Building New Banjos for an Old Time

World First Edition Jones-Bamman

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/building-new-banjos-for-an-old-time-world-first-edition
-jones-bamman/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

The First Time A Hotwife Series PART THREE Old Friends

and New 1st Edition Shalamara Jax

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-first-time-a-hotwife-series-
part-three-old-friends-and-new-1st-edition-shalamara-jax/

Old World New Wayfinding 4 1st Edition Hugh Howey

https://ebookmeta.com/product/old-world-new-wayfinding-4-1st-
edition-hugh-howey/

Old Brand New Colorful Homes for Maximal Living An

Interior Design Book 1st Edition Dabito

https://ebookmeta.com/product/old-brand-new-colorful-homes-for-
maximal-living-an-interior-design-book-1st-edition-dabito/

The Old Testament in the New An Introduction 2nd

Edition Steve Moyise

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-old-testament-in-the-new-an-
introduction-2nd-edition-steve-moyise/
Choreographing Intersubjectivity in Performance Art:
Transforming Subjects (New World Choreographies)
Victoria Wynne-Jones

https://ebookmeta.com/product/choreographing-intersubjectivity-
in-performance-art-transforming-subjects-new-world-
choreographies-victoria-wynne-jones/

The Time Thief 1st Edition Gareth P Jones

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-time-thief-1st-edition-gareth-
p-jones/

World Builders on World Building An Exploration of

Subcreation 1st Edition Mark J. P. Wolf

https://ebookmeta.com/product/world-builders-on-world-building-
an-exploration-of-subcreation-1st-edition-mark-j-p-wolf/

Every Good Thing An Introduction to the Material World

and the Common Good for Christians 1st Edition David W.
Jones

https://ebookmeta.com/product/every-good-thing-an-introduction-
to-the-material-world-and-the-common-good-for-christians-1st-
edition-david-w-jones/

Time Share Imogene Museum Mystery 8 1st Edition

Jerusha Jones

https://ebookmeta.com/product/time-share-imogene-museum-
mystery-8-1st-edition-jerusha-jones/
 NEW

OS
ING

J
LD
BUI

A
JBNAN OLD -TIM E W
J
O RLD

FOR B
- AM M AN
D JON ES
CHAR
RI
Building New Banjos
for an
Old-Time World
The Folklore Studies in a Multicultural World series is a collaborative ven-
ture of the University of Illinois Press, the University Press of Mississippi,
the University of Wisconsin Press, and the American Folklore Society, made
possible by a generous grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. The
series emphasizes the interdisciplinary and international nature of current
folklore scholarship, documenting connections between communities and
their cultural production. Series volumes highlight aspects of folklore stud-
ies such as world folk cultures, folk art and music, foodways, dance, African
American and ethnic studies, gender and queer studies, and popular culture.
Building New Banjos
for an

Old-Time World
Richard Jones - Bamman
Publication of this book supported by grants from the Andrew
W. Mellon Foundation, the AMS 75 PAYS Endowment of the
American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National
Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon
Foundation, and the L. J. and Mary C. Skaggs Folklore Fund.

© 2017 by the Board of Trustees

of the University of Illinois
All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Jones-Bamman, Richard, 1951- author.
Title: Building new banjos for an old-time world / Richard Jones-
Bamman.
Description: Urbana, Illinois : University of Illinois Press, 2017.
| Series: Folklore studies in a multicultural world | Includes
bibliographical references and index. |
Identifiers: lccn 2017011677 (print) | lccn 2017013369 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780252099908 (ebook) | isbn 9780252041303 (cloth :
alk. paper) | isbn 9780252082849 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: lcsh: Banjo—Construction. | Banjo makers—United
States. | Old-time music—History and criticism. | Banjo
music—United States—History and criticism.
Classification: lcc ml1015.b3 (ebook) | lcc ml1015.b3 j66 2017
(print) | ddc 787.8/8192—dc23
lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017011677
This book is dedicated to Will Fielding (1951–2014), banjo
builder, musician, and above all an invaluable friend.
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix

Introduction 1
1 A Brief History of the Banjo 21
2 The Old-Time Nation 44
3 God Is in the Details 77
4 An Homage to the Past 118
5 An Apprentice to Ghosts 157
6 The Banjo’s Evolving Story 208
Appendix 1. List of Interviewees 233
Appendix 2. Banjo Builder Websites 235

