The California Files

"Give Me the Banjo!"

Give me the Banjo! That's part of a quote from Mark Twain, and it's kind of been my unofficial credo, my musical call to action, since I was a high school student and bought my first instrument, a marvelous old S.S. Stewart, seen here on the right.

Several months ago, a program called “Give Me the Banjo” was shown on public television.

I set our DVR up to record it.

But I had never watched the program because it got mixed reviews, to say the least, from my banjo-playing associates. I thought, ‘Eh, why bother?”

But I finally sat down and watched it last night.

Brilliant. That’s what it is, brilliant.

Narrated by Steve Martin, a seriously talented musician in his own right, this film traces the history of this wonderful instrument from its arrival here with slaves right up to – well, now.

My picker friends bitched that it failed to concentrate on bluegrass. But that was one of the things I liked about. It presented a nice balance, starting with the very earliest iterations of the instrument. It told us about the earliest players, including minstrel star Joel Walker Sweeney, about who I wrote a paper when I was a college student.

It included audio and film clips of some of the early players of the last century, brought us through Earl Scruggs, Pete Seeger and the Kingston Trio right up to the present, through Bela Fleck and beyond.

Like I said, brilliant – even if it did leave out some well-known players such as Stringbean and Grandpa Jones, and their contributions to old-time music. That doesn’t matter, so much, I think. I’m absolutely thrilled that the instrument I so admire got such an intelligent treatment.

I’ve kept this one on the DVR, rather than delete it. It’s worth seeing again.

But first, I need to make the time to watch “Freedom Songs,” a film about the music of the Civil Rights movement. I recorded that last night and will settle in and watch when I can savor it.

I’m thinking that at least some of the music it will bring us could be concurrent with the music of the folk era of the 1950s and ’60s. We shall see.

In the meantime, I just wish my old friend Hal, with whom I shared so much of this music, was here to watch this stuff with me. He left for me his favorite banjo, a Bart Reiter Grand Concert - again, seen here on the right. It hangs here on my studio wall, right next to that old  1880s vintage S.S. Stewart that I still own and still cherish. The two of them make a good pair.

-JFT

Excellence Gone

Photography and music. Two of my favorite things. But it seems that the technology that each use these days is marching backwards, in terms of quality of reproduction. And so are the expectations of most folks. In fact, many folks seem to be willing to accept standards that are – well, lower than the belly of a snake that’s crawling along the bottom of a ditch. Low.

Photography, for instance: We’re told that point-and-shoot cameras now are nearly obsolete. That’s because every cell phone now has a built-in camera and that’s what people are using. Oh, you think a cell phone is capable of the same kind of photographic quality that even the rankest point-and-shoot is? I. Think. Not.

Some folks still do make prints of the photos they shoot, but most apparently are interesting in sending photos over the Web. I like prints. But when I shopped for a new printer not long ago, I had to work hard to find what I want – most don’t provide the kind of sharpness I require. This certainly is true of hobbyist printers, and it also seems to be true of at least the lower levels of the semi-pro large-format printers. And don’t get me started on those printers that will print directly from your phone, with its crappy little plastic lens – oh, and when was the last time you cleaned that lens?.

I find this curious: Why would you not want your images just as crisp and tack-sharp as possible? And as big?

People these days seem to insist on HD television, so they seem to know what a great image looks like. But they don’t insist on great images when it comes to their own photography. This baffles me.

The concept of high fidelity also seems to be obsolete. When was the last time you saw a store that specialized in high-fidelity reproduction equipment? Sure, you still see speakers and things, but these days they’re oriented toward surround-sound systems for video.

Rather than listening to music over a stereo system that offers actual, you know, high fidelity, people listen over iPods. Or maybe they dock their iPods in chintzy little devices that channel the iPod’s contents through tiny speakers.

Oh, you think your iPod qualities as hi-fi? I. Think. Not. And if you’re downloading music, because of the extreme sampling rate used, you’re getting low-fi material that’s on a par, in terms of reproduction quality, with the old 78-rpm records. And maybe not that good.

