Rhonda Vincent's 'Like I Could': Watch Video

Introduction:

Rhonda Vincent’s “Once a Day” is a high-energy bluegrass instrumental that showcases her exceptional mandolin skills and the virtuosity of her band, The Rage. Released in 2014 as part of their album “Only Me,” the song quickly became a fan favorite, solidifying Vincent’s reputation as one of the most talented bluegrass musicians of her generation.

“Once a Day” is a showcase of intricate picking, lightning-fast solos, and tight harmonies. The song’s driving rhythm and energetic pace create a sense of excitement and anticipation, drawing listeners in from the very first note. Vincent’s masterful mandolin playing, combined with the skillful musicianship of her bandmates, elevates the song to new heights.

The instrumental’s enduring popularity can be attributed to its technical brilliance, infectious energy, and ability to capture the essence of traditional bluegrass music. It has become a staple of Vincent’s live performances, often serving as a highlight of her shows. “Once a Day” stands as a testament to Vincent’s exceptional talent and her commitment to preserving the rich heritage of bluegrass music.

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THE LAST TIME THE CROWD ROSE FOR MERLE HAGGARD — HE WOULD NEVER WALK ONSTAGE AGAIN. They carried him through the doors wrapped in the very flag he once sang about — and in the stillness that followed, there was something almost audible… a fragile echo only lifelong listeners could feel in their bones. Merle Haggard’s story closed the same way it opened: unpolished, honest, and deeply human. From being born in a converted boxcar during the Great Depression to commanding the grandest stages across America, his life unfolded like a country ballad etched in grit, regret, resilience, and redemption. Every lyric he sang carried the weight of lived experience — prison walls, hard roads, blue-collar truths, and hard-earned second chances. Those who stood beside his casket said the atmosphere felt thick, as if the room itself refused to forget the sound of his voice. It wasn’t just grief in the air — it was reverence. A stillness reserved for someone whose music had become stitched into the fabric of ordinary lives. One of his sons leaned close and murmured, “He didn’t really leave us. He’s just playing somewhere higher.” And perhaps that’s the only explanation that makes sense. Because artists like Merle don’t simply vanish. They transform. They become the crackle of an AM radio drifting through a late-night highway. They become the soundtrack of worn leather seats and long stretches of open road. They live in jukebox corners, in dance halls, in quiet kitchens where memories linger longer than the coffee. Somewhere tonight, a trucker tunes in to an old melody. Somewhere, an aging cowboy lowers his hat and blinks back tears. And somewhere in that gentle hum of steel guitar and sorrow, a whisper carries through: “Merle’s home.”