Notes 237
Bibliography 257
Index 267
 Acknowledgments

A project like this would never have been possible without the participation
and support of a number of individuals, all of whom deserve some recogni-
tion for the role they played in bringing this book to completion.
Given the book’s focus on banjo makers, it seems appropriate to begin by
thanking them for their willingness to meet with me, share their stories, and
answer my questions regarding their work and their aspirations. Many of
these makers have also become friends with whom I have had the pleasure
of continuing our discussions and sharing a tune or two. Unfortunately, not
all of these individuals found their way into the final manuscript, but this
in no way diminishes the significance of their contributions. Each person
with whom I interacted added immeasurably to my understanding of the
effort required not just to design and build a banjo but also to ensure that
this particular instrument remains part of our national discourse on race
and cultural exchange. My sincere thanks to all of the following, arranged
in the order of our meetings: Chuck Ogsbury, Kate Spencer, Kevin Enoch,
Pete Ross, Greg Galbreath, Wayne Sagmoen, Jeff Kramer, Bart Reiter, Jeff
Menzies, Jim Hartel, Chuck Waldman, Bob Thornburg, Bob Flesher, John
Bowlin, Brooks Masten, Jason and Pharis Romero, Will Fielding, Noel Booth,
George Wunderlich, Kevin Fore, and Allen Hart.1
Additionally, I am indebted to several people whose expertise and experi-
ence with banjos from a historical perspective proved helpful on many occa-
sions, especially in my efforts to identify the links that exist between banjo
manufacturers of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and contem-
porary banjo builders. Given the importance of a collectively imagined past
x . ac k n ow l e d g m e n t s

within the old-time musical sphere, these historians are often called upon to
help make this past tangible when applied to instrument building, by pro-
viding information about specific details and manufacturing techniques. Far
from being simply repositories of knowledge, however, all of these individuals
are active as old-time musicians and, in some cases, as repair and restoration
experts. Thanks, therefore, are due to Lewis Stern, Bob Smakula, Ed Britt,
and Jim Bollman, all of whom took the time to meet with me initially and
provide valuable feedback as this project moved forward.2
As I trust will become evident, those who build old-time banjos develop
and maintain multilayered relationships with those who play these instru-
ments, defined less by obvious commercial interactions than a desire to be
active participants in the old-time musical scene. As someone who has played
old-time music for more than forty years, I believe I had a reasonable under-
standing of the symbiotic nature of these relationships when I started this
project but found it advantageous to speak with other musicians on numer-
ous occasions. These conversations served to confirm some of my thoughts,
but more importantly they helped me grapple with the complexity of this
intentional musical community. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to
exchange ideas with such a broad variety of individuals, representing different
geographical regions and age groups. As with the builders, not all of these
musicians are present in the book, but their input nevertheless helped inform
my analysis of the old-time scene. In particular, I would like to acknowledge
the contributions from Dave Hall, Bill Boyer, Melissa Takush, Scott Killops,
Tom Berghan, and Chris Carney.3
This process also involves the efforts of those whose support may be less
noticeable to those outside the publishing domain, yet their work is reflected
throughout the finished project. I would like to thank my readers, Timothy
Cooley, Greg Adams, and Bob Carlin, all of whom provided valuable feed-
back and encouragement. Additionally, I want to express my appreciation
to Laurie Matheson, Julie Laut, and all the others at the University of Illinois
Press for ensuring that this book reached fruition. Their patience is seem-
ingly boundless and I could not have asked for better support at each step.
With that in mind, I would also like to include Judith McCulloh (1935–2014),
a force majeure at the press who years ago informed me that I had a book
waiting to be written. I regret I did not have the opportunity to hand it to her
before she passed away, but I would like to think it meets her expectations.
Many thanks as well to my friend and colleague, Andy Jones, whose pen and
ink illustrations added immeasurably to the appearance of this work. It was
 ac k n ow l e d g m e n t s . xi

a pleasure to see how something as mundane as banjo parts could inspire

such craftsmanship.
Finally, none of this would have been possible without the support and
encouragement of my family. To my wife, Leigh, my deepest thanks for years
of informed conversation, along with your close reading and helpful criti-
cism at each juncture. And to my daughter, Caitlin, a father’s gratitude for
broadening my musical horizons: despite growing up in a house filled with
banjos, you wisely chose to play the violin.
 Introduction

