It’s difficult to wander Crested Butte’s streets during peak season without being bopped by the reverb of live music. Thanks to a surge in solid musicians living and performing in the valley, Crested Butte is enjoying something of a musical heyday with bands and singer- songwriters performing in seemingly every playable crevice, their beats bouncing off Victorian buildings into the thin mountain air.
This is a contrast to the scene twenty- plus years ago, when the same few bands played the Elk Avenue Triangle: Kochevars, the Eldo, and the Talk. Back then, band members skewed younger in age, played later gigs in a grittier triangle — Tuck was still being (lovingly) ejected from bars, Danny could still be heard yelling Hey! Hey!, and Mama’s Cookin’, Grönk’, and Solar Junkyard were as ubiquitous as “Snodgrass Is for the Birds” bumper stickers.
Today, new venues like Public House, Zuni West Brewery, and the Center’s Steddy Theater expand the triangle for a musician scene composed largely of middle-aged parents — moms and dads making glorious, soul-stirring music while simultaneously raising kids. Using some deeply unofficial math, around 62% of working musicians in the Gunnison Valley are parents — a statistic that reflects the realities of living here. It takes means and gumption to navigate the many inhospitalities and considerable cost of living. The musical set is largely composed of the resilient who have established themselves over multiple decades, secured housing and work, settled down, and often started families. Many moved here in the 1990s or early 2000s, instruments in hand or picked up shortly after, and have steadily honed their craft ever since. They now play together in endless collaborative constellations, with a few scarce unicorns (usually drummers or keyboardists) switch- hitting for several ensembles.
So, why do we care that the valley’s music scene is fronted by parents? Mostly, we don’t, but having kids is a transformative experience that can stretch an artist toward deeper creative expression, while radically reshaping priorities and altering the logistical approach to their work.
Considering this, perhaps Crested Butte’s current musical boon is thanks to a mini baby boom. For the women in the scene, this “boon” has required a recalibration of time and identity.
For Lizzy Plotkin, arguably the valley’s most prolific female musician, motherhood was a catalyst for clarity. She and her husband, Matt Lackey, who is also a musician and instrument builder, make their living entirely through music. Up until the birth of their son, Otis, three years ago, the fiddle player and vocalist had a full setlist — teaching young musicians, writing music, performing, and running an annual music camp.
After Otis, Plotkin reassessed her life and responsibilities, shedding areas that encroached on her creativity and her finite time with family. The first to go was teaching kids and running a music camp, which Plotkin said was hard but necessary so she could focus all her creative energies on writing, composing, and performing.
“My time and energy are a much more precious commodity. I cherish the experience even more now, so the joy of playing fiddle and singing harmonies and performing is amplified because I know that it’s not just any day, any time that I can do it,” said Plotkin, whose musicianship is inborn and began at age four.
“My late father, who passed when I was two (he was just 40), played the violin, and it was a calling for me. It’s always been my companion, main form of expression, and a tool to connect to people in ways where language fails.”
Since Otis, Plotkin’s music has chronicled the juggly reality of motherhood. Her song “Multitask” captures the frenetic cadence of a musical mama: “Jump and scream / Stir the cream / Toast the bread / And kiss the head…” Beneath the wordplay lies the weight of the hustle. But by honoring her finite time, Plotkin has traded volume for intention — proving that this chapter isn’t defined by how much she does, but by the space she gives herself to honor her craft and her family.
Though fathers often claim the spotlight, mothers are frequently the backbone of the musical economy — supporting families or quietly nurturing their own artistry.
Veteran Evelyn Roper has done both, leading Opal Moon for more than two decades and opening for legends like the Charlie Daniels Band. “My first gigs were in late-night bars, but my kids saw me write and practice,” Roper said. She recalled her youngest son forming a band in fifth grade just to open for her: “They had one song, ‘Smoke on the Water,’ and made shirts by stapling paper logos onto inside-out baseball jerseys. Both my sons are musicians now. I used to worry that being gone on weekends would hurt them, but I’m fortunate they saw the work behind the music.”
For singer-songwriter Stephanie Stephenson, motherhood wasn’t an exit from the stage, but a recalibration. Though she has stepped back from heavy gigging to focus on family, her guest appearances with bands like High Life allow her music to evolve alongside her children.
Photo by Brooke MacMillan
Other valley musicians have found that parenthood required a complete, if temporary, departure from the stage. Guitarist and Mountain Spirits owner Aaron Tomcak first approached music as a “marching band dork,” then picked up the guitar again while attending Western Colorado University. After taking a folk guitar course with Paul Duba, Tomcak continued to level up and played in groups like the Bourbon Bottle Blues Band and — presumably through cause and effect — the Empty Bottle Blues Band.
But Tomcak laid down his guitar when his daughter, Avonlee, was born. “I took a complete break from music. It was too much,” he said. “Gigs didn’t start until 10 p.m. Then there was like eight years of nothing, aside from campfire playing.”
Photo by Brooke MacMillan
He eventually returned when friend Brian Schneider called at the start of the pandemic:
“Hey man, you got a kid, I got a kid… want to get together and jam?” Tomcak recalled.
