Banjo Camp, the day after

 By "Banjo Camp," I mean American Banjo Camp held on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State, run by Peter Langston and Ken Perlman.  I meant to keep a daily blog, but turns out that the B and B where we were staying (off site, I might add) didn't have a computer network (much less such amenities as drinking glasses and other niceties, but oh well.)  So I'm back in Portland and this will be a retrospective account.

The best thing camp had to offer was the company of the faculty:  the crazy-talented Peter Langston, who could, I believe, coax music from an old sock and a wooden spoon . . . and the innovative power of Ken Perlman.  I was engaged in exploring "old time" banjo styles, so can't report on the bluegrass or fiddle faculty.  But on my side of the curriculum, were Adam Hurt, who's elegant sound could make angels put down their harps and learn something, and Cathy BartonPara. who could make those same angels dance.  Then there was the legendary Brad Leftwich, and the Canote brothers. I didn't take classes from Mac Benford or Laura Smith, but I imagine they were equally amazing.

All right, then, what  did I learn?  This is the section for anyone reading this out there who might be wondering about attending next year.  I would say it is inspiring, it's like your own private festival, it's meeting new people (more about which later) but I think it does not take the place of instruction on a regular basis wherever you live.   Ken Perlman, wow, you probably have one of his books, and yeah, he knows everything, but you'll be sitting in a room with a group of folks trying to absorb a point, and you have an hour and a half to get a new tune or some technique, and, well, you will be on to the next class before you have time to practice whatever it was and will now be trying to learn some other song/technique.  This is not to say that it's not helpful and great, but it's a lot to absorb and can't take the place off hard work at home.

What I did learn specifically, was how to do the famous and necessary "chuck," how to find the music of the greats (Grandpa Jones, Uncle Dave Macon, Stringbean, for example), and how their individual sounds developed.  I have a great teacher here in Portland, and I know he would have given me the "chuck" all in good time, but I wouldn't have missed the experience of camp.   I'm just saying don't go there thinking you'll leapfrog to the next level in your playing.

As for the campers:  On the first day we (husband and I) happened to meet some women from California, one of whom was quite knowledgeable about the banjo scene, even in Portland.  There was talk among them of what "Ken" advised, about the various classes and gatherings they attend, so I immediately concluded that everyone there was way smarter than I, and certainly a lot further along in their banjo journeys.   Yet, as I sat next to them in the classes, I learned that they weren't remarkably more adept at actually playing the thing than I.  I was hanging out, to borrow a phrase, with the Intermediates, both low and high, and was surprised to find that the skill level was tilted toward the less challenging.  Good that the directors know their constituency!  There was only one class in which I observed a truly skilled player, and I think she must have wandered in inadvertently from an advanced class.  Guess my point is, maybe some people just love the music scene, which doesn't necessarily mean they're brilliant players.  So don't be alarmed by all the pre-game talk. 

My banjo was behaving badly with respect to tuning, the fifth string wouldn't stay where I put it, and I happened to chance a lunch-time meeting with a fascinating man . . . just come home from sailing for a month, who, though now reformed, at one time trapped and killed bears.  Thus we were treated to an exposition on the arm musculature of the black bear.  In class that afternoon he noticed how out of tune I was.  I complained about the friction tuners my banjo has, all very vintage and really gorgeous, but a pain in the ass (can I say that in a blog?)  He introduced me to a luthier with whom he was traveling, a most lovely man, who said he'd have a look . . . and in ten minutes he had taken the tuner apart, polished it up a bit, put it back together, and it was cured.  A miracle to watch his hands manage the tiny parts and persuade them to play nicely together.  Thanks, Doug and Steve

The final event of camp was a demonstration "jam" with the faculty.  My group sat in a fire circle with the afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees, an occasional leaf drifting to the ground.  The "old-timers" took turns performing, and the soft outdoor sound of a banjo and fiddle, guitar sometimes, the stories and jokes they told . . . it's the camp scene everyone should experience at least one time in a life.  So don't wait.  Save your money.  Sign up.

P.S.  There's no place more beautiful than the Olympic Peninsula on a late summer afternoon

banjo camp, day minus one