I cannot say with any certainty when I first encountered the banjo, but it
seems as if it has been a fixture in my musical consciousness for most of my
life. I have dim memories of seeing Pete Seeger perform when I was a child,
and like most others of my generation, I was exposed to the banjo fairly
regularly via the media, particularly television and movies. I am also told
I had an uncle through marriage who played the banjo in what my father
termed (not the least bit derisively) a “hillbilly” band in the Midwest, but
that hardly qualifies as a “roots” connection to the instrument or the music
associated with it.
I do, however, remember vividly the moment I determined to play the
banjo. This occurred one evening during my senior year in college, when I
saw High Country, a local Bay Area bluegrass band perform as the warm-up
act for Doc Watson, the legendary guitarist and singer from North Carolina.
As excited as I was to see Doc perform, it was the bluegrass musicians—and
especially the five-string banjo player—who left the most lasting impression,
if hindsight is an accurate measure. Within a few months, I had ceased study-
ing classical guitar, purchased my first banjo, and turned my full attention
to playing bluegrass and old-time music. In the forty-plus years since that
night, I’ve been amicably entangled with this instrument as a performer, a
researcher, and a tinkerer, occasionally leaving the banjo for other musical
and professional pursuits, but invariably finding my way back.
Putting aside my own enthusiasm for this instrument, however, one might
be justified to question whether another book about the banjo is really nec-
essary, particularly given the number of other publications available. These
2 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

include histories of the instrument and its manufacture (Gura and Bollman
1999; Webb 1984; Epstein 1977), profiles of various players and promoters
(Heller 2011; Carlin 2007; Schreyer 2007), and analyses of the banjo’s impact
on American society at different times and among different populations
(Conway 1995; Linn 1991). Yet there is an element conspicuously absent in
all of the others: the voices of those who actually build banjos. This current
work seeks to rectify this situation by providing a forum for these individuals
and an opportunity to examine some of the issues and concerns associated
with the banjo from this underrepresented perspective. While there have
been quite a few articles in the popular press regarding banjo makers, with
rare exception these are biographical, often leaning toward fandom, and do
not address some of the questions I find most compelling.1 How do builders
interact with one another and with their customers, for example, or what
influence might the banjo’s long history have on contemporary craftsmen?
For the more technically inclined there is a small amount of literature provid-
ing step-by-step instructions for building a banjo, usually written by people
at least semiprofessionally engaged with this process.2 But these resources
also fall short of achieving my objectives in writing this book, even if they
do add more contextual information to the discussion. While instrument
building is undeniably an outlet for artistic expression, I demonstrate that the
banjo makers profiled here create more than finely crafted objects to fulfill
individual musician’s aspirations; they also contribute to the formation and
maintenance of specific musical communities.
Rather than adopting an all-inclusive approach, however, I have chosen to
focus on those who build banjos used in “old-time” music, one of two com-
monly encountered styles in which the banjo plays a consistent and significant
role (the other being bluegrass.) In excluding those who make other types
of banjos, I admit this book is hardly an exhaustive study of the aesthetical
and technical aspects involved in constructing these instruments, but there
were reasons for imposing this limitation. With very few exceptions, the
banjos used in bluegrass music, for example, strictly adhere to basic design
concepts perfected in the 1930s.3 While this is not dissimilar to the singular
concern one encounters in the violin world with certain eighteenth-century
instruments, it is unnecessarily restricting for my purposes. At the very least
it assumes readers already possess a fair amount of esoteric knowledge to
decipher or appreciate the minutiae involved.4 Were I writing exclusively for
banjo players, this might not prove problematic since much of this informa-
tion is applicable across styles; but I am more interested in expanding the
discussion to include those for whom this instrument may be less familiar. In
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 3

