strong and tall. A fully grown tree was able to produce up to 100 pounds of nuts — try squirreling away that many conkers for the winter!

While American chestnut trees don’t make it past a young age due to various diseases, other varieties are thriving. Fortunately for us, a stately sweet chestnut tree of European descent — such as the ones I grew up with in Germany — is happily growing in the heart of Aberdeen, right along our stomping grounds in the historic district. With permission from the owner, we have made it a tradition to forage a handful of chestnuts in the late fall. Even though these nuts are perfectly edible, they usually end up adorning our seasonal nature table, carefully curated by our 6-year-old.

For actual culinary purposes, we rely on the store-bought variety of edible chestnuts, typically those imported from Italy. If I can get my hands on fresh chestnuts, they will be boiled (not roasted) and enjoyed right out of the pot, but the occasional batch is destined for a creamy chestnut soup. Since chestnuts are mild in flavor, I like to keep the recipe simple, avoiding ingredients that tend to overpower their subtle earthy aroma. A splash of sherry and a pinch of cinnamon turn this soup into a warming, nutty-sweet meal for a frosty winter day.

Wintry Chestnut Soup

(Serves 6)

2 pounds fresh chestnuts or 1 pound roasted and peeled chestnuts from a jar or bag

1/4 cup unsalted butter

1 medium yellow onion, chopped (about 6 ounces)

1/4 cup sherry (optional)

4 cups chicken stock or vegetable broth

1 thyme sprig

1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

3/4 cup heavy cream

Freshly grated nutmeg, to taste

Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

Directions

You can skip this step if using ready-cooked chestnuts, otherwise, add water to a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Score the shell of the chestnuts on the rounded side with an X, cutting through to the inner skin of the nut, and add to the boiling water. Cook for 15-20 minutes or until the scored edges expose the nut. Drain and allow the chestnuts to cool for a few minutes, then peel while the nuts are still warm.

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan, add onions and cook on medium heat until softened, about 6-8 minutes. Add the wine and cook over medium heat until the saucepan is almost dry. Add chestnuts, stock or broth, thyme and cinnamon. Cover the pot, bring to a gentle simmer and cook for 15-20 minutes. Puree the soup in a blender (working in batches if needed) or use an immersion blender until you have the desired texture. Return the soup to the pot if using a stand blender and bring to a simmer once more. Add cream, season with nutmeg and adjust to your taste with salt and pepper.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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The Classic Martini

Story and Photograph by Tony Cross

Let’s start the year off right with the world’s most sophisticated cocktail, the martini. Although the exact origin is unknown, the movie character James Bond comes to mind whenever this drink is mentioned. Even though the classic “shaken, not stirred” quote is not the way to prepare this cocktail, there is still something very charming about seeing a man dressed to the nines ordering it. To quote bartender and owner John Clark-Ginnetti, “Why is Bond drinking a martini? He needs to be civilized. He’s a mass murderer; he’s an assassin. So how do you take this horrible person and temper him into somebody who’s doing it for the honor of the sovereignty?”

There are a few problems these days when it comes to ordering the martini. For starters, ever since the martini craze of the 2000s, it’s probably inevitable that any liquid in a V-shaped glass will be called “a martini.” It’s not.

Another issue is that most bartenders aren’t making the cocktail correctly. A year ago, I went into a self-proclaimed “craft cocktail bar” only to watch my bartender shake the hell out of the martini I ordered. This cocktail needs to look delicate — you wouldn’t violently shake your bottle of cabernet franc before drinking it, so don’t do it to the vermouth either. And, speaking of vermouth, it has to be refrigerated, or it will spoil.

Consistency is key: A bartender from Thursday night using 3 ounces of Tanqueray to 1/2 ounce of vermouth and another bartender on Saturday mixing a 50:50 ratio reflects a lack of any house specs. What would I recommend? I’ve always used Plymouth gin — it’s soft, slightly citrusy and not juniper-forward. Juniper is the ingredient in gin that technically makes it “gin,” but it’s also the ingredient that turns people off. For the vermouth, I like Dolin Dry, a very fresh and light fortified wine.

The key to a great martini — besides the proper ingredients — is for it to be piercingly cold. Make sure to fill the mixing vessel with plenty of ice, all the way to the top, and stir until it gets as cold as possible. The proper dilution of water is a must when stirring your drink. Some like to freeze their gin (I do) to get a head start on the chilling process.

Lastly, I’ve always preferred a lemon twist to olives in my martini. Smelling the oils of the lemon as you bring your chilled martini glass to your nose lets you know that you’re about to enjoy one of the best cocktails in the world.

