Ricky nodded. He wasn’t mad. The first take was lazy. It had the notes, but not the story .

It was 1982, and the Nashville studio lights felt hotter than a July tobacco barn. Ricky Skaggs sat in the producer’s chair, mandolin in his lap, staring at a chord chart for a song he’d known since he was five years old: “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”

The problem wasn’t learning it. The problem was unlearning it.

“That,” Ricky said, wiping sweat from his brow, “is Cotton-Eyed Joe.”