Roadie from Hell (Part I)

I first knew I had made a bad decision when I looked over at Bray, and was disgusted. He was sitting in the passenger seat as I drove, with both of his bare feet were propped up on my windshield in a yoga-like posture. And they were filthy; I could tell by the brown smears they were leaving on the glass.

And to add insult to injury, he was eating. We had stopped at a diner for breakfast before hitting the highway, and Bray had ordered the lumberjack breakfast, with extra everything. And, he had ordered it to go. Yep. So he could dig it back up halfway down the road and eat it passionately in my presence.

“Oh my God” he burped, cramming another fistful of hash browns into his face. “this is the best food ever!”. Several stray chunks rolled down his bare chest (yes, he was shirtless) as he scooped up a handful of gravy.

I struggled to keep my eyes in the road, as his caveman feeding ritual unfolded.

“Dude, have I told you about that show I did with Whitesnake?” Bray chortled, anointing me with a spray of hash browns. I nodded quickly. “Yes you did” I said through my teeth.

But I knew it wouldn’t stop him, from telling another dumb story he had already told a dozen times about some fictitious adventure with eighties metal bands.

I sighed and clung to the wheel. Why, I whispered. Why, did I ever take on a roadie?

It seemed like a great idea at first, when our a Jamming 101 program grew to the point where we almost had too much gear for me to manage alone.

So when a friend of a friend came up and said “hey, I really dig your show and and I’m a professional roadie and I’d love to come along to your next gig and take care of moving all your gear…and…and…”

I said “Hell yes, that sounds awesome!”

In the days that followed, I came to realize that all roadies had a common definition, and it went something like this:

Roadie {Row-dee}

noun

1. One who carries equipment for performing musicians.

Syn: helpful person.

2. Crude, annoying individual unable to find gainful employment anywhere else, and so attaches to unsuspecting musicians in order to make their lives a living Hell though their animalistic and disgusting behavior.

Syn: complete ***hole

For example, when we first met Bray he seemed like a decent enough chap. He was helpful and friendly, but as time wore on we couldn’t help but notice how loud he was.

I mean, there was nothing subtle about this guy. He talked loud, he walked loud, and probably even dreamed loud.

And it didn’t help that he always wore these tall-heel cowboy boots that pound like a jackhammer.

I’ll never forget the show in Santa Cruz we did with him. It was an awesome jamming class in the hills and afterword our cool hippy hosts insisted on taking us to see the Santa Cruz Butterfly Sanctuary. It was just after dusk when we arrived, and the sky was a perfect lavender.

The deal was, you walked across these wooden bridges over a delicate wetland preserve, while silent swarms of monarch butterfly’s fluttered around you. It was transcendental, like a scene out of Avatar. But most of all, it was very quiet.

We stood in awe as silent clouds of butterfly’s drifted over us, the only sound our hushed breaths.

Then I heard it. It was distant, but getting closer. A rhythmic pounding, accompanied by a telltale jangle of keys.

And then a bellowing voice, shattering the stillness.

“DUDE, CHECK OUT ALL THESE FREAKIN BUTTERFLIES!!”

It was as if Godzilla had arrived. The butterfly’s evaporated, and everyone stared at Bray slack jawed.

“WOW, THEY SURE LEFT FAST!” Bray bellowed, completely clueless.

We shook our heads and headed back to the van, while Bray stomped off down the bridge pointing and laughing.

I snapped back to the present as we pulled into the festival gate. In minutes we were escorted to our camp, and the madness began: trailers parked, tents assembled, EZ Ups upped, all in a blur.

And last but not least, the camp ice chest. This was the nerve center of our camp: the 4 foot cooler lovingly stacked with local micro brews from whatever town we arrived in, and guarded with our lives over the weekend.

I opened the lid and snapped a pic of the sea of happy bottles bobbing in ice. Ah yes, it was going to be a good weekend!

Bray helped me drag it under a shade tree, and then plopped into a lawn chair.

“I got it covered dudes…” he assured us. “no ones coming near this thing.”

“Cool man, you’re on duty now.” I said. “let’s go do a loop!”

It was our custom to stroll around the festival grounds at camp was set up and check out the scene. Leaving our trusty roadie to guard out chest, Johnny and I and some   dreadlocked locals headed out.

It was always fascinating to watch these events come together. Colorful vendor booths popped up like mushrooms, ponytailed crew members barked orders back stage, and distant thumps drifted across the meadow from the sound system. It was a village being built before our eyes.

We grabbed coffee and headed back.

“Dude a cold beer sounds good” Johnny pined.

“it’s not even 11am yet!” I informed him.

“Yep, and it still sounds awesome…” Johnny was beginning to salivate.

We arrived back at our camp, and froze. It was a crime scene:

The table was covered with empty beer bottles, and our ice chest yawned open. Bray lay face down in the dirt, surrounded by bottles like an alcoholic mosaic.

Johnny emitted a heartbroken cry, falling on his knees next to the stricken ice chest. “Nooooooooo!!” he raged, shaking his fists at the heavens.

I snapped a pic of Bray’s carcass. This was going to make the perfect “after” pic, and would  serve as undeniable evidence when I confronted our Judas of a roadie.

And then it happened. With a passionate belch, Bray rolled over and sat up. “duuuuudes!” he pointed out. “whoa, I musta fell asleep.”

“F*** yes you fell asleep, you f***ing turd pirate!!” Johnny screamed, doing a little dance of rage. “and, our beer is all gone!!”

Bray scratched his head, looking like a brain damaged orangutan.

“Duuude, what happened to the beer?”

I scrolled thru my iPhone pics, pulling up the earlier pic of our loaded ice chest, and the one of Bray unconscious amid the empties. Kneeling next to him, I adopted my best “good cop” voice.

“I think this might refresh your memory, check these pics out…”

Musical Tip: When in doubt, do it yourself. Often your “helpers” will only make matters worse, especially if they are called “roadies”!

 

Dances With Urchins

The lions’ share of my Jamming 101 participants are adults, sometimes a few teens or timid 10 year olds. Rarely do I encounter jammers in the toddler category, although I had always thought it would be neat.

So when my student Brent asked me if I would consider teaching a class for the elementary school he taught at, I said, “Sure, that sounds awesome!”

“Oh, you’ll love these kids, they’re little angels.” Brent gushed. “I’m sure they’ll just love you’re class!”

My primary experience with the 4 to 8 age group was a few private students, and my lessons with them consisted of chasing then around my studio and occasionally banging on things.

“No problem, I got this,” I said. “When do we go?”

So Brent booked me at the Orotown Elementary School: an hour class with the entire student body. I was to hold my class in the gymnasium at lunchtime, and there would be almost 300 kids there.

Cool! I had a week to prepare. I wanted to impress the faculty so I went over the top with my curriculum. I made cool stickers, fun kid-song lists, and invested in a dozen shaker eggs.

A week later I rolled up to the school with my bass player Johnny, and we assembled our PA in the gym. The teachers all seemed to have an odd smirk on their faces as they watched us set up, as they stood in a line along the wall as we waited for the students to arrive.

It all happened so fast.

Like a scene from Gladiator, the iron door of the gym swung open and they came pouring out, a mass of small bodies thundering toward us with the speed of a buffalo herd.

