Art Edelstein's banjo camp experience
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Times Argus arts writer Art Edelstein attended a camp in Massachusetts where he found himself among 130 banjo aficionados and wannabes. Photo by Art Edelstein |
Toolbox
By Art Edelstein Correspondent - Published: May 23, 2008
Banjo players get no respect so we'll get the jokes out of the way early. Here's the typical joke a banjo player frequently endures: What's the difference between a banjo and a chain saw? A chain saw has a dynamic range and you can turn it off.
For a variation, we'll compare the banjo to an onion. No one cries when you cut up a banjo. Or, to a trampoline: You take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.
I offer these jokes because before last weekend I was more than ready to join those who scoffed at banjo-players as musicians who should know better and play something more sophisticated.
But last weekend I entered the world of banjo players big time, at Banjo Camp North, an annual event held in Groton, Mass. I've been a longtime stringed-instrument player, and chidingly told friends who inquired about my newfound banjo interest that I had a desire to become mediocre on yet another instrument. For some reason the banjo had eluded my hands until last fall. In a moment of weakness, or was it temporary insanity, I bought an inexpensive banjo and began the journey that culminated in last weekend's festivities.
When you play a banjo you need to be in a crowd, for empathy perhaps, and because there is strength in numbers. Music camps for adults are a growing phenomenon as I found out when researching possible workshops online. Whether you play banjo, guitar, mandolin, fiddle, in the style of the Irish, or klezmer, old time, bluegrass or Scandinavian, there's a camp for you. Banjoists have several camps to choose from and the camp I attended is the closest to Vermont. Others are in Michigan and West Virginia, but with the soaring price of gas, a thrifty banjo player saves his pennies wherever he can so he can buy as many banjo CDs as possible. Why waste valuable cash on gas?
Before I actually arrived at Grotonwood, a Baptist retreat nestled a mile off Route 119, I had envisioned a town under siege. I figured Grotonites might have set up warning signs disclaiming any responsibility for the horde of banjo players in their midst. Perhaps there would be police detour signs warning of "Banjo Players in Road" or "Banjo Zone Turn on Your Radio." That was not the case. With the exception of a large painted banjo sign at the camp road turnoff, Groton appeared nonplussed, seemingly unaware that 130 people armed with banjos were in its midst.
Mike and Rebecca Holmes and their children Stacy and Seth run the camp. It's been in operation for eight years, and the Holmes provide a nice atmosphere to learn in. People bunk in buildings spread out on the wooded campus. We ate filling meals at the dining hall, and had a wide variety of workshops to attend. Each evening after dinner, the faculty puts on a concert.
A banjo novice like me learns that the banjo is a fairly flexible instrument. There's a lot more to the banjo than playing "Dueling Banjos," even though the banjo player who performed that iconic melody, Eric Weissberg, was in residence. While bluegrass banjo attracted about 60 percent of the attendees, there were many classes in clawhammer (old time) banjo that I attended.
I sat in on a workshop on klezmer banjo with a leading Jewish musician Henry Sapoznik, and ex-Montpelierite Alan Kaufman on fiddle. There were also workshops on Renaissance music for banjo and even a yodeling workshop presented by Kaufman. Apparently eclecticism is part of the banjo cosmos.
I also learned that during the post-Civil War period until the turn of the 20th century the banjo was at the forefront of sophisticated parlor music and women were its primary players. Imagine Bach on a banjo. It's been done.
If you didn't know that many banjos are strung with nylon strings and are fretless, you find this out at banjo camp. You also learn that there is a lively banjo marketplace and that there are a good number of banjo builders keeping the tradition alive, although the Chinese now make the lion's share of inexpensive banjos.
I was also struck by the diversity of people who attended. This is no weekend for backwoods hillbillies who want to pick and guzzle. There were doctors, teachers, a few teens, lots of retirees, with about a quarter being women. What I did not see were any people of color. Odd, since the banjo was first played by Africans who brought their banjo precursor to America on the slave ships.
Why so many retirees? Apparently a lot of people think the banjo is "cool." With extra free time on their hands Earl Scruggs wannabes have embraced America's only indigenous stringed instrument and are learning to play. But, this begs the question of whether there are enough young people who also find banjos cool. There were two teen bluegrass phenoms there, but not enough to replace the graying five-string warriors when they put down their Deering or Ome instruments. Hopefully, the banjo won't go the way of the glass armonica.
Women, too, are excited by the possibility of playing banjo. Several were learning bluegrass banjo, taught by Janet Davis and Casey Henry. These women have become models for their female students and there seems to be growing interest in the instrument for women.
I found a home among the clawhammer players. A friendly lot, most of us were still trying to get our right hand to make the proper picking motions while our left hand fumbled with the melodies. But it didn't matter. Our teachers seemed saintly in their patience. That these fine musicians could sit for 90 minutes playing the simplest tune at half speed over and over, one could almost see the haloes above them.
By the end of the weekend, us "newbies" had made great strides and were plucking away happily on Old Molly Hare, and Liberty.
While banjo players may always find the jokesters ready to fling another joke our way, after 48 hours with 130 other five-string fanatics, it's going to be much easier to say to the doubters, "banjos rock."
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