Tending Community: Make Some Noise
By Connect-Bridgeport Staff on August 21, 2026 from Tending Community
Nashville recording artist Annie Neeley wants to remind us that music isn't just something we consume—it's something we're all invited to create.
by Katie Hanlon
I have a favorite sociology term: collective effervescence. It's the feeling that happens when people gather around a shared experience and, for a moment, stop thinking of themselves as individuals. You've felt it at concerts. At football games. Around a campfire. In church. At weddings. It's that strange electricity that reminds us we're wired for community.
As someone who spends a lot of time thinking about how people connect, I think we've accidentally become experts at consuming music while forgetting that, for most of human history, people actually made it. Before Spotify. Before vinyl. Before radios. Before electricity, someone picked up a fiddle. Someone else sang harmony. A kid banged on a bucket. Someone's uncle knew three chords on a homemade instrument, and that was entertainment for the evening.
I know it sounds almost primitive by today's standards, but I think those old-timers were onto something.
We've become so good at consuming art, many of us have forgotten we're allowed to create it.
That's why I'm so excited about the Open Jam Sessions happening at the Bridgeport Farmers & Makers Market on August 30 and September 27.
If you've lived in North Central West Virginia for any length of time, there's a good chance you've heard Annie Neeley sing. If you haven't, you're missing one of Appalachia's great musical storytellers. Annie has spent decades writing songs, touring nationally, recording albums, and building a career that has taken her from Nashville stages to festivals across the country. These days she's also recording new music with her all-female punk band, The Hormones, proving that great musicians never stop exploring.
The remarkable part isn't that Annie agreed to play the market. It's that she decided not to make it about herself. When we talked, she admitted that her first reaction to the invitation was essentially, "I might be a little too old and established for this." But instead of simply showing up and performing, she asked a better question:
What if this wasn't a concert? What if it was an invitation?
As Annie put it, "It's more of a musical community-building exercise than a performative listening exercise. I'm asking people to participate in the music of their community instead of just listening to me for the twelve seconds that you walk by the tent."
That's a beautiful way to think about music.
I caught the jam bug years ago while attending Augusta Heritage Center's Summer Bluegrass Week, where I learned banjo from the legendary Murphy Hicks Henry. Every afternoon, we'd gather for what was called a "slow jam," led by bluegrass musician Ira Gitlin. Before anyone played a note, Ira would explain the etiquette: Call the key before you start. Listen before you jump in. Play quietly until you find the groove. Give everyone a chance to call a song. Encourage beginners, because they won't be beginners forever. Nobody expected perfection. The goal wasn't to impress each other. The goal was simply to make music together.
That's exactly the spirit Annie hopes to bring to the market. Bring an instrument. Know a few basic chords—or don't worry if you're still learning. If you know three chords on the banjo, guitar, mandolin, or ukulele, Annie can probably suggest a song you can play. If someone calls the same song twice?
"So what?" Annie laughed. "We'll do it again."
And if you don't play an instrument? Come anyway. Listen. Clap. Tap your foot. Bring your kids. Watch people of different ages and skill levels build something together in real time. Because the point isn't the music. The point is the people making it. One of the things I love most about the farmers market is that it's one of the few places left where it's perfectly normal to linger. To strike up a conversation. To meet someone you didn't expect to meet. An open jam just adds another layer to that experience. So whether you've been playing for thirty years or thirty days—or you've never touched an instrument in your life—I hope you'll pull up a chair.
I'll be there with my banjo.
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