In seconds the room was packed with stomping, snorting, wild eyed toddlers, eyes glued to our every move.

I looked over at the teachers, but saw no sign of support. They were vultures, waiting for us to die.

I launched my attack.

“OK!” I commanded, mustering all the authority I could. “Who wants a SHAKER EGG?!”

There was a split second of dead silence, and then the crowd screamed back in one voice: “MEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!”

In shock, I hurled the first shaker into the horde.

As it sailed through the air in slow motion, I realized the enormity of my folly. There was no way I had enough percussion toys for this army of little beasts. They were going to tear us limb from limb. But it was too late to turn back now.

“OH KAY! HERE YOU GO!!” I screamed, hurling my remaining eggs into the crowd.

And then, it was pure carnage. Like pieces of bread thrown to ducks, the shaker eggs disappeared under piles of little bodies, with a chorus of screams and grunts filling the air. Johnny and I watched in horror as eggs were battled over, hair was pulled, and a total free-for-all ensued.

One round little girl appeared to bite another child on the leg, while two other tots duked it out with rabbit punches.

Suddenly a frail, large headed kid broke loose from the crowd and bolted toward the door, shaker egg held high. We watched in horror as the crowd of rabid tots turned and surged after the him, covering him like a wave. He disappeared under a dog pile, and then a tiny shoe flew through the air, followed by crumpled glasses and tufts of hair.

A red faced ogre of a kid burst from the dog pile, clutching the shaker egg and screaming “I GOT IT I GOT IT I GOT IT!!!!”

The teachers shook their heads sadly.

Suddenly I realized that if I was going to live through the next hour, I would have to find a way to control this herd of rabid five year olds. And quickly. I looked back at Johnny, who was hiding behind his bass, shivering like a Chihuahua. He had the look of a man seeing his own death.

Then it hit me. In times of crisis, when doom is imminent, one must do whatever it takes to survive . And so I did. I turned to the dark God of Rock and Roll.

“OK!” I screamed, my voice shrill with panic. “IT’S TIME FOR WE WILL ROCK YOU!!!!”

The horde looked up from mauling each other, their beady red eyes locked on to me.    A Cro-Magnon looking boy let go of a bug-eyed kids’ neck and pushed his way to the front row. Two freckle faced girls stopped yanking each other’s pigtails out and jumped up and down, their tongues dangling from their mouths.I took a step back. Yes, these kids were definitely insane. Every last one of them.

I hit ‘play’ on the PA, and the drum beat descended on the room:

BOOM BOOM CLAP! BOOM BOOM CLAP! “WE…WILL…WE…WILL…ROCK YOU!”

Suddenly, the sea of kids began to move as one, stomping out the beat like an army of baby zombies. Stomp stomp clap, stomp stomp clap they went, their sightless eyes staring into space.

I gasped in relief, stomping and clapping with all my might. We’re gonna make it, I thought, tearing up at the thought of being allowed to live.

Then came the stroke of genius. The Fog Machine! I had brought my ancient fog machine and set it up just in case, knowing that blasts of thick white fog usually won any crowd over. I inched toward the foot pedal that trigged the fog, while the army of kids continued to stomp stomp clap, oblivious to their surroundings.

Biting my lip I stomped down, and a cloud of white exploded over crowd. It smelled of rotten eggs and cat poop, and I realized that I had never changed the liquid in the machine. But it was too late. The cloud drifted over the front row, and all I could see was blurry silhouettes through the dirty white haze. Then the sounds began.

“Fire!!!” I heard a shrill girls voice scream, Followed by hacking and coughing and a pitiful wail: “I…can’t…breath…”

Again the teachers shook their heads. I turned beet red, realizing I had just asphyxiated half of the class. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard myself say “quick…must…do…something… else…”

I lunged for my banjo, and began an epileptic dance.

“Tiiiiiime for a sing-a-loooooong!” I screamed, launching into a desperate rendition of Comin’ Round The Mountain. The sea of kids stared at me, mouths agape.

Then the bell rang, and I collapsed into a heap. My God, I thought, it’s finally over.

We drove back to Chico in silence, nursing our wounded egos and pondering new career choices. I wonder how much plumbers make these days, I mused. But for better or worse, we’re still teaching music. Just with more shaker eggs now!

Musical Tip: No matter how prepared you are, you never quite know what what’s going to happen at the show. If you can think fast and improvise, you’ll increase your chances of survival. be a musical MacGyver!

 

“Do as Rob says”

“Music is like candy” Rob told me, leaning against a tree and cracking open his grimy bottle of rye. “it’s better without the wrappers!”

Laughter rippled through the jam, and Rob emitted his trademark hyena laugh.

Robs full name was Tractor Rob Wellington, or at least that’s what he told everyone. When I asked him why his first name was Tractor, his face wrinkled in pain and he said he couldn’t remember. Others around his camp told me it was because he was the only person they’d ever known who got a DUI on a tractor.

He was one of the more colorful characters at the Razzleberry Music Festival, where we made our twice annual pilgrimage to every year. His camp was a scene right out of Vaudeville, with a ramshackle stage and actual sofas and lamps. Right there in the forest.

He had one outfit, which he never deviated from: riding pants with suspenders, an ancient trench coat, and civil war cap. His scattered beard framed a permanent sloppy grin, and I don’t think I ever saw him in a bad mood.

He was a true Old Tyme fiddler, and was attached his fiddle. He ate with it, slept with it, and took it to the bathroom with him.

And Rob was a man who liked his drink. And when you jammed at his camp, there was a predictable cycle that the jams adhered to. They would start out fast and nimble, but by midnight it was a drunken free-for-all, with Rob bellowing out orders and trashing songs like a bull in a china shop.

This was one of those nights. It was the first night at Razzleberry, and the Jamming 101 crew made a beeline for Robs camp, because that was where the party was. I brushed the branches aside with my banjo neck, and dove into the jam. It was raging, in its usual spot, under Robs camp banner which read “Do As Rob Says”. Yep, that was Rob. Subtle as an earthquake.

Rob stabbed the air with his fiddle bow. “Shut up shut up shut up!!” he roared. “Sid the kid’s here! Time for Whiskey Before Breakfast!”

For some reason every time I visited his camp, Rob would insist in playing the tune Whiskey Before Breakfast. And also calling me “Sid the Kid.” Whatever. I didn’t question it. At Rob’s camp we “Did As Rob Said.”

The jam was in fine form, a ragtag bunch of glassy eyed campers. Two upright basses, one accordion, and four banjos. Including a large dwarf with a propeller cap wielding an ancient Gibson Mastertone. Yup, this was a Rob Jam, alright!

Now, I fancied myself a decent jam leader, being the “Jamming 101 guy” and all. But I was a mere neophyte compared to the raw brilliance that Rob demonstrated. When he led a jam, it was like watching a mad scientist in his laboratory. He combined things that should have killed him in a fiery blast, but somehow he always pulled it off.

“Shut up shut up shut up!!” he instructed, and the jam subsided to a dull roar. Rob assumed his position next to a giant pine and slashed the air with his fiddle bow.