For sure, I take pictures with the camera in my phone. And I listen over an iPod (though the music is all transferred direct from CDs, so actually is quite detailed). But when I’m serious about photos and music, I used a real camera, a real printer that will produce killer, tack-sharp 8 x 10s. And when I want serious music, I crank up a stereo system – one of several in the house – that will provide a near-concert-hall experience.

Otherwise, what’s the point?

Or maybe I’m just showing my age and general crankiness.

-JFT

 

Why basses are Bad in Alabama

My friend Carolyn Roth Sutton moved a while back to Alabama. Probably moving into that state isn’t nearly as common as moving out of it is – she and her husband Jim went there to be closer to his family.

Now Carolyn, whom I’ve known since boarding school – her pop was principal of the boarding school to which my parents sentenced me – is a pretty good picker. And her husband plays bass.

What she tells me is that whenever folks gather in a back yard there for a bit of music, they always keep a long-handled hoe handy.

It seems that for whatever reason, snakes are attracted to the thump of a string bass. Play the bass, a bunch of rattlesnakes come calling. Just what you need, right?

She says when that happens, people kill 'em, skin 'em, cook 'em and eat 'em.  But I think that rattlesnake is a delicacy I can do without.

Seems like a pretty good reason, to me, to avoid the bass, avoid back yards, and avoid Alabama altogether. But what do I know?

-JFT

It Was 45 Years Ago Today

“It was 20 years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play….”

A famous lyric, for sure, from what probably was the most interesting and influential band ever to hit pop music.

But 45 years ago today, that lyric hadn’t been written.

On this date, 45 years ago today, 45 years ago tonight as I write this, the Beatles appeared in concert at Dodger Stadium here in Lost Angeles. And I was there.

My date was my friend Sheree Porter. We drove over in my ’59 Pontiac (389 cubic inch V-8 fed by a Carter four-barrel carburetor; white, aqua interior; fast car, but huge). Tickets were $4.50 and $6. I paid the latter price for seats on the Third Base line, able to do so because I was working as a studio grip, making pretty good money as I slogged my way through college. (And here she is - found a shot.)

The concert opened with the Ronettes, the Remains and Cyrcle (“Red Rubber Ball”). And then the Beatles appeared, on a stage set up at second base.

We clearly heard the music of the opening acts. But we heard very little of the Beatles’ performance, so intense was the noise of enthusiasm, of acclamation, from the crowd.

The set list was, in this order (and here I’m helped by Other Resources), Rock and Roll Music; She’s a Woman; If I Needed Someone; Day Tripper; Baby’s In Black; I Feel Fine; Yesterday; I Wanna Be Your Man; Nowhere Man; Paperback Writer; Long Tall Sally.

It was maybe 30 minutes of music, wonderful music, pre Sgt. Pepper music; the Beatles had not yet stepped into what was, perhaps, the band’s most interesting and productive period.

And then it was over. A joyful, exciting, memorable event. Over.

My friend Sheree – a really sweet kid, a beautiful girl and a great photo model; I’ve still got pictures of her around here somewhere – and I jumped into my car and left, thrilled by the experience.

Now, a lifetime later, I remain thrilled. I did not possess the wit to save the concert ticket stubs or the program. Idiot. No matter. The event is well preserved in my memory.

I have not seen Sheree since the mid-‘60s, and don’t know where she is - I wish I did. But I hope she’s well. I hope she’s had a wonderful life, and I hope she remembers this wonderful event as warmly as I do.

-JFT

Can't Stop Them Changes

One of the bulletin boards I look at frequently is one that deals with banjos. I found a post there this morning decrying a performance on the recent Country Music Awards that was, apparently, not sufficiently country and way too much like rock.

One of the folks responding said something like, “Yikes, I hope that never happens to bluegrass.”

And that got me to thinking.

What, exactly, is bluegrass music? You might think it would be easy to define. But it isn't, because it has many branches to its family tree.

We might do well to recognize, I think, that music, as a cultural reflection, morphs. All art tends to reflect the culture into which it is born; and like it or not, all art morphs.

