New tuning puzzle

Now that I think about it, banjo is a better puzzle than guitar. Not because banjo is better (anthropologists insist no civilization is better than another; linguists insist no language is better than another. I shall try to stay as value-neutral here as I can) but because it's odder and more of a moving target. Guitar has become the familiar favorite in recent decades. It is most often played in a standard tuning. So if you're trying to play a tune on guitar, it's going to be right where you expect it to be. Banjo has not one but three or four standard tunings, and another handful of not-uncommon ones. On banjo, depending how you've got it tuned, the notes you need could be in one of several places.

No big revelations here, just that, brought on by jamming with some very nice folks today upstairs in the hisotric National Hotel in Nevada City. I had lots of fun changing from G tuning tuning to double C to Sawmill (or whatever you call gDGCD in these parts). And then there's that Chris Coole tune I love, 'Skating on the Harbourfront', which seems to be in fDGCD. That one's a new puzzle to me. I'll have to see if I can sneak up on it by listening to the tune a lot, strumming a little on the chords, and waiting for the tune to pop out in 3D. If some of my new jamming buddies will learn it, I'll get it down for sure.

Jigsaw

Teaching music is a compelling puzzle. If the student's mind represents the jigsaw pieces, a guitar is the table I spread them out on. Or maybe the notes of the music represent pieces, and the learner's brain is what we shuffle the shapes upon. I don't know if I thought of this image first, or if this song gave me the (as yet unfinished) idea, but:

Here's a video; you'll hear Danny Barnes singing a song with "jigsaw puzzle" in the chorus. The band is the Bad Livers, the video is Beverly Hillbillies.

And here's another, with Danny playing solo banjo and singing his version of the blues.

My musical taste is wide-ranging compared with some, but next to Danny Barnes I'm positively pedestrian. I have always wanted to put a Bad Livers song into my repertoire. Perhaps this year will be the year.

Wood-to-brain messages

My harp has been breaking strings. I understand when a pet chews up the furniture or squawks or barks if you ignore it. But does this wooden thing with strings know enough to try and get my attention? It is not a sentient being. It's a harp.

So I've changed its strings and cheered it up, tuned it a few times and run my fingers along the strings. I've been a bad harp owner and I know it. Dusty Strings, dusty soundboard -- I even found a tiny spider web between a couple of the tuning pins. (Remembering that Haloween is just a few days hence, I decided to leave the web for now.) The harp had been in the corner of the room, safe from being bumped into. It might as well have been covered with a sheet or had a cabinet built around it because once it was out of my way, it became invisible. Only the big, broken D string sproinging out at an untidy angle caught my eye. I've put the harp in the middle of the room, with a chair right behind it in race-ready position.

I received in the mail a CD made from one of my favorite old LPs -- so favorite that I put it somewhere special and safe, and I'm lucky a friend had her copy where she could find it, digitize it for me, and mail it off to my rural mailbox. (I will bring this back around to harps.)

It's a long out-of-print album called Steel Skies, a suite of music composed by English concertinist Alistair Anderson and played with fiddle, mandolin, Northumbrian pipes and flute. I was listening to it today with an ear towards learning to play a tune or two; an image of me playing harp on one of the tunes skittered across my brain, even though I haven't been playing any harp lately. Concertina and harp make a lovely combination. I'll listen to Steel Skies again tomorrow and see if my harp is sending me the wood-to-brain equivalent of psychic messages.

Teacher, Teach Thyself

The stuff of life that was stored during my counterclockwise continental vacation has been unpacked. I have my instruments again, and my pickin'buddies are in my new neighborhood. There's even a looming gig!

I respond well to the pressure of wanting to play well in public, so it's time for me to get back in shape as a musician. It's time for me to be my own teacher and take the mundane (and sometimes contradictory) medicine I dish out at lessons:

play slowly and evenly; use a metronome to build speed;

play often for short periods of time; play for longer sessions to build stamina.

And since this is hard work after a several month hiatus, don't let the effort show on your face. Smile, or at least look pleasant!