“Herewego! One…Two…Three…”

The fiddles screeched and the song blasted off, a light speed Whisky Before Breakfast that would have made Vassar cringe. We were 40 pickers strong now, and layers of newcomers were arriving by the minute. I put my head down and ground out the melody, and through the corner of my eye I saw dreadlocked mando player stumble up to Rob with a jug in his outstretched hand.

The jug went up, Robs head went back, and there followed a minute long chug, while his fiddle never stopped shuffling. Wow, I thought. I wanna be him when I grow up!

Rob was leaning back against the tree, the look on his face usually associated a painful bowel movement. His bowing arm was a blur.

He gulped for air and commenced his signature move. “OK EVERYONE HEREWEGO!!” he screamed, “EEE FLAT!!” Unbelievably, the entire  jam veered up a halftone and into Eb. That was the power of Rob. He could do things like that.

I looked up from my battle with the accordion player, who was attempting to bring down my solo with repeated salvos of unnecessary notes. Rob was contorted into an impossible posture, having slid further down the tree. He was almost to the ground.

“EVERYONE SHUT UP SHUT UP!!” he bellowed, sliding further down the tree. “JUST SID AND ROB!”

Amazingly, the entire jam ground to a halt, and it was just my banjo and Robs shrill fiddle, sawing out the melody…in E flat.

Rob was entirely prone now, having slid all the way down the tree. Yes, he was playing fiddle laying flat on his back. It was quite a sight.

“OK EVERYONE READY??!,” he yelled from the ground. “EEEEEEEE!!!”

And again, the jam swooped into a new key. But that wasn’t enough for Rob. He was a raving lunatic.

“NOW! THREE FOUR TIME!!”

And the jam followed him. Into a frantic waltz. I couldn’t stop grinning, watching Rob conduct a jam while laying on his back in the pine needles.

Several incapacitated bystanders kneeled next to him, worshiping his awesomeness. Yes, Tractor Rob Wellington was a true celebrity at Razzleberry. Then, somehow, he rolled over and struggled to his feet, all the while continuing to fiddle. The jammers, all fifty of them, were glued to him. They would have followed him off a cliff.

“ACCORDIANS!!” he roared. The one accordion player sprung into action, dutifully rendering a Tex Mex rendition of the tune.

Rob belched approvingly. “OK, NOW BANJOS!…and, BACK TO DEE!”

At this point he could have yelled “ok, everyone get naked!”, and it probably would have happened. Rob had reached the stature of a cult leader, and seemed to know it.

I scanned the other banjoists, and they looked ready to pounce. With a wink at Rob, I pulled the song back to its rightful key and drove the melody. The four other banjos pounced and we roared ahead with a wall of twang, followed soon by a dozen other melody makers. Fiddles, accordions, uke’s and even a few distant harmonicas, we were all part of one glorious machine of cacophony.

Rob launched into the air with a scissor kick yelling “HEREWEGO!”, and the jam coasted into the runway. From the darkness came screaming and clapping, I sunk into a camp chair and wiped by brow. Wow.

Once again, I felt both humbled and dizzy. And I knew that I was in the presence of greatness. Jam leading would never be the same. The backwoods maestro had spoken, and as the strumming faded into the distance, I vowed never to forget what I had learned: True jamming is a wild and untamed creature, and it takes more than just musical skill to be a true jam leader. You gotta be fearless.

I couldn’t wait to try E flat at the next class…

Musical Tip: Like any art, sometimes the best things happen when you take some risks and try new things. And Jamming is no different. Try new keys, time signatures and styles on old songs and you may be amazed by the results…or not

 

Beer and Loathing (Part III)

My neck turned to clay and my head sunk into my hands. Like a faint radio station, the memories began to flicker back. We had rolled into the festival way too late, and too delirious pick an appropriate camp site. In fact, we picked the one place we probably should have never landed: Family Camp. And instead of playing it cool and calling it a night, apparently we had indulged in a massive jam.

“And not only a massive jam, but it definitely wasn’t PG either” our friend Jody informed us. He had joined us back stage for breakfast, on the dreaded day after.

“I do have to say you started out OK, then Sid decided to see how many words rhymed with Carolina!” Jody gleamed, obviously pleased by the terrified expressions on our faces.
We nodded mutely. It was like listening to a slow motion car accident, but we couldn’t turn away.

“Then Bud showed up with his guitar and you guys…ha! You guys made up an awesome song. Something about Aunt Jemima from Carolina and her big *********”! We all sang it so loud we got yelled at! Yep, those sleepers didn’t like you guys too much I reckon. But I loved how you guys just kept makin up new ones! I think we sang about some old man from Nantucket, whose something was so long he could do something with it…oh maaaaan!”
Jody paused for breath, and then charged on:
“And THEN…oh, that’s RIGHT! You guys had your hit of the night! You know that stuffed monkey you keep at your camp like a freakin mascot or somethin?”

It was true. We carried a stuffed Curious George with us to all the festivals, one of those random traditions you can’t explain.
“You guys called him bi-curious George! Oh man!” Jody burst into giggles.
Johnny and I leaned in. “And then…?” we breathed in unison.
Jody strummed air guitar and sang. “He’s Bi-curious George, Yes he’s Bi-curious George…He likes other man-monkeys, and…and…oh, and then it got really dirty. I can’t even say it!”

“Oh, and theeeeeen….Bud showed up, remember Bud?”

I nodded. Yes, I did remember Bud. It wasn’t his real name; it was his Brand. He was the guy who showed up to camps that were still going after 2am, and would slide up to you and whisper: “kind ganja cookies, one for two, three for five…”
Normally we would act like we didn’t know what he was talking about, and he would eventually wander off to sabotage some other jam. But last night we had been more patronizing, evidently.

“Man, you guys ate like two of those things each! One of ‘em would knock out a mule…”
Johnny and I were mesmerized by Jody’s story. He continued on, detailing the debauchery that had occurred.

Apparently, after partaking of Bud’s contribution to the party, I had progressed from singing inappropriate songs to simply bellowing out vowels, punctuated by spastic thumping on my de-tuned banjo.

Then, like a startled grizzly bear, the soccer mom appeared. She was in pajamas and her hair was a mess, and she stumbled up and jabbed a knobby finger at us.
“You!!!” she hissed, her red eyes scanning the camp like searchlights. “What is going ON here??!!”

We froze. The enraged soccer mom became suddenly taller, looming over us like a cartoon witch.
“I have three..kids asleep in that tent over there!” She hissed. “And I’ve got be up at five, AY, EM! So whoever you are, you need to stop this racket, NOW!!!!”

Johnny gulped. A cricket began rasping in the dark.

In my haze of energy drinks, Budweiser, Sierra Nevada Torpedo, boxed chardonnay, Bushmills and “medicinal brownies”, I was more eloquent than usual.
“Five a.m. huh?” I slurred. “Well then, you better keep those little f***ers quiet, cuz I’ll be going to bed right about then!”

The mom gasped, her face a mask of disbelief. She let out a female growl and stomped back into the trees. Jody and Johnny looked at me in awe. “duuuuude” said Jody reverently. “We are so dead…”
I shook my head. “Neh fekkin prollem” I belched. “Wegenna playa shumor shongnow…yehp..”
I had achieved full possession of my reptilian brain, and all qualities of reason, logic and general self preservation had long since evaporated.

