Playin 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.