And what about hitting the right notes? I've played for so long that I can still get most what I'm reaching for. And since I'm playing folk forms with short, repeating parts, I can just relax and go for it because I get another chance or three as the tune comes around again.

What's the gig that's occasioning such a scramble of fingering exercises and rehearsals? It's a Jr. Hi ice cream social, and I'm told it's a pretty fun event. So we'll take along banjo and guitar, fiddle, mandolin and concertina and see if we can't make it even more fun.

Gold Country Jam

Unexpected hospitality isn't necessarily sweeter than hospitality you receive where and when you expect it. But because it is a surprise, it carries a little extra sparkle in your memory as you head back out on the road.

My previous post mentions that when we travel with instruments, our hosts find their hallways and living rooms cluttered with our cases. For most of our trip, however, we needed to leave guitars and mandolins behind (small car). And wouldn't you know it, that's when we found ourselves invited to an impromptu music night with Placer County bluegrassers.

Relax, we were reassured; there will be something for you to play. And sure enough, because bluegrass musicians have an extra chapter in their Emily Post and Miss Manners books, there was a lovely 20s Martin OM for me and a beautiful Michael Lewis F-5 for Greg to play. What a fine jam with old and new friends.

That was weeks ago, and many miles have scrubbed the tread off my tires. (I did the arithmetic: 10,000 miles!) Just days ago we were invited to play at an open mic night in Genoa, Nevada, but alas, since they were rock and country players, no extra mandolins and Dobros were on standby. That, and while our tires have been wearing smooth, so have our fingertips. Taking a chance with a couple of strange guitars seemed like a good way not to be asked back again. So we thanked them for the friendly invite, and said we'd be back. Since we have friends who live in the area, we will indeed be back.

Thanksgiving is coming right up. I'm looking forward to feasting, visiting , and maybe to the second annual, get-the-kinks-out reunion jam with the original Blackthorn.

Road Trip Jamming

Hosting the Greg and Margie Roadshow means not only shower, sheets and snacks, it means a pile of instruments invading the living room or hall. Sometimes the instruments stay in the cases, but when we get them out it can mean an evening is transformed from typical dinner talk into a modern rarity -- the spontaneous song circle.

Many of our hosts are pickers who don't play much at this time in their lives. But sometimes, jamming ensues. Imagine everyone's delight when another dinner guest, a stranger to us, calls for a guitar to join in. The hall closet opens, out comes the neglected old Martin and the Vega that won't tune (but we tinker and get it going). Our old time and bluegrass repertoire mixes with Eagles and Dylan songs. One or two singers, sometimes all eight voices joining in. We all stay up way too late. No one does the dishes.

Next morning, we get to sleep in because we're the guests, and by the time we come downstairs, the kitchen is clean and there's coffee. Thank yous all around, and I notice the banjo is still out. I tune it up and leave it leaning against a chair, hoping eyes will fall upon it and hands will pick it up when this new work day is done.

But it's a vacation day for us, so we jigsaw puzzle it all into the car and head off. More soon on jamming on the road.

Leaning towards moving

Many years ago I had a taste of the touring musician's life when the original Blackthorn (Jeff Peach, Gale Peach, Greg Mirken and I) did four or five concerts and some live radio in Central and Northern California. Audiences were lovely, accommodations were kindly offered (if funky and makeshift and full of cats), and the money barely paid for the travel. After that small sample I decided the life of a touring musician was not for me.

But it's time to travel again, pack the boxes and banjos and and basses, and actually relocate. We're the last family members left here, and now is as good a time as ever to go. Before we settle I'll take some vacation. I'm hoping to see and hear wonderful music, and to see and hear some of the natural wonders which have inspired the writers of the music. How can the sky in Montana be so big? Bigger than a symphony's wall of sound! Will I hear where the plinky banjo tunes come from in the burbling of a brook? Feel Gerschwin's jazz rhythms in the movement of a train? I can almost taste it now!