I leered at my tuners, instinctively knowing that something was terribly wrong. Reaching for the fifth string peg, I missed, and my camping chair swayed dangerously. Gripping the edges, I waited for the turbulence to subside.

“Hold on, jeezshkrist” I instructed, reaching for my tuning peg again. “OK, hewego..Oljoh Clark!”

Johnny leaned in, propped up by his bass. One of his eyes was locked onto me, waiting for the count off. The other eye wandered off aimlessly.
Our attempted song sputtered to life, lurched along for several minutes, and then ended in a rasping twang.

I reached for my beer and my chair fell over, planting me face first in the dirt. Somewhere in the distance I heard Johnny speak, and it contained much wisdom.

“Dude weesha tayka break..” he said.

Somehow I made it from the collapsed chair to my tent, dragging by banjo behind me. At that point the only thing that mattered was reaching that canvas sanctuary, and going into a coma. Sounds drifted in from the outside as I lay there, spooning my banjo amid the pile of camping gear and sleeping bags.

I heard Johnny curse as he encountered a tree, then quiet, then more cursing as another tree presented itself. Jody and Bud’s laughter echoed around the camp as they cracked jokes and banged on the table. I smiled and burrowed into my nest.
Ah, the sounds of camping…

Then, I heard a sound that didn’t quite fit in. It was a loud, angry man’s voice. And it was getting closer.

“OK, where are they? Where are you a*******s?!” it said. The beam of a flashlight zigzagged across my tent, and heavy footfalls stopped inches away from my head.
“This is the Pine County Sheriff!” the huge voice said. “what the Hell is going on here?!”

“Dude, it wasn’t us! We were just hangin out, chillin. We’re not the ones man!!” I heard Jody and Bud blurt in frantic unison.

“Well I just got a Goddamn complaint about this camp, and I wanna know who the Hell is making all the damn noise!”

“We just showed up man! This isn’t even our camp…c’mon man!” Bud’s voice cracked in fear.

The sheriff boomed like a bull horn. “I don’t give a Hell who you are, but I’ll tell you one thing: if I have to come back here, someone’s leaving in Goddamn HANDCUFFS! YOU HEAR ME?”

I heard Johnny gasp from inside his tent. I held my breath, not moving. Jody and Bud blurted apologies and scuttled away, and the sheriffs boots stomped back into the distance. And it was quiet again.

And then it was next morning.
We were backstage having breakfast, listening to Jody’s delighted retelling of our misadventures. I shook my head and groaned. Johnny looked hopeful.

“Well, we’re not kicked out yet, right?” he offered. I nodded glumly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

That was when we noticed the group or people gathered around the next table, obviously involved in some kind of serious discussion. “Security meeting” Jody said matter-of-factly, cramming more potatoes into his mouth. “Kid got lost or somethin…”

We could hear snatches of the conversation.

“…disturbance (mumble mumble)…complaint….not sure, somewhere near the family area (mumble)…very inappropriate (mumble mumble)…anyone have any names?…”

Suddenly it hit us, like a bolt of lightening. “ooooh noooo…” Johnny whispered in horror. “Dude, they’re talking about…US!”
I nodded, waves of shock washing over me. “Oh my God” I breathed. “You’re right”

We finished our breakfast quickly and slunk away, behind the backstage tents and through the pines back to our camp. Every face we passed us seemed to cast disapproving glares, and we kept our heads down.

The rest of the festival was the usually blur of sunshine, beer and lots of happy jamming. We danced in the dirt in from of the main stage, wandered from camp to camp strumming until our fingers bled, and before we knew it, it was Sunday.

As we rolled along the endless ribbon of Highway Five, I had the feeling a lesson had been learned. I just wasn’t sure what it was.

Yet.

Musical Tip: Jamming and alcohol only mix up to a point. Beyond that, the first victim is the music, and the second is usually your friends. Don’t be a Drinking Band with a Bluegrass Problem!

 

Beer and Loathing (Part II)

The sun crept over me like tear gas. I tried to roll over but couldn’t budge, something was wrapped around me like a web. Panic struck and I began flailing my arms, and then I realized it was my tent.

“Really?” I groaned, crawling out into the daylight and trying to understand what I saw.

Our van was nudged into a tree. Under our front tire was what looked like a tie died sheet, with one end still tied to a branch. I hobbled over and looked closer. It was a homemade sign. I tugged it free and unfurled it on the dirt.

“Family Camp” it read, in cute preschool lettering. I gripped the fabric with white knuckles, as the enormity of our predicament dawned on me. “Ohhhhh s*********t,” I breathed.

In our haste to camp last night, we had unwittingly landed in the center of festival’s Family Camp. Yes, the quiet, child appropriate area with no bad words and early bedtimes. And, by the look of things, we hadn’t fit in too well.

Tossing the banner aside I turned slowly. stepping over an empty box of wine and lurching towards Johnny’s tent.

“Dude!” I rasped, “We gotta get up!”

Johnny crawled out and wobbled to his feet. “Dude, what’s that on your shirt?” he said, pointing at my chest.

I looked down. It looked as if I had bitten the head off some helpless animal: my  t-shirt was a Jackson Pollock of red splatters. Then I noticed Johnny’s shirt, and began laughing.

“Dude, look at your shirt man!”

“What the Hell!?” He yelled, looking down at the red streaks on his chest.

Then the memory came back like lightening. We had been holding the wine over our heads and drinking straight from the box.

“Oh no.” Johnny said, having the same realization. “We drank all the wine.”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Dude, what the Hell happened? It looks like a tornado hit our freaking camp!”

We both turned and surveyed our surroundings. It was unrecognizable. There were several smooth areas of dirt where neighboring tents had been moved away, and a hookah sat triumphantly in the center of  camp. The ice chest was on its side, and a banjo lay in the dirt with a half empty whiskey bottle next to it.

From the corner of my eye I saw a bleary soccer mom making her way back from the porta potty. She stopped for a moment and fixed a withering glare on us, before shaking her head and ducking into her tent.

Johnny ran his fingers through his Beatle Juice hair. “She didn’t look happy,” he observed.

My voice cracked. “We gotta get out of here!”

Johnny nodded solemnly. “I know. Cuz we’re out of beer, right?”

“No, you idiot, don’t you see?? We parked in freaking family camp last night! And apparently we had a little too much fun…”

“Yeah, but what happened?”

Then it hit me. My memory was a blank slate. I had absolutely no idea what happened last night. The lethal combination of sleep deprivation, energy drinks, boxed wine, whiskey and mass amounts of beer had done it’s damage.

“Dude, I think we must have blacked out last night. Do you remember anything?”

Johnny shook his head, brow furrowed. “um…no” he whispered.

My adrenaline kicked in, and I heard myself begin to bark orders. “No time to re-pack, just throw the tents on top of the car…we gotta find a new camp now, before anyone wakes up!”

In minutes we had all of our belongings crammed into the trailer, and our tents perched ridiculously on top of the van. Johnny rode on top holding everything down as I slowly pulled away from the devastated camp spot.