Specifications

2 ounces Plymouth gin

1 ounce Dolin Dry vermouth

Execution

Combine gin and vermouth in a chilled mixing glass. Pack with as much ice as possible and stir until the glass is frosted, while allowing proper dilution. Strain into a chilled martini glass. These days, I prefer using a Nick & Nora glass. Take the peel of a lemon, expressing its oils over the cocktail and placing the peel in the glass.

NC Surround Sound

NC SURROUND SOUND

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Making Music in the Woods

And putting money in artists’ pockets

By Tom Maxwell

There’s a 63-acre compound on Borland Road, out in the rolling Orange County countryside near Hillsborough. On it is situated a log cabin, a barn, and several other outbuildings stuffed with the kind of gear that only true believers would collect: a Neve 88R mixing desk originally commissioned by New York’s Electric Lady Studios; a live reverb chamber; several isolation booths; and, aurally immersive Dolby Atmos mixing capabilities. This particular compound goes by the name of Sonark Media, and it’s a thoroughly modern complex offering recording, performance and streaming capabilities.

Sonark is the brainchild of Steven Raets, a Belgian-born polymath. Up until 2012, Raets had been working for the “big three” investment firms: Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley and JPMorgan Chase. That all changed the following year, when he retired.

“Then basically the question was, what was gonna be the rest of my life?” Raets says. “I’ve always had a big passion for music. I’ve played in all kinds of bands since I was 12 — party bands, original bands, when I lived in Belgium and London. I’ve always been involved in music; that’s always been my destiny. I just happened to be really good at mathematics and statistics, so I ended up in a trading role, but I knew I was going to go back to music. That moment happened in 2013.”

Raets built a home studio in the basement of his Chapel Hill home — he’s married to a UNC professor — and started producing records. Once the kids were out of the house, the couple decided to scale down. They bought a farm not far from where they lived and began fixing up the old log cabin on the property. But Raets wanted to move up, literally, from the basement.

“I said to my wife, ‘You know, I want to keep doing music,’” Raets said. “‘So, if we’re moving from this house, then you have to allow me to build a proper studio.’ And she said, ‘Yeah.’”

Raets’ idea of what constitutes a “proper” studio might differ a little from most industry entrepreneurs. For one thing, he and his partners run three full recording studios on the Sonark property: Studio A, with a huge live room, high ceiling and three isolation booths; the smaller Studio B; and a renovated barn dedicated to rehearsals, live performances and streaming. The rooms sound amazing, and the gear is impeccable. If this was all the Sonark gang did, it would be more than enough. But these people are true believers.

“I think we’re uniquely set up to help the music industry rethink how music should be made, distributed, enjoyed and monetized,” Raets says, “and that is basically what keeps us awake every day. How can we help our musicians make more money in this world where music has become worthless? That’s our mission at Sonark.”

The fact that this question is even being articulated is refreshing. Without getting too technical about it, many of the fundamental revenue streams for musicians have dried up over the last few decades. Unless you’ve established a national touring base, it’s tough to make enough money at each gig to put gas in the van to get to the next town. Vinyl records have made a comeback, but they’re considered merchandise, to be sold along with band T-shirts, posters and hoodies — and many clubs take a percentage of this money. Merch is welcome supplemental income, but it will hardly keep body and soul together. That leaves digital streaming.

In the past year and a half, Spotify’s CEO Daniel Ek has made over $345 million, with his top executives coming in a close second, leaving megastars like Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift in the dust. This is because a generous calculation of Spotify’s payout is about $0.003 per stream, and that’s allowing for the artist having complete control over their intellectual property, which is seldom the case. So even Swift — the most streamed artist on the platform — has yet to earn the kind of dough Ek has made.

Raets and his colleagues have spent a lot of time on the issue of putting money into musicians’ pockets, and they’ve come up with PIE TV, a subscription platform that allows users to stream Sonark-produced live performances on demand.

“It was inevitable that, as our technology advances and becomes more sophisticated, and as the bandwidth of our wireless devices increases, music will be viewed as well as listened to,” Raets says. “For years, I’ve been thinking of how to do that in a way that could be packaged and make sense for both the artists and those who help produce it. We finally came up with this idea where we would start producing intimate shows with bands but produce them as if you are in the PNC Arena, except with maybe 150 people there. We give the band a very controlled environment with enormous amounts of production value.”

Sonark performances are shot on at least a half-dozen high-definition digital cameras, while the audio is sent to Studio A for mixing. Edited audio and video are then synced and sent out for broadcast on the PIE TV app. Artists are paid guarantees for their performance, and they own part of the intellectual property of the broadcast and so are entitled to an ongoing royalty share from future streaming.

