I freely admit—in case you hadn’t already surmised from my previous blogs—that I am a banjo “traditionalist.” I will advocate for a working knowledge of—if not outright mastery of—the “founders” (as represented by Grimshaw, Peabody, Reser, and Bechtel) until the day I die. I also wholeheartedly advocate for the preservation of and advancement-within-the-limitations-of their historical styles; if you don’t know them, how can you claim to be doing something “new?”
Preservation is a process that can only be accomplished by learning historical styles and presenting them to the uninitiated public. Otherwise, we have only a few scratchy recordings to remember them by. It is paramount that we do remember them; we owe them at least that much. Progress is a subject I will discuss in a separate blog, so please withhold judgement.
Ask any serious jazz trumpeter how important Louis Armstrong is to them; any classical pianist how important J.S. Bach is; any jazz guitarist how important Eddie Lang is; any bluegrass mandolinist how important Bill Monroe is; and any bluegrass banjoist how important Earl Scruggs is. I guarantee that they will all say that without them, they would be nothing (even though they’ve long evolved past them). Dizzy Gillespie, the great Bebop trumpet player, famously said “No Louis, no me.”
It seems to me that those instruments have survived and thrived (to the extent that they have—certainly more so than the four-string banjo!) in large part because of the unbroken evolutionary line from past to present, and the continual paying-of-tribute to their respective heroes from throughout that evolution.
More importantly, I resolutely believe that when and if I do develop my own unique, progressive, “contemporary” style (if that ability proves to be within me), it will be because I first immersed myself in the “way the banjo used to be played.” There is no better or more important stylistic/technical template then that used and developed by the ones who pioneered the instrument. Who were they “copying?” They created something that didn’t previously exist; we should be so great.
If this is as far into my blog that you read—literally and figuratively (including my past writing on the subject)—you may think of me as an obstructionist, one who places tradition in the path of progress (“That’s not how you play the banjo!”—unfortunately, there are still a few of them around). Read carefully now, because here is the most important thing I am likely ever to say on the subject:
Yes, I place tradition before progress, but as a stepping stone, not as a roadblock. If tradition proves to be only a roadblock for you (as it may ultimately be for me), it’s because you’re allowing it to be so.
I would love it if a young player came along, playing something entirely new and fresh—especially if he/she caught the imagination of other young people. I would not hesitate however, to inquire as to their historical knowledge of the proud instrument they’re playing. I would never discourage them from what they’re doing, but simply encourage them to “fill in the holes” with some “old school” skills. This is why I believe so much in the importance of original tuning; if a young person was playing something entirely different on the banjo, and using guitar tuning to do it, what does that prove? That they are a very good guitar player, and nothing else. Good guitar players are a dime a dozen; good banjo players are very rare indeed.
It is my most fervent wish that I had the ability to say something with my playing that would further the historical evolution of the plectrum banjo, without totally forsaking the past; it excites me to hear others who have accomplished this rare feat. Until that magical day, I can rest assured in the belief that I am at least helping to keep a historically valuable American instrument and its music alive.