Around us normal people were going about doing normal morning activities, some of them stopping to point and laugh. I stared straight ahead, as the van crawled down the dirt road at a painfully slow pace. Finally we reached the outskirts of the campgrounds, and pulled into a shaded campsite near a dry river bed.

“We made it!” I gasped.

We slowly set up our new camp and then headed to the back stage area to get breakfast.

Dead Pine Music Festival was an idyllic scene: tall pines shaded the dirt roads that led past rows of happy campers, cooking bacon and strumming guitars. Children laughed and played with water guns, and golf carts rattled by carrying various performers to the stage.

We entered the back stage area and joined the breakfast line. The festival prided itself on its food, and we piled our plates high with eggs, bacon, hash browns and found a shaded table away from the crowds.

I took a chug of life-giving coffee and sighed.

“So dude, we still have to figure out what the Hell happened last night,” I mused.

Johnny nodded, cheeks full, and then pointed behind me. “Mmmfffggmpht lfffft!” he said urgently.

I looked, and what do you know, it was our long time festival buddy Jody. Jody was the son of Moe Ravers, big time performer and MC of the Dead Pine Festival. Jody was “festival royalty”, and we had become good buddies from many past late night jams.

Jody sauntered up with his usual cool cat vibe. “Dudes!!” He yelled, hi fiving us. “You guys are craaaazy!” We stared at him, forks frozen in mid air.

“seriously, you guys know how to par-TAY!”  He chortled, grabbing a stick of bacon from my plate.

Johnny looked like someone seeing a ghost. “you were there last night?!”

“Hells ya I was, me and Bud showed up and we rocked it. Then you guys went hard core!”

I hacked up a bacon chunk. “And you remember what happened?” I hissed.

“You bet I did” Jody gloated, leaning back and taking a chug of coffee. “I can tell ya everything, but it’s gonna cost ya”

Johnny and I spoke in one voice: “We don’t care, we need to know, tell us!”

“Well”, Said Jody, speaking painfully slow. “When I showed up it seemed like you guys had decided to drink boxed wine straight from the carton. It was pretty funny. And then, OMG, you guys made up this song! wow…”

We listened like statues as the story unfolded…                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Musical Tip: Jamming is only as enjoyable as its appropriateness! And outstaying ones musical welcome can have dire consequences, especially if you’re the jam leader. “He who knows when to put it away, lives to Jam another Day”

 

Beer And Loathing (Part I)

Sometimes we learn by example. Sometimes we learn from experience. And sometimes, we just learn the plain old Hard Way.

It all started out as just another festival gig. Johnny and I barreling down the highway with a trailer loaded to the gills with music books, instruments and folding chairs. This festival  was a particularly long ways away, and generally took an all day drive. We had been up till 2am the night before packing the van, and so weren’t in the best long distance driving mood.

See, packing for a festival is more than manual labor. It also involves sustained mental focus, and one needs to be in the right state of mind. Often this state of mind is enhanced with barbeque. And barbeque is of course enhanced with beer. 15 chicken wings, two 12 packs and one full trailer later, it was 2 a.m.

Our pre-dawn alarm was like a boot to the head. We fell out of bed, stumbled out the door and into the van, leaving the driveway in a haze of pain.

“Coffee,” I groaned.

Johnny was curled up like a fetus in the passenger’s seat, his lips blue.

“I thing I’m gudda pook,” he hissed.

“No puking dude.” I shook my head, suddenly realizing that I was still asleep. Big trucks drifted past us and the endless grey ribbon that was Interstate 5 stretched out ahead. Finally there was a truck stop. My head pounded like a sledge hammer as I waited in line to pay for gas.

“Hey, have you ever tried those?” Johnny said, pointing at a neon display of Instant Energy bottles. They looked poisonous.

“I think they’ll help dude! I’m gettin’ some!” he grabbed four of them and slammed them on the counter. I hurt too much to care, and saw myself reach out and grab several bottles. A little voice inside my head said “one won’t be enough. Get four.”

As we rolled back onto the highway we began ingesting the vile stuff. “Electric Lightening Instant Energy” the little bottles proclaimed, looking more like something you would pour in your carburetor than consume. Two miles later we were suddenly having two separate and unrelated conversations, at light speed.

“Dude-you-should-hear-my-new-song-i-can’t-wait-to-show-it-to-you-we’re-gonna-rock-this-festival-oh-man!” Johnny warbled, rolling the window up and down and rocking back and forth.

“Dude-did-you-drink-all-of-those-are-you-crazy-oh-wait-I-did-too-oh-no,” I replied, suddenly realizing that I had consumed all four of my energy drinks.

Johnny wasn’t listening. He was karate punching the air.

“RAH. RAH. RAH. RAH.”

Then I noticed my speedometer. It said 97.

“What-the-freak-look-at-that-there’s-no-way-that’s-right-ninety-seven-freakin-miles-an-hour?!” I yelled, slamming on the brakes.

Then, as soon as it had began, it was gone. My eyes blurred over, and weariness washed over me like a wave. I looked over at Johnny. He was back to fetal position, snoring deeply. Yes, our energy drink ride was over, leaving us in a bleak and hopeless place. The van crawled ahead at 35 mph, and I vowed never to touch those horrible little things again. After what seemed like a month, the day was over and we pulled into the sleepy little town of Dead Pine.

“Hmm. Time to find a store, I think it’s beer thirty,” I mused out loud.

Johnny sat bolt upright, “Beer?”

It was a Jamming 101 ritual. Since we often arrived early to the festivals, the food vendors weren’t set up yet, and so we had to fend for ourselves. It was time for another episode of bro-shopping: two bachelors let loose in a grocery store, hungry and thirsty.

We grabbed a cart and made a bee line for the beer aisle. Johnny grabbed his 18 pack of Bud, and I assembled a gourmet selection of micro brews. Boont Amber Ale? Yes, please. Sierra Nevada Torpedo? Yep. Gotta support my hometown. Oh, and we’ll need something light for the hot weather, something like, hmmm… The Corona’s literally leapt off the shelf and into the cart.

“Hey, why don’t you grab us a couple of sandwiches,” I suggested to Johnny, but he was already one aisle over.

“We’re gonna need a little nip for later, right?” He held up a bottle of Bushmills, like a kid with a new toy.

“Hmmm. Yeah, prolly so…”

I wobbled our beer laden cart over and scanned the dazzling array of liquor bottles, winking like diamonds in the fluorescent light.

After acquiring several critical supplies, we headed toward the deli.

Johnny let out a shout of joy. “Dude, they have boxed wine! My mom used to feed me this to help me go to sleep. Let’s grab a couple, you know, for our guests.” It sounded reasonable, so we piled 4 more boxes onto the beer mountain in our shopping cart.

At the checkout stand I eyed the Rockstar drinks warily. “I’m never drinking those again.”

“Dude, we’re prolly gonna jam tonight, we should grab a couple. You’re going to want one later.”

I suddenly saw the timeless wisdom in his idea. “Yeah, good point.” I said and grabbed a handful. Then it was bags of ice, some beef jerky, and we were on our way.

When we finally pulled into the front gate of the Dead Pine Music Festival it was after dark, and all we could see were the flashlights of the festival crew.

“Names please?” Said the security, leaning in the window.