Compare this to the hugely popular YouTube live performances where none of the revenue generated from those videos goes to the artist. Admittedly, this is no different than live television performances in days of yore. “If you were going to play Jimmy Kimmel or Saturday Night Live or Austin City Limits, you would have to do it for cost,” Raets says. “You get very little out of it as a band except for a huge platform and promotional value. But the monetization goes entirely to the network.”

PBS NC has taken note, broadcasting a season of Sonark Sessions: Live from the Barn featuring 10 North Carolina-based artists. As far as Raets is concerned, there’s no reason to stop there. “North Carolina is an incredibly fertile ground for talent,” he says. “But we really don’t have an industry. There’s not a lot of jobs around. I want to create awareness of the fact that the music industry is not a hobby; it’s a valid center of revenue. You have only to look at Austin, Texas, to see how that worked out for them. Twenty-five years ago, it didn’t exist. Now, the music industry contributes hundreds of millions of dollars in tax revenues to the city. My dream is to do something similar to that for North Carolina. There’s a lot of potential here and you can feel it bubbling everywhere.”

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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Boogie Oogie Oogie

Till you just can’t boogie no more

By Bill Fields

I went off to college in the fall of 1977, and Saturday Night Fever came out that December. If I was paying attention to the path outside my residence hall any given night during freshman year, I would see Randy walking toward Franklin Street in Chapel Hill.

He was a man on a mission, the closest thing our dorm had to Tony Manero, John Travolta’s character in the hit movie with disco as its core. Randy walked with purpose, dress-shoe soles on brick announcing his presence. Product in his blond hair, a couple of off-duty buttons on a fancy shirt with a substantial collar, he was a striding testimonial to various synthetic fabrics and soon to have a black-light handstamp to enter his favorite night spot.

Randy was headed to the Bacchae, which for a time was called Mayo’s Bacchae, the longer name including that of the establishment’s operator, a small-town North Carolinian with New York City tastes.

In the late 1970s, Tony Manero would have been right at home at the Bacchae. Its black-and-mirrored walls, lighted dance floor, colored strobes and faux fog were a backdrop for the pulsating, four-on-the-floor beat of the disco music: Bee Gees, Donna Summer, Yvonne Elliman, Heatwave, Chic, Wild Cherry.

I didn’t dress the part the way Randy did, although I’m sure I turned up at the Bacchae more than once wearing some residual polyester garment from my golf wardrobe. My clothing deficit notwithstanding, I met a couple of girlfriends there, one of whom I dated for about a year, until it became clear that her affection for Rod Stewart was greater than for me. 

It is jarring to think that the disco days are as far removed from today as the Charleston era was when we were grooving to “Never Can Say Goodbye,” “We Are Family,” “Le Freak” or “Boogie Oogie Oogie.”

Disco peaked in 1978 and ’79, declining soon thereafter, much to the dismay of my dormmate Randy, but not before making an appearance in the then-sleepy Sandhills. 

I was reminded of those times not long ago when I had a sandwich at 715 Broad in Southern Pines. In the mid-1970s that space was Castle of Dreams, which advertised being “The Best in Disco Entertainment.” Tuesday was Teenage Night, when those under 18 gathered to drink Cokes and summon the courage to ask a classmate to dance. The evenings would occasionally end with a beer on the sly out by a pond in Highland Trails, an activity that didn’t make my reply when Mom asked about my night out after I arrived home as the 11 o’clock news was coming on.

But the Castle was D-league disco compared to Crash Landing, which I discovered once I was of legal age. Crash Landing was located on U.S. Highway 1 North in Southern Pines, a large warehouse-style building situated on a slight rise, set back from the thoroughfare with a large parking lot in front sometimes not big enough to hold all the cars.

Many of us came to the Crash on college breaks and during the summer, catching up and doing our best on the dance floor. As was the case in Chapel Hill, there was a cadre of dancers at the Crash who knew what they were doing, who knew the kind of moves Travolta and company did in Saturday Night Fever. Most of us were just moving around, building up a thirst for a Budweiser or a Miller High Life. I had gotten put into a social-dance physical education class after most of the more common P.E. courses were filled up, but my foxtrot experience was of little help. On the very rare occasions I departed the Crash with someone’s phone number, it was harvested by conversation not my skill at the Latin hustle.

The best move I remember from the Crash Landing period involved a friend who was driving me home one winter night. Just as he was making a turn in Manly, it was suddenly like a fog machine was pointed at his sedan’s windshield. With the defroster obscuring his view, he made a left on the wrong side of the frontage road median. A highway patrolman was nearby and, blue light flashing, immediately pulled us over. They talked for five minutes standing in the cold, my buddy and the officer, then we were on our way. No ticket. No written warning. Just advice to be careful and go straight home. A lot has changed beyond the music.