contrast, the range of banjos employed in old-time settings is much greater

because there is no single model or type that is considered superior. In fact,
many old-time aficionados own several different banjos, each one chosen
for a particular tonal or design characteristic: a fretless instrument in addi-
tion to the more conventional type with frets, for example. As a result, the
variety of instruments now found within old-time musical contexts provides
a rich field for study.5 And while I admit this surfeit of possibilities may oc-
casionally lead to some confusion, I believe it also offers greater potential to
explore how banjo makers negotiate their careers, individually and collec-
tively. This is an environment that nurtures more experimentation than one
encounters within the bluegrass banjo world but also demands that banjo
builders specialize to a degree. Discovering the parameters that steer this
process, therefore, has been a primary concern of this study.
Both bluegrass and old-time banjos, however, share a common symbolic
function that draws upon this instrument’s long-standing identification with
rural populations, especially those situated in the southern part of the United
States. But note this is rarely conceptualized within a contemporary setting.
Instead, the banjo—perhaps more aurally than visually—conjures a sense of
the past, typically imagined as an era marked by bucolic locales and simpler
lifestyles. This is not to say the banjo is the only instrument capable of instill-
ing these impressions in listeners and players, but unlike the other stringed
instruments used in old-time and bluegrass performances, the banjo is es-
sentially confined to this role. We have little difficulty, for instance, imagin-
ing the fiddle or the guitar in myriad styles of music, convincingly moving
across genres without challenging the average listener’s preconceptions of
these instruments. By comparison, for more than a century now the banjo
has remained rooted in our consciousness as an instrument incapable of
being taken very seriously outside a “country” context, helped along sig-
nificantly by images of banjo-thumping rubes promulgated by the media.
There are exceptions of course, perhaps most clearly banjoist Bela Fleck who
has explored rock, jazz, and classical idioms as a solo artist and leader of his
band, the Flecktones.6 Even in Fleck’s indisputably capable hands, however,
the banjo is basically regarded as a novelty when met outside its predictable
musical milieu.7
Yet, it is this same ubiquitous identification with rural life that also lends
the banjo its evocative power, turning it into what historian Karen Linn de-
scribes as an “antimodern machine” (Linn 1991: 116). Although Linn used this
term to describe the banjo as an antidote to the growing dissatisfaction among
the American middle class with encroaching modernism at the close of the
4 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

nineteenth century, I believe it is an equally persuasive way of looking at the

banjo in postmodern America, especially within old-time musical contexts.
Historian T. J. Jackson Lears describes the antimodern impulse as follows:
[A]ntimodern cultural critics exalted robust simplicity, moral certainty, and
the ability to act decisively. This activist version of antimodernism preached
regeneration through preindustrial craftsmanship and a pastoral “simple life.”
. . . They longed to rekindle possibilities for authentic experience, physical
or spiritual—possibilities they felt had existed once before, long ago. (Lears
1994: 57)8

Many of the fundamental characteristics Lears assigns to antimodern-

ism are readily apparent in the practice of old-time music, particularly the
emphasis on pastoral simplicity and “preindustrial craftsmanship”. Old-time
musical events typically take place outdoors in campgrounds and similar fa-
cilities where participants have little choice but to simplify their daily activi-
ties. Old-time fans willingly gather in these Spartan settings to share meals,
stories, and endless rounds of fiddle tunes in jam sessions that promote group
cohesion rather than individual achievement. Perhaps even more convinc-
ingly, the instruments one finds in these activities invariably reinforce the
value ascribed to craftsmanship over industrialization—handmade acoustic
instruments are the norm in this environment.9
Yet another of my interests, therefore, has been to explore how these nostal-
gic preoccupations influence the design and building processes involved with
old-time banjos. How, for instance, does one create a new instrument that
meets the musical needs of modern players while simultaneously addressing
the requirement that it remain sufficiently “old” to fulfill its symbolic function
in this music? Is it enough simply to follow the lead of violin makers who
distress the finish of a new instrument to suggest both age and an implicit
relationship with an existing important violin such as a Stradivarius or Guar-
neri del Gesu (Marchese 2007)? This has actually worked quite effectively
among electric guitar makers who have adopted similar techniques to pro-
duce instruments resembling well-used examples of specific iconic models.10
The success of these ventures, however, is predicated on an unwavering valu-
ation of the original instrument both monetarily and symbolically, whether
it is an eighteenth-century Italian violin or a mid-1950s Fender Stratocaster
associated with the origins of rock’n’roll. Within old-time music, there is no
such analog—the banjos that one now comes across in an old-time context
range from antiques to recently built instruments incorporating designs and
structural elements from several different eras.
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 5