We held up our name tags and the man waved us on.

Usually we would find a spot on the outer edge of the camping area, for a bit more privacy. But this time I couldn’t care less. I just wanted to be out of the van, and was beginning to see double. We rolled to a stop between an RV and several tents, and began dragging out our camping gear.

It was pitch black. “Fuuuuugh!” Johnny yelled, tripping over a child’s bike.

“Feet,” I offered, “are devices for locating bikes in the dark!”

“F*** off.”

I blindly jabbed my tent poles into the canvas of my tent, and then moved on to the Eazy Up. In the moonless dark we could make out a sea of tents around us, and in the distance a toddler whined.

Before long “Camp Stop Jamming” was up and running, complete with table, chairs and well stocked ice chest. It was yet another Jamming 101 ritual, and we were good at it. Rolling into a festival, we would construct a comfortable camp in minutes, and then sit back with a cold one and pick. Except now it was probably midnight, and the sensible thing would have been to call it a night and jam in the morning.

But I said “Hey Johnny, let’s have a brew and jam some tunes!”

Later in life I would think back on those fateful words and shudder. But right then, it was the best idea in the world.

Or so it seemed.

(to be continued)
Musical Tip: Do more Festivals, but do them right
Few things will make you a better jammer than the marathon picking that takes place music festivals, but to get the most out of them requires good planning. Your jamming experience will only be as good as your traveling and your camping experience!

 

Fiddlin’ Around

Old Man Bozart was a cadaverous fellow. We never asked his age, but one of the old ladies at the bingo parlor said he was over 90. His nose almost touched his chin, and his beady little eyes sparkled like diamonds when he played his fiddle.

We met him at one of the many fiddle contests in Redding, California, where our mom would allow us some limited socialization — among senior citizens. I guess she figured we were less likely to be corrupted by these ancient and often senile beings, than by the rest of society. So, our early social life consisted of jamming at old folks homes, fiddle contests, and a rare visit to a grocery store.

When mom met Bozart, she immediately decided he was one of the wise ones, destined to be our music teacher. And it made sense: he was too old to be a bad influence, and no one could ever understand what he was saying. So So Mom immediately signed my brother Byron up for fiddle lessons with him.

The first lesson took place in his dilapidated Airstream at the Golden Valley Trailer Park. It was like a scene from the 1950’s, with small angry dogs and plastic flamingos everywhere. We knocked on the screen door, and after several minutes of shuffling and bumping noises Bozart peered out. He was wearing the same ridiculous plaid sweater he always wore, and he cackled in glee upon seeing us.

“Weh Blezhmah hert! Ifitay mufav buncha rugraz!” he chortled, beckoning us in.

The smell of tater tots and Old Spice hit us like a wave. We were in a sea of newspapers and TV dinner boxes, punctuated by the frantic yipping of a Chihuahua.

“Shuchoh mothyoo lilpeesa shet!!!” Old Man Bozart rasped, hurling a newspaper in the general direction of the noise.

“All Throyout rinow!”

The fiddle lessons consisted of Bozart scratching out square-dance tunes note by note, all the while grinning like an idiot and occasionally blurting out “Thashow igoze!”.

Byron would attempt to copy the old man, and they would go back and forth, back and forth, while the rest of us sat like statues on the mummified couch. The old person smells were intoxicating, and in the distance the Chihuahua complained bitterly.

After a few weeks Mom declared, “Our path with the old man must now separate, it is time to move on.” Although we stopped going to Bozart for music lessons, we would see him from time to time at the fiddle jams where he would always greet us with a joyful, “Howyahl bindoon yool rapskins!?!”

But Byron was now armed with all the latest fiddle tunes, and would wade into the jams with a new found confidence. I would hide behind my banjo and try to keep up.

The fiddle contests were often held in the Redding Convention Center, a huge cement building that looked like a bomb shelter. Inside the carpeted halls were jams every fifteen feet, and we made a point of trying to hit every one.
It didn’t take long for us to become known as, “Those weird hippy kids who play really well.” Yep, we didn’t talk much, dressed like a yard sale and reeked of stale tofu, but boy, we could sure pick!
As we wandered from jam to jam, we began to catch on to a new and amazing language. There were definite rules, although no one spoke a word, and the notes flew by like bullets. You had to listen like a hawk, and try to read the subtle cues.

“You got this one?” a fiddler would drawl, sawing out a few notes of another obscure hoedown. The others would nod, and off they would go. The tune would whiz round and round, and we do our best to hold on. Bryon would pounce on his parts like a cat, and I envied how he could match the melodies with the other fiddlers. My banjo felt clunky and awkward  by comparison.

Unlike the rambling bluegrass songs I had started with, these fiddle tunes were like jewelry, intricate and precise. I soon grew tired of merely approximating them with finger-picking and began trying to figure out how to play them note for note, but it was like painting with a hammer. It was impossible. But there just had to be a way….

I had the music section of our local library memorized and knew immediately when a new book came in. So when “Melodic Banjo” by Tony Trischka arrived one day, I was the first to check it out. I gasped when I saw the table of contents. It was all fiddle tunes! I spent the next eight weeks learning about Bill Keith, the melodic style, and Blackberry Blossom.

When our family bus rattled up to the next fiddle convention, I flew out the door. I had Blackberry Blossom, Cripple Creek and Red Haired Boy ready for battle, and couldn’t wait to try them out. I sauntered up to the first jam. They were just finishing a song, and the grizzled jam leader peered across the circle at me.

“You got one, son?”

I gulped and whispered, “y-y-es.”
“Kick it off then,” the old timer growled.

“Blackberry Blossom!” I said. “one, two, three, four…”

Lips dry, I ploughed through my first break. I finished and nodded to the willowy mandolin player to my right, who scooped up the melody. The upright bass kept thumping along, and I shifted back to chords. Starting to breathe again, I watched as my song made its way round the circle. Some passed, others took sparkling variations, and eventually it was back to me again. As I played the last melody, I was flanked by Byron and another fiddler playing harmony. The song landed, and we all joined in on the ending…“Shave and a hair cut…two bits!”

Afterward, I stepped away and leaned against the cement wall, drunk on adrenaline. In the distance I could hear faint laughter and applause. The jam launched into Gold Rush, but I could barely hear it through my golden cloud. I was sold. Hooked. Helplessly addicted.

It was then that I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life…

Jam.

Musical Tip:
“Preparation Prevents Poor Pickin’”
Put in your time learning the right songs, and you will be rewarded. Learn what songs are common in the jams you plan to attend, and practice them until you can play them in your sleep. (Including the chords!) This will make the difference between enjoyment or trauma.

 

Family Banned

Playing music is the ultimate viral phenomenon. Anyone learning an instrument invariably must share their mangled Stairway to Heaven with nearby friends, and eventually begin recruiting bystanders into their obsession.

And it spreads like a fart in a yoga class.

I was no different. As soon as I could hack through “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” I began soliciting my younger brother Byron to take up the fiddle. I just knew there had to be a fiddle involved somehow.

Byron was the quiet and sensible type, and preferred to spend his days bird watching and drawing cartoons. And he wisely declined my offer for him to play fiddle in my new imaginary band.

So I did what had to be done: I went to Mom.