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

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January Books

FICTION

The Stolen Queen, by Fiona Davis

Annie Jenkins is fed up with living in the shadow of her mother, a former fashion model who never tires of trying to revisit her glory days. She is ready to forge her own life. So when an opportunity to work for iconic former Vogue fashion editor Diana Vreeland falls into her lap, Annie jumps at the chance. Diana wants her to help organize the famous Met Gala, known across New York City as the “Party of the Year,” hosted by the Metropolitan Museum of Art and renowned for its star-studded guest list. Charlotte Cross, leading a quiet life as the associate curator of the museum’s celebrated Egyptian art collection, wants little to do with the upcoming gala. Never much for socializing, she’s consumed with her research on Hathorkare — a rare female pharaoh dismissed by most other Egyptologists as a vicious usurper, one who was nearly erased from history. That is, until the night of the gala, when one of the Egyptian art collection’s most valuable artifacts goes missing . . . and there are signs Hathorkare’s legendary curse might be reawakening. As Annie and Charlotte team up to search for the missing antiquity, a desperate hunch leads the unlikely duo to a place Charlotte swore she’d never return to — Egypt — placing them both directly in danger.

Rosarita, by Anita Desai

Away from her home in India to study Spanish, Bonita sits on a bench in El Jardin de San Miguel, Mexico, basking in the park’s lush beauty, when she slowly becomes aware that she is being watched. An elderly woman approaches her, claiming that she knew Bonita’s mother — that they had been friends when Bonita’s mother had lived in Mexico as a talented young artist. Bonita tells the stranger that she must be mistaken; her mother was not a painter and had never traveled to Mexico. Though the stranger leaves, Bonita cannot shake the feeling that she is being followed. Days later, haunted by the encounter, Bonita seeks out the woman, whom she calls the Trickster, and follows her on a tour of what may or may not have been her mother’s past. As a series of mysterious events brilliantly unfolds, Bonita is unable to escape the Trickster’s presence, as she is forced to confront questions of truth and identity as well as specters of familial and national violence.

The Heart of Winter, by Jonathan Evison

Abe Winter and Ruth Warneke were never meant to be together — at least if you ask Ruth. Yet their catastrophic blind date in college evolved into a 70-year marriage and a life on a farm on Bainbridge Island with their hens and beloved Labrador, Megs. Through the years, the Winters have fallen in and out of lockstep, and out of their haunting losses and guarded secrets, a dependable partnership has been forged. But when Ruth’s loose tooth turns out to be something much more malicious, the beautiful, reliable life they’ve created together comes to a crisis. As Ruth struggles with her crumbling independence, Abe must learn how to take care of her while their three living children question his ability to look after his wife. And once again, the couple has to reconfigure how to be there for each other.

NONFICTION

Beyond Anxiety: Curiosity, Creativity, and Finding Your Life’s Purpose, by Dr. Martha Beck

We live in an epidemic of anxiety. Most of us assume that the key to overcoming it is to think our way out. And for a while it works. But there is always something that sends us back into the anxious spiral we’ve been trying to climb out of. In Beyond Anxiety, Beck explains why anxiety is skyrocketing around you, and likely within you. Using a combination of the latest neuroscience as well as a background in sociology and coaching, she explains how our brains tend to get stuck in an “anxiety spiral,” a feedback system that can increase anxiety indefinitely. To climb out, we must engage different parts of our nervous system — the parts involved in creativity. Beck provides instructions for engaging the “creativity spiral” in a process that not only shuts down anxiety but also leads to innovative problem solving, a sense of meaning and purpose, and joyful, intimate connection with others and the world.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

To See an Owl,
by Matthew Cordell

To hear an owl takes patience. To see one, well, that’s magical. Caldecott-winning author/illustrator Cordell brings the magic of the woods to life in this stunning picture book just perfect for nature lovers. (Ages 3-7.)

Teapot Trouble: A Duck and Tiny Horse Adventure,
by Morag Hood

Sometimes the best read-alouds are the most ridiculous ones, and any time Duck and Tiny Horse are around, giggles are sure to follow! Join our heroes as they determine the very best way to extricate a crab from a teapot and have a grand adventure along the way. (Ages 3-7.)

On Our Way! What a Day!,
by JaNay Brown-Wood

A birthday! A gift? Hmmm . . . just what would make Gram happy??? A delightful journey ends with a group effort, a celebration of found things and a very happy Gram. This sweet story is a perfect read for families who delight in the joys of nature, music and time together. (Ages 3-7.)

Wings of Fire: Escaping Peril,
by Tui T. Sutherland

Not since Harry Potter has a series had such a wide following of dedicated readers as Wings of Fire. Fantasy, adventure, dragons, intrigue — this series has it all. Now the story evolves through graphic novels. Grab a copy of No. 8 for the Wings of Fire superfan in your life. (Ages 8-14.)