AROUND MY SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY, one of my uncles played for me a recording of some Bluegrass music. I had never heard that sound. To be completely honest, I wasn’t at all fond of the Foggy Mountain Boys’ singing, but I’d never heard anything like Earl Scruggs on the banjo. I was immediately taken by the lightning-fast picking. I wanted to play like that.
After hearing the theme from the show, Beverly Hillbillies, I ordered a banjo out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog; if you don’t know what that is, sigh . . . never mind. They offered one banjo only, for $99.99. Because I had no idea how to set up one, when it arrived it was hard to learn anything. Even after setup, I can tell you that it sounded nothing like Earl! But at church, there was a guy with a Gibson RB-250 who played quite well, and he encouraged me. After attempting to make my ‘Kenmore’ sound and play better, he told me the truth; “You’re gonna need a real banjo soon.”
I found a “long neck” (no resonator). The rim was plastic, covered in faux chrome leaf, but it sounded better and I learned some chords (well, sort of). Banjo is a humbling instrument. Frustrated, I finally decided to save for a REAL one. SO basically, I’d never owned an instrument, had no idea how to play one, read only shaped note music, and there were NO musicians in my family. The guy at church explained that banjo 'sheet-music' isn’t really notes, it’s called tablature and, as my nose and forehead were wrinkled at his attempted explanation, he slowed down and showed me how to read tabs. Whew!
I purchased several recordings of Earl and plunked along as best I could. The tiny strings cut deeply into my fingers, so it took longer than I’d hoped to learn. Playing recordings over and over at slow speed, you know, on the Victrola, (45s played at 33rpm) I pushed my parents' patience pretty far—but on the positive side it kept unwanted door-to-door salesmen and long-winded neighbors away—so I was allowed to continue. Mom bribed me with my favorite supper food if I put the banjo away for the rest of the night.
Finally came the day of my professional banjo. It cost me a fortune, $350! But what a beauty! A Vega Wonder that I eventually named Berford V—a suggestion from a man I knew as, “Uncle Hank.”
Practicing whenever I could, I pushed myself until the day I headed to college. There I soon met three other guys of like mind. They were kind enough to invite me to sing and play with them. One night I found myself standing with them on stage at a ΠΚΑ Hootenanny (refer to photo). In a moment of terror, my turn to show my stuff had arrived. A big salute to the angel who was pushing my trembling fingers, as to my amazement, I finished the song, Foggy Mountain Breakdown. I was glad I didn’t break down. I was, at last, a real banjo picker.
Berford V and I traveled together for a long time. We joined up with some professional pickers in Nashville—though I soon discovered that the life of a traveling musician was absolutely not for me. Over the years, I played as long as I could, until the joints in my fingers (both hands) became too swollen and painful. It doesn’t mean I will stop trying.
I will always be energized by and driven toward that thundering pentatonic scale only banjos can produce. If you know me at all, you KNOW that I will be stubborn about it until God says something like, “Son, here, wouldn’t you like to try a harp instead? Yes! Somebody get this guy a harp. Hurry up!”
I’ve never been more endeared to any people more than those I’ve traveled time with in music circles. Each one of you is the best, and I will love you forever. Music has an allure, a pull, and passion ingrained in it that no one I know of has adequately explained. It’s another of God’s mysterious and awesome creations. But those I’ve sung and/or played with have shaped who I am. I can close my eyes and see you, each one. And I am eternally grateful.
I hope and pray the show goes on forever.
©️ Copyright 2022, Gary Landerfelt, MyPericope.com
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