Schneider, who also has a daughter, Rivka, has followed a similar musical arc to Tomcak. The duo became The Shed, a weekly jam that grew alongside Avonlee’s own musical interest. Tomcak soon learned some of Avonlee’s favorite radio hits and, along with his wife, Heather (on tambourine and vocals), the three formed a family band that continues today.
Tomcak now plays alongside Schneider in the band Highlife, performing “heavyweight mountain soul music,” along with Paul Barney on trumpet, Chris Penfield on drums, Dan Bostick on keyboard, and a rotating lineup of local musicians, including the super-saxy duo Matt and Madeline Shugert. Last summer, the band played the outdoor deck of the Club at Crested Butte to a backdrop of wildfire smoke and the rotating pastels of tippling golfers who seemed largely unfazed, though a tight cluster of locals swayed in their chairs and danced in heavy SPF.
When asked if he or his music has changed since having Avonlee, Tomcak took a beat before responding:
“I’m a better person for it. I’m more agreeable, more chill. Everyone brings a different sound or song to the table. We’re pretty much all parents in the band, and we’re all just like, ‘Sure, sounds great.’ That makes it really easy.”
Like Tomcak, bassist Alex Fenlon found that the arrival of children changed his output. For Fenlon, whose life is animated by an intense love of music, that passion started early.
“Music was a big part of our house. My mom was a piano player, and she forced my sister and me to play violin from age four.” He eventually transitioned from the four-string violin to the four-string bass, gravitating toward jazz and — requisite of living here — the Grateful Dead.
After moving to the valley in 1997, Fenlon and August Hasz, Jayma Superlove, Paul Barney, Eddie Stern, and others eventually formed the Afro-beat acid jazz, funk ensemble Grönk. Featuring a three- piece horn section (Children of the Horn), the group played everywhere in the valley (except at its namesake, the massive concrete mining ruin out Peanut Lake) and enjoyed a successful six-year run — “until kids.”
When Fenlon and his wife, Melissa, welcomed their daughters, Calla and later Poppy, Alex began the longest caesura of his career. While he took a break from the stage, he and Melissa filled their home and little girls with music. “I’d jam out when they were little and play ‘Baby Beluga’ on my acoustic guitar,” he laughed. Though he tried to start his daughters on tiny violins and music lessons, he eventually realized “they’re not going to be little me, at anything.” Instead,
the two became serious music lovers, cultivating their own tastes and traveling to see performers like Paul McCartney. For Fenlon, the core of the craft remains unchanged by fatherhood. “Being able to make music with people is a primary form of communicating that goes pre-language,” he said. “You can walk into a bar with a guitar, start jamming with a stranger, and have a really deep experience. The goal is the loss of self in pursuing collaboration — something bigger than all of us.”
That pursuit of collaboration has led to his latest project: Mountain Jam, which focuses strictly on the music of the Allman Brothers. The lineup includes Fenlon on bass, Casey Falter and Gene James (both dads) on guitars, Michael Schmidt on organ, Andrew Bergan on drums, and Paul Barney on horn. It’s a seasoned ensemble in which the “loss of self” Fenlon describes is found in the effortlessness of their musical dynamisms. Playing a sold-out show at the Public House last winter, the band inhabited the stage with the easy swagger of musicians who are done proving and are now simply enjoying the music — leading and following as the moment requires and finding new ways into the Allman Brothers’ material.
“Playing music now is more about connecting with other musicians and the audience. I just have fun playing, and have learned to think more about what my role in the song is, and less about making an impression as a bass player.”
Mountain Jam bandmate Casey Falter’s pursuit of collaboration began in utero to the beat of his musical parents. By age 12, he was a fixture in his father’s rehearsal space; by his early twenties, he was ski-bumming in CB, fronting the band Downtime, and playing venues like the Eldo and Rafters and at private gigs — including a wedding where Trey Anastasio (Phish) was the best man. “He jammed with us for an hour or two at the reception; I will never forget it,” Falter recalled.
After finishing his music degree at CU-Denver, he returned to the valley in 2005, eventually forming the funk-rock band Solar Junkyard and later the popular Beatles tribute band Doctor Robert, along with other local musicians.
When he and his wife, Erin, welcomed their daughter, Delia, in 2016, Falter spent her first winter composing soothing music to play during nap and feeding times. Antsy to start gigging again, but not wanting to put strain on his new family, Falter pivoted to a solo project, using a loop pedal to build his own “blues, grass, and grooves” and play solo gigs.
“Out of a necessity to be available for parenting, I needed to be accountable to myself and the household, not other musicians,” he explained. “I probably wouldn’t have pursued the solo performer path had I not become a father. I’m glad that my music shifted that way.”
Having watched her dad play music since birth, Delia has been cultivating her own chops. “I’ll come up with a chord progression on the guitar, and she tells me if it sounds good or not. We’ll refine it until it sounds right.” In kindergarten, Delia was the only kid her age to enter the school talent show. “I proudly coached her on mic technique, and she has boldly stepped onto the stage each year since then,” Falter said, his voice swelling.
“At this point in my life, it’s all about being the best dad, staying up on my musicianship, and finding a harmonious balance between the two.”
In the musical tradition of Crested Butte, this is a bright spot. While we can’t know for certain if parenthood is to thank, these musicians seem to have traded the solo-ness of their earlier years for something deeper — shedding unnecessary noise to reveal a resonance that is taking root in the next generation.