Our Mom was right out of Little House on the Prairie, except it was pretty much all Prairie, and no House. She was the boss of us and our home-school teacher, and we learned what she told us to learn.

We learned music, art, and the Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious by Carl Jung. Oh, and the fine art of foraging for wild edible plants…so we could eat.

And, we learned it was folly to oppose her autocratic rule. So when she told Bryon he was going to learn the fiddle, he grimaced and said “awesome!”

Next day knew she ordered one from a catalog,  along with a stack of instructional books.

Byron sighed began the long squeaky journey toward fiddle-dom. And it was worse than we expected.

The fiddle is truly a demonic device, created to mimic the sound of a live cat skinning, and there is really no way to lessen the suffering for everyone around. Mom bought a violin mute, but it didn’t help much.

Finally Mom decided there needed to be a special fiddle area, which ended up being a meadow several miles away. So every morning Bryon would dutifully trudge into the distance, fiddle in hand, and come back at sunset with a look on his face I would later recognize as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

But he hung in there, and eventually got it. We were all proud of him.

Then of course we needed a guitar player, and a mandolin player. So the next two siblings in line were promptly delegated Guitarist and Mandolinist, and fell without resistance.

Instruments and books arrived, and the cacophony began in earnest. Looking back, I now understand my Dads somewhat distant personality: he was driven away by our caterwauling!

Well, as they say “misery loves company” and nowhere is this truer than in learning music together.

Although we sounded like chimpanzees with slide whistles, it was fun, because we were all in it together! Each instrument became a musical puzzle piece, and we learned to fit in and play in time together.

It didn’t take us long to figure out that the guitar was the backbone, thumping away with the Johnny Cash rhythm, and the mandolin was supposed to hold down the “chop”, that cool backbeat that makes bluegrass so exiting.

We were a team!

In fact, to this day I pester my beginning students hook up with others and make matters even worse. I tell them that learning to play is like practicing swimming in a parking lot, but Jamming is like diving in feet first and then trying to stay afloat.

Remind yourself “I am better than I sound!” and remember that sometimes bad things happen to good songs.

Then one morning over oatmeal and soymilk, Mom made an announcement.

“The time has come” she intoned. “This morning the tarot cards and the I Ching both told me the the band is ready to enter the outside world”.

We nodded in unison.

“But we can’t risk too much exposure to society, so I will have to find the right place”.  

We knew the drill. We never quite understood what Mom was talking about, but it was always cosmic and unarguable.

It turned out she had booked us at the North State Senior Living Center.

See, Mom wanted to make sure that we weren’t exposed to the evils of the outside world, like groupies and wild parties, so she booked us someplace safe. So she booked us someplace where people could barely walk.

The next day we donned our Salvation Army finest and piled into the bus. When we arrived Mom herded us single file into the building, down the hall and into the Rec room.

The lavender walls were lined with plastic flowers and the smell of formaldehyde hung in the air. The audience consisted of six ancient beings in wheel chairs, staring at us in silence.

One of them slumped over and began to snore loudly.

All of a sudden it felt like we were about to charge out of a fox hole into heavy artillery fire.

I looked at Byron, but he was staring sightlessly ahead. My 2^nd youngest brother, Pavi, was shaking like a leaf. His face was ashen.

In my mind I said “OK, we’re the Lewis Band and we’re glad to be here. We’re going to begin with a great fiddle tune called the Red haired Boy. We hope you enjoy it!”

But instead I whispered “OK-Band-we-play-now”, and we began.

All I remember were my fingers dancing like disembodied spiders, and a continuous hacking cough from the audience.

When we finished there was stone silence. Then more hacking and wheezing.

I turned to the old man with the cough.

“I hope you get better sir” I said, trying desperately to keep my voice even.

The old man looked up, like a mummy coming alive in a B grade movie.

“I hope you do to” he spat.

Later that night around the campfire Mom said the show was great, and that the Gods were pleased. I ate my gruel in silence and vowed never to play for anyone again.

But of course I did. And so will you!

 Musical Tip:

“Music is best when shared”

From whining about sore fingertips to your first messy jams, share your musical journey with family and friends and you’ll have a lot more fun learning!

 

Playing To Learn

Yep, it all started with that dilapidated pawn shop banjo my dad brought home when I was 15.That dusty, two string no-bridge banjo that I played like a bongo until the day I decided to find more strings.

The problem was, I was a hippy kid without an allowance, and dad was big on self sufficiency and living “off the grid”. He suggested I go out into the forest and see what I could find.

So I did.

After a day spent clambering around in tree tops pulling on fishing line, I finally had enough different gauges to make a full set!  Yep, I now had five strings, ten fingers, and 24 hours a day to sit in the shade of the mulberry trees and start learning to pick.

“Twang twang, plunk plunk, TWANG, plink plunk, twang TWANG” I went, over and over and over. Tongue out, eyes squinted in concentration, I commanded my fingers to hit the right strings. But it wasn’t easy. It was terribly confusing, kind of like learning to type only much louder and more annoying.

My right arm cramped up, my left fingertips were on fire, and nothing sounded like it was supposed to.

 Thinking back now, the following things occur to me:                                                                                  …Learning an instrument is painful and annoying to everyone around. Period.                                                 …Nothing will sound like you want it to for quite some time.                                                                         …And since these two previous facts will make you about as happy as a boiled owl, all you have on your side is gritty determination.

Therefore, you must STICK WITH IT, and NEVER GIVE UP! Ever.

So I didn’t.

I played in the morning, as mom made pancakes over an open fire. I played in the noon sun by the muddy banks of the Sacramento River. I played at night by candlelight, as the crickets jammed along with my tortured plunking.

And I played as I looked out the window of dad’s homemade camper truck, rattling down the highway.

As far as “do it yourself” philosophy, I’d have to say my dad took the cake. From his tuning-in turning-on dropping-out during the ‘60’s, to his decision to raise six whole kids on the fringes of society, he definitely broke the mold.

And nowhere was this more evident than the camper he built atop his beloved 1966 Chevy pickup truck to house us.  Imagine Robinson Crusoe’s tree-fort meets a Winnebago, with a touch of gingerbread house thrown in. Held together with nails and tar paper, this rolling fort was the nightmare of the CHP, and I remember several times watching an officer shaking his head as he tried to figure out what to write the ticket for. Falling boards? Peace signs obstructing blinkers? Or best of all, the hatch dad cut in the roof so we could all lean out and make faces at the line of frustrated motorists behind us.

Like the day we were traveling through Tennessee, and were promptly pulled over. I was plunking away in the passenger’s seat. Dad smiled like a friendly Bigfoot as the trooper strolled up to the window.

“Y’all know why I pulled ya over?” He drawled.

Dad began his prepared speech. “How are you doing brother? Well we’re just grooving along the highway man, can you dig it?”

“Um, yes. OK. Well…” The officer muttered. He was already confused. I kept plunking away.

Then he looked over at me. “You play the banjer huh?”

I froze. We didn’t speak to strangers, and this would usually be the moment where I darted into the underbrush.

He came around to my side and leaned in the window. “I pick a little banjer myself. You mind if I take a look at that?”