While this lack of specificity may initially seem confusing (what is an

“old-time” banjo if it isn’t demonstrably “old”?), it provides a glimpse into the
way in which old-time musicians reckon the past. This is not conceived as a
particular historical moment but instead expands and contracts according to
the dictates of the old-time community. At times it may be associated with
a specific place or a notable musician or group, but is more often simply a
means of distinguishing between the mundane (present) and the desirable
(past), the latter of which is continually reconstituted through old-time mu-
sical activities (Turino 2008). As Emily Rose Nyberg, a young banjo player
from Vancouver, British Columbia, remarked:
I identify more with another time that is long gone than I do with what’s hap-
pening in the world at present. It’s kind of sweet that the music is so old. It’s
stood the test of time, it is self-sustaining. It’ll warm you, even when you’ve
got nothing. (quoted in Slaven 2008: 28)

This vague conceptualization of the past creates an advantageous situation

for old-time banjo builders, who experience much greater latitude than their
counterparts in the bluegrass sphere, but it is also occasionally marked by
capriciousness: different types of instruments fall out of favor for reasons that
are difficult to predict; conversely, old ideas periodically resurface, potentially
leaving builders scrambling to meet demands.
When I began playing old-time music in the early 1970s, the ideal banjos
were somewhat surprisingly factory-built instruments from one of several
large firms of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—surprising
in the sense that these were banjos designed with the urban middle-class
consumer in mind, not the typical rural musician the old-time community
valorizes. Most of these banjos were delicately constructed, and therefore not
particularly well suited for anything other than the light-classical repertoire
commonly encountered in a middle-class parlor. Nevertheless, by the time
of my arrival on the old-time scene they represented the epitome of “old”
banjos. Despite having been produced in the hundreds of thousands dur-
ing the late Victorian era (Webb 1984), by the 1960s their availability had
diminished significantly, opening the door for the first generation of small-
scale banjo builders who sought to fill this void. Rather than attempting to
copy the most sought-after parlor instruments, however, these individuals
were content to design and build banjos that were playable and reasonably
inexpensive (Ogsbury interview 2005). If one could not locate or afford a
vintage banjo, these new instruments at least met the basic musical require-
ments within the nascent old-time scene. While not a perfect solution, it was
6 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

the most practical one, especially given the relatively small audience for this
music (Flesher interview 2009).
As old-time music gained momentum, however, there was a marked shift
in this process, with many of the builders edging closer to replicating spe-
cific vintage examples, a task that also advanced the technical requirements
for those entering the craft, including the acquisition of skills that had not
been commonly practiced for several generations. In many instances, what
had previously been accomplished with relative ease in factories was now
only possible to reproduce painstakingly with handwork if one wished the
finished product to resemble the original (Hartel interview 2009). Yet, banjo
makers rose to the challenge, and in doing so they restored preindustrial
craftsmanship to its current place of importance within the old-time com-
munity. Today, these new-old banjos embody the best of the past in aesthetical
terms, occasionally duplicating specific models from the previous century
but more often suggesting a rather loose gestalt of that era; at the same time,
they are designed with the modern old-time musician in mind, which has
resulted in several structural improvements that would be unrecognizable
to a nineteenth-century player.
While this transition was something I witnessed firsthand as a musician, I
had not previously considered it as thoroughly from a builder’s perspective.
Some of those I interviewed were among the first to elevate building stan-
dards significantly, and their stories are filled with the blend of excitement
and headache one expects from those rediscovering lost territory. Others,
having started more recently, are the inheritors of these recovered skills and
knowledge, and have typically used these resources to move the level of old-
time banjo building up another notch. Virtually all of them, however, remain
tied to aesthetic principles that reached their zenith more than a century ago
when the banjo achieved its greatest popularity, and this continues to impact
how they attain individuality in a competitive field. Today’s builders must pay
sufficient homage to the past while simultaneously developing a banjo that
stands out sufficiently—visually, tonally—to be noticed (Jason and Pharis
Romero interview 2009).
This has become more complicated, however, as the number of individuals
involved in building has increased. To some extent this has been ameliorated
by specialization, with builders voluntarily limiting what they create, typically
driven more by artistic interests than purely economic concerns. Yet these
same forces have also encouraged an expansion of the old-time purview.
Rather than moving the old-time banjo forward into modernity, a few of
the current builders instead have concentrated on reproducing some of the
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 7

