The subject of musical “time” is important to me for two main reasons: #1, I’m a banjo player; “keeping time” is what we do. And #2, I have my own issues with it.
I freely admit that my time is not perfect. I think I can say though that I have “perfect relative time”; this is both a good thing and a bad thing. When I play with a solid rhythm player/section (be it drums, tuba/bass, or piano—or all three), I have no problem. When I find that I have to be the chief time-keeper, I also have no problem, because I am laser-focused on it (to the detriment of my fun). It’s in that in-between gray area that I tend to have a problem. If the time of a group is “all over the place,” it’s hard to find a rhythmic hook to hang my hat on—and I tend to rush.
To begin with, I like to play fast; give me an inch and I’ll take a mile. When a Trad Jazz band leader says “banjo intro!” I say “banjo speed or your speed?” The excitement generated by pizza-parlor-banjo speed can have a speeding-up effect on the rest of the band, which then leaves me in the position of having to pull back on the reins—if I realize the problem in time (double entendre intended). Or maybe they want to speed up? That is the basic paradigm I grew up with after all. Lifelong habits are hard to break.
Most good bands don’t necessarily play with absolute metronomic precision. That would be boring! Imagine a computer or robot playing music. When good musicians “lock-in” with each other, it doesn’t necessarily mean in a strictly metronomic sense; it means that they are keeping active track of each other’s relative time. They feel each other. One musician pushes the tempo while another holds him/her back or vice-versa, etc. It can be quite exciting to hear this rhythmic interplay between them. It can be the difference between a “good” band and a “so-so” band. Good live music is a dynamic dance that breaths with a life of its own. If a song begins and ends with the same relative tempo, no problem; what happens in-between is fairly negotiable.
The Count Basie orchestra was famous for having one of the best rhythm sections in jazz history. You’ll often see on the Basie-style sheet music “lay back,” which means to purposely drag the tempo (play “behind the beat”); the musicians then of course have to catch up to the beat at the beginning of the next phrase, then do it all over again. The trick there is that the rhythm section does not get to lay back; if they did too, then the overall tempo would gradually drag down to a dirge.
In my work on transcribing Harry Reser’s plectrum banjo solos, I have found that he pushes the tempo; this “playing ahead of the beat” makes it exciting (and awfully difficult to transcribe!). Again, the trick there is that his accompanist cannot participate in the pushing, or it would just get faster and faster.
One advantage of being a solo player is that you don’t have to worry so much about time. I will do things in a solo that I will not likely do when playing with others. “Peabody” strokes for instance: syncopation is difficult enough in a solo setting; playing it with a band is an invitation to a train wreck—unless everyone knows how to syncopate and can lock-in with it. I have a mortal fear of being the instigator of a rhythmic train wreck; some of my best musical memories come from near disasters where we managed to keep from totally derailing (which generates a lot of laughter). There is a fine line between near disaster and actual disaster. At least in this type of train wreck, nobody gets hurt (only our pride).
Playing the “Classic” style of banjo has been a wonderful exercise in solo time-keeping. Much of the music—especially the slower pieces—is meant to be played with “rubato,” a purposeful slowing-down/speeding-up process that lets the music breath and gives it a sense of drama. I don’t play it the same way twice; it depends on my mood. It would take away the magic of it if I played with an accompanist; we would have to work together a lot to learn each other’s sense of rubato (and moods). The most-important point to be made here is that this music has made me more aware of the accurate-but-flexible passage of musical time.
Practicing with a metronome? Sure—if you can find one that doesn’t slow down and/or speed up… The same can be said for using “backing tracks” or playing along with a computer file. Yes, do so but remember this is a double-edged sword: remember what I said about absolute precision being boring? “Fluid precision” would be a better goal. I think a better exercise would be to find another rhythm musician to play with and practice pushing/pulling each other on purpose. See if you can keep a relative speed (beginning/end) without being boring; so, start with a metronome click, and then check afterward to see how close you kept it. Learn what it takes to keep the reins on each other while letting the music breath. You can’t do that with a metronome!
If you are just beginning your banjo journey though, you’ll want to work toward absolute time-keeping precision. Only when you know it well (and can feel it) can you play around with it. A big part of this is being brave and playing loud enough to be heard. Put yourself in the position of being “in charge” of the time. If you never let your presence be known, then you will never have the opportunity to develop any practical, useable sense of time.
The banjo gets a bad rap for being a noisy instrument, but being physically able to play loudly is the first step to being able to play quietly—not the other way around. You need to develop a full range of volume level. You need power to be heard and felt (because that’s what the banjo does—remember, they didn’t have microphones when the 4-string banjo was invented), and sensitivity to play quietly (because that’s what musicians do). Ultimately, you’ll want to be able to go back and forth between these extremes on-the-fly to make and keep the music interesting. Remember that music is a living, breathing entity; work toward playing a dynamic part in that lifeforce.