My dad raised his left eyebrow, which meant “it’s OK, this one’s safe to talk to”. I mutely handed him my banjo.

What he didn’t know was that my banjo was totally wacked. I had made up my own tuning, and had carved a twig for a bridge. The strings were millimeters apart, and it buzzed like a sitar.

Propping his foot up on our front tire, he made a face and proceeded to twist the tuning pegs.

“All right, there we go” he said. “Ever hear of Earl Scruggs?”

Before I could answer he launched into a blazing banjo solo. I stared at his right hand, transfixed. He was only using three fingers, and his pinky as a kick stand. I had been trying to use all five fingers all this time, in an awkward jumble.

So that’s how you do it! The heavens parted and I was bathed in a golden glow of banjo awakening. The officer finished with a flourish and propped the banjo up next to me.

“See, you brace yer hand with the little finger and ring finger, and use yer thumb and next two fingers to play yer rolls”. He was obviously delighted that someone was interested in what he had to teach.

I nodded rapidly. He handed the banjo back to me.

“Keep at it son, you’ll get it!” he barked.

Then he addressed my dad. “all right, y’all get goin now, and try to stay with the flow of traffic, y’hear? Enjoy Tennessee, America at its best!”

I watched the highway drift toward us in slow motion. I was in a state of shock. All I could hear was “play yer rolls” and “Earl Scruggs”…”Earl Scruggs”…”rolls”….

My dad was fond of libraries. The next day we found one and I made a bee line for the music section, and there it was! “Earl Scruggs and the Five String Banjo”!

The cover had him holding a kid and a banjo, wearing an awesome cowboy hat, and his typical calm smile.

When we left the library later that day, I knew I could never return that book. And I never did. As we rattled on down the highway into Arkansas I tuned up my banjo to G, planted my ring and pinky on the drum head, and played my first forward roll.

Just like Earl.

Musical Tip:

“Learn by Doing”

Don’t “learn to play”, “play to learn”! Everyone you encounter is your music teacher. Seek out music everywhere and dive in, no matter how messy. It’s the Folk Way…

 

 

Pre-History of the Jam

Gak’s belly was full.  He leaned back against the cave wall and belched contentedly. It had been a good hunt.

Oog, Gak’s cousin, tossed the remains of his ostrich leg into the fire and reached for his thumping stick. There was nothing he loved more than kicking back after a feast and getting a groove going with the old thumping stick.

With a grunt he rolled a log close and began thumping…

“Crack, thud…crack crack, thud… crack, thud…crack crack, thud…”

Gak looked up and grinned toothily from across the cave.

“Umgah”? He queried.

He always liked it when Oog got a good thump going. Grabbing his own thumping stick, a lovingly chewed oak branch, he chimed in on a boulder next to him.

Somewhere in the distance a pterodactyl screamed. Gak and Oog’s shadows flickered on the stone walls behind them, and their thumping echoed out of the cave and over the tops of the giant ferns, and up toward the orange moon.

Crack, thud…crack crack, thud…the pounding grew louder and faster. Their eyes shut in concentration; furry foreheads beaded with sweat, the cavemen were oblivious to everything but the pounding beat of their thumping sticks. They were Jamming…!

This was of course before the time of Barg the Builder. Barg was an innovative caveman from the next cave-hood over, and was always fashioning things from stuff like skin, teeth and stumps.  Most of the other cavemen considered him a few boar teeth shy of a full necklace, and were fond of grunting behind his back.

But then one day Barg came up with this modified stump idea:  he hollowed it out and strapped a skin over the top of it. It made an awesome boom when hit with a thumping stick, and was a game changer for the cave jams.

Now all the cool cave jammers had to have one of Barg’s Thumping-Stumps. It just wasn’t enough to whack your stick on a regular stump anymore, and it wasn’t loud enough either. You had your own Thumping-Stump or you wished you did.

Pretty soon it was no secret and everyone was making them, and they kept getting cooler.

Thumping-stumps were decorated with tribal patterns of mammoth blood, and carved with the symbols of their builders.

There were smaller ones for higher sounds, and huge ones for making bigger boomier thumps, and the cave jams were becoming groovier with all kinds of new sounds from better thumpers.

Of course it was only a matter of time before some upstart cave-entrepreneur combined the thumping-stump with a bow string, and presto, the prehistoric guitar was born!

The Cro-Magnon music scene had just evolved from Jamming ‘Level One’ to ‘Level Two,’ or from rhythm to pitch, and the world would never be the same.

Fast forward 10,000 years:

A swaybacked hippy school bus is parked besides the Sacramento River, blending in with the valley oaks and wild grapes.  Several ragged little kids scuttle around in the undergrowth, foraging for roots and berries. Emerging from the bus, a hippy elder waddles down to the river to bathe. The morning sun sparks and glitters on the water and the smell of incense mixes with swamp grass. It is a good day.  I was there.

I was the one with the funny hat, sitting in a field with a notepad and gazing off into space.

The eldest of six wild kids, I was writing lyrics and humming melodies for as long as I can remember. All of us took to one talent or another, largely because the only other option was, well, foraging for roots and berries.

Being home schooled and raised on a bus, we didn’t have a lot of typical socializing. We made up for it with imagination and music. Although at the time I felt like a freak, looking back now I wouldn’t trade it for the world because I did nothing but music.

My first musical memory is being dragged along by the hand through an outdoor market, and passing by a string band with a loud and twangy banjo. We stopped for a few minutes, and I felt the notes bouncing off of my ear drums like hail. I didn’t know what it was, but I did know one thing: it was the coolest sound in the world.

I guess I wouldn’t shut up about it because a few weeks later my dad brought home a decrepit old banjo from a pawn shop. It was missing strings and a bridge, but I had a blast banging away on the drum head like a bongo and grinning like an idiot. It was my thumping-stick!

After a while I got bored of playing it like a drum, and asked my dad for some strings. He told me to go look for some.

“But dad” I whined, “Where am I gonna find strings?”

Dad muttered something cosmic and tugged his beard.

“Go look son. They’re out there somewhere”. He turned back to his book, a tattered copy of the Egyptian Book of the Dead.

I guessed by his body language we were done with the conversation, as he was now lighting incense and reciting something in Sanskrit.

“Fine.  I’ll go look for banjo strings in the middle of the forest, dad” I mumbled, and headed out into the woods.

Using my feral hippy kid instincts, I headed toward the river, as that was where I usually found anything useful. This particular river happened to be more of a muddy drainage ditch called Jacks Slough, and was inhabited primarily by hobos, fishermen and junkies.

After passing several hobo nests, I encountered a gaggle of drunken red necks attempting to fish. They were in a tree trying to rescue their snagged lines, and I watched them injure themselves for a few minutes before it hit me, like a bolt from the blue: I would string my banjo with fishing line!

Just as necessity is the mother of invention, then the desire to Jam is the mother of all things musical. From Gak’s Thumping Stump to my pawnshop banjo, throughout the ages we have fashioned objects of musical delight, so the jamming may continue…Jam on!

Musical Tip #1: “Found Sound”

Always remember that anything around you, including your body, is a musical instrument waiting to be discovered. Foot stomps and hand claps, mouth-noises, cups and table tops, you dwell in a universal music store…jam wherever you go!