Consider, for example, the ways in which classical music has changed over time, from Gregorian chants through the so-called “early music” like pre-baroque through baroque, classical, romantic, modern and so on. I’m talking about Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Shostakovich to the modernists like John Cage and beyond.

Can't argue that Rembrandt is the same as Caravaggio is the same as Pablo Picasso is the same as Paul Klee is the same as Jackson Pollock.

Likewise literature. I’ve taken a break from my usual refuge of modern fiction. Trying to catch up on some of the things I wasn’t exposed to during my high school years (and grr, I’ll touch more on this in a later post), I've been reading Charles Dickens, Joseph Conrad and Carl Sandberg. Wonderful, all of it, but way, way different than the stuff that's being produced today.

Which brings us back to bluegrass, the form of music in which I’m so invested. You might argue that bluegrass has done/is doing the same thing, from old-time string-band music through Bill Monroe, Flatt & Scruggs, Bobby Thompson, Alan Munde and on through newgrass and truly wacky bands like Leftover Salmon.

I think that probably this kind of development is inevitable, and has less to do with promoters seeking younger, hipper crowds, as someone on the banjo bulletin board suggested, than it does with new, virtuostic players putting their own stamp and style on the music they love. Can't blame them, I think - as much as I adore bluegrass, I'd not survive on an endless diet of just Bill Monroe, who for me gets old pretty quick.

One place bluegrass benefits, I think, is that it doesn't have the publicity machine behind it that country music does. And that's probably good - unless you're trying to make a living playing bluegrass.

I just wish it was more visible. One of my stops every weekend is the entertainment sections of the L.A. Times and the N.Y. Times. Neither paper ever mentions Americana, unfortunately, the category into which bluegrass falls. Some modern country, lots of hip-hop - which, by the way, also has morphed. Come to think of it, all this could make an interesting doctoral study, no?

-JFT

 

Shuckin' the Corn

Shuckin’ the Corn is of course an Earl Scruggs bluegrass banjo showpiece. He plays it at about a million miles an hour – so fast that it seems impossible to work out just what he’s doing.

Ah, but slow it down, and consult the tablature for the tune (tablature, or “tab,” is a notation system for folks who don’t read traditional musical scores for a particular instrument and is widely used in the world of acoustic instruments and traditional music) and you see that the tune isn’t complicated. It’s just blindingly fast.

So it is that several weeks ago my instructor assigned me this tune to learn. It’s right there in the Earl Scruggs songbook. So, OK, I slowed it way down, studied it a bit, and got to where I can play it through from memory. So far, so good.

Ah, but an alternate version of the tune appeared in the ‘60s played by a virtuoso named Marshall Brickman. It appeared on a now-collectable record called “New Dimensions in Banjo and Bluegrass,” and remains available on a CD masquerading as the soundtrack from the movie “Deliverance.” I’ve been in awe of Brickman’s version, and especially his solo break, which he played in the melodic style, for a very long time. But I was horrified to learn a few weeks ago that the break was my instructor’s next assignment for me.

It’s not long at all, just 24 bars. But it’s melodic, a style I’ve never even attempted to play and a style that is very different from the traditional Scruggs-style of bluegrass playing.

I find today that working a few bars at a time, I’ve finally got all 24 bars memorized and can play it, but slowly, all the way through. This pleases me greatly. And the speed is coming, which pleases me even more.

What occurs to me is that if I’d worked as hard in school as I work on the banjo, I’d have been a far better student. But I wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun with my studies as I’m having with my banjo. Ah, well….

-JFT

“Hm? What Did You Say?”

That’s what she’s hearing me say with increasing frequency, Laura tells me. “Go get a hearing test,” she said.

To which I replied, “Hm? What did you say?” She poked me.

Supposedly, when you become a bit older, the memory is the first thing to go. I’ve forgotten what the second thing is. Maybe it’s one’s hearing. In any case, my hearing has been knackered for a long time. Since boarding school, actually.

It happened like this. There was a decomposed granite quarry in the hillside above Newbury Park Academy, to which I was sentenced, for my juvenile sins, to four brutal years of work-release. Work and school most of the year, spend a few short days at home with one’s parents and family during infrequent release-for-semi-adequate-behavior periods. Then more work and school. At least they permitted banjos there, in which I was very interested even then.

Beethoven

We talk a lot about dexterity, my music teacher John David and I, because within our context, that of bluegrass banjo, it’s important. But I’ve just listened, again, to a demonstration of musical dexterity that puts almost everything else to shame.

I had the urge to listen, for the first time in a long time, to the Moonlight Sonata, the masterpiece by Ludwig van Beethoven – it’s Opus 27, Number 14, for those who insist on the details. So I dug out the disc, fired up the stereo system out in the living room and settled in.

The version I have is by Arthur Rubinstein, the genius gnome whose playing never will be surpassed. And I’m able to hear it well over very solid, very high-fidelity equipment the likes of which I couldn’t afford today – the speakers, for instance are Paul S. Barton towers that I bought many years ago when one of my three books was paying off wonderfully well. (Didn’t tell Laura what I was going to do, when I embarked on the mission to buy them, on the theory that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.)

"The Crow," and Other Music

OK, now look, these are difficult and troubling times, so like almost everyone else, I'm not spending a nickel unless I absolutely have to. You know, gas. Food. Books, every now and again. Stuff like that. Oh, and dinner tonight with my youngest son, Matt, at the local Mexican joint. But I bent a little last week and ordered Steve Martin's new record, "The Crow."

It's playing now. I'm instructed to make a copy for Laura.

Critique? Highly recommended. Mostly original tunes written by this noted comedian, with help from others - and some really fine playing, both in Scruggs three-finger style and old-timey frailing style. Opening tune, "Daddy played the banjo," is a frailed one, sung by Tim O'Brian - can't do better than that. Just great stuff. Not your typical bluegrass music, just as Martin is not a typical musician.

The other record I bought, and the reason I was shopping on Amazon to begin with, is a double album by a long-defunct band called Country Gazette. The thing is, this band's picker was banjo-monster Alan Munde, long a favorite. My old friend Hal's all-time favorite picker, at that, and our mentor when it comes to banjo selection - he's always played a Stelling, and so did Hal, and so do I.

But here's the deal - I took a lesson last week. The tune this teacher wants me to learn is one called "Deputy Dalton." I heard my friend Ernie play it and thought, "Hey, I need to know that one."

Well, it's a lot tougher than I thought, especially when all I have is the tabulature - kind of a non-musician's version of notation of the tune, one which shows the player when and where to put one's fangers. Sort of.

Anyway, this is a double record titled, "Traitor In Our Midst/Don't Give Up Your Day Job," and it comprises this band's first two records, made back in the early '70s. I actually had 'em on vinyl. It's available only as an import, for some reason, but if you care about this style of music at all, it's worth owning.

So I've spent a good part of today on "Deputy Dalton," and I've figured out that I am not Alan Munde. But the tune is coming. By next lesson, I think I'll have the first half figured out, at least somewhat. Some trouble spots, but I'll get them figured out. Maybe. I've got some time on my hands, so I. Will. Learn. To. Play. Banjo. Better! Dammit!

-JFT

Hope and Glory, Glory and Hope

My commute home from work usually is done with my car’s radio turned off: To get home from work, I enter the 405 South in Torrance via a very busy two-into-one flow-controlled on-ramp, then transition to the northbound 110 freeway that often is very busy. The freeway always is very busy as it passes through downtown, goes through the tunnels and transitions to the northbound I-5. So music is out, paying attention is in.

Except for yesterday, which became for me a day of hope and glory. I was, to begin with, filled with anticipation at the promise of the end of the George W. Bush nightmare – eight years of vapid stupidity, evil incompetence and bad decisions. I figured that whomever took the 2008 presidential election, we could only journey upward. I had, of course, my own hopes for a candidate.

But I’d left the radio on when I parked my car in the company lot yesterday morning. So when I climbed in, buckled up and switched on, the radio came on.

Lo and behold, the Ninth Symphony of Ludwig von Beethoven was the selection. So I left the radio on.