earliest banjos known, thereby pushing the old-time past back considerably
to include the antebellum era, a period heretofore largely ignored by the
old-time community. Although laudable from a historical perspective, these
actions have also opened a musical Pandora’s box: along with these early in-
struments comes the specter of blackface minstrelsy, the nineteenth-century
mode of entertainment that first popularized the banjo. How this develop-
ment impacts both builders and players, therefore, has become another point
of concern to be reckoned with. Can one, for example, reproduce a musical
instrument with an admittedly troubled past without addressing the factors
that initially contributed to its controversy? And is this a responsibility that
lies more with the person who builds one of these banjos or the one who
plays it?
As I trust is apparent, I am also concerned with old-time banjo players,
at least to the extent that these individuals interact with builders, and vice
versa, for this is a two-way relationship in which either side can and does exert
influence over the other. In simple terms, a builder is obviously beholden to
the public whose purchases determine his/her success. With very few excep-
tions, however, the builders I have encountered are themselves extremely
proficient musicians, whose own live and mediated performances position
them to steer how others interact with the banjos they create. Conversely,
banjo players typically enjoy tinkering with their instruments, and this low-
keyed experimentation occasionally results in new ideas that find their way
back to the builders’ workshops where they may be incorporated in the next
wave of banjos destined for use in old-time music. While I suspect virtually
all instrument builders and their clients strive for some degree of produc-
tive discourse, I would argue this is a different relationship, one that adds to
the sense of community that is fundamental for those who play and enjoy
old-time music (Bealle 2005). By participating in old-time musical activities,
banjo makers erase the boundary that is so commonly encountered between
other instrument builders and their clientele; their presence is instead like
that of a respected chef who routinely dines with her customers and easily
engages in the table banter, thereby adding immeasurably to the experience
for all involved.11
If I might expand upon this, I would suggest that analyzing these and
other relationships found within old-time music are crucial steps toward
understanding this community. At a personal level, there are the connections
between individual builders and players—but also among the builders them-
selves. I have been continually impressed, for instance, with the openness
they exhibit in their exchanges with one another. Much of the information
8 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

that passes back and forth between banjo makers concerns locating materials
and other resources, but there is also a good deal of admiration expressed for
the work of others. This is particularly evident at the larger old-time music
festivals where builders have the opportunity to display their instruments
and interact with one another; in some cases, they willingly share a booth
space, even though they are competing on a business level (Fielding inter-
view 2009a). On several occasions, I took a banjo made by a lesser-known
builder with me to interviews, with the intention of eliciting conversation
about its admittedly unique design. In every instance, the person I spoke
with responded positively, not simply to be polite, but because they were
intrigued with this builder’s vision, even if they did not share it themselves. It
bears keeping in mind that building musical instruments in general terms is
a competitive and unfortunately underpaid occupation whose origins in the
medieval guild system still ensure the strict control of information in some
sectors.12 Among the banjo builders I have met, however, this is clearly not
the case. Their relationships with one another lean toward mutual support
and collaboration rather than exclusivity (Galbreath interview 2009).13
On a slightly more introspective level, there is also the relationship banjo
makers share with the instrument itself, one that most frequently predates
their building efforts. Even the few who profess little musical skill became
entangled with these instruments through banjo performance, whether play-
ing it themselves or hearing someone else do so. Individual stories clearly
differ, but the outcome is consistent: these are people for whom the banjo
remains important enough to continue making them, despite the fact that
builders of other instruments routinely earn more for their efforts; compared
to the acoustic guitar, for instance, handcrafted banjos are surprisingly in-
expensive (Dudley 2014; Brooks 2005). This disparity came up frequently
during interviews, but none of those I spoke with gave thought to building
anything else even if it meant a significant difference in remuneration. While
I do not think this is unique to this particular cohort, it underscores their
singular devotion to this instrument, especially since most possess the req-
uisite knowledge and basic skills to build something other than a banjo—in
fact, quite a few have but invariably returned to the instrument that initially
captured their attention and imagination.
By shifting focus to the building process another relationship emerges,
in this case between the builder and her/his materials and tools, and this is
most evident when entering their shops. Instrument building at this scale is
a solitary pursuit, so those who function best value their tools and materials
as more than implements or the means to an end—they are an extension of
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 9

the skills and aspirations each builder possesses. Some take pride in their
self-sufficiency, preferring to source their own wood supplies and make as
many of the parts as possible. Adopting this approach influences the physical
layout of their workspaces, including the types of equipment needed and the
area devoted to storing raw materials. This is rarely driven by cost concerns,
however, for it adds to the length of time it takes to design and construct an
instrument and potentially impacts the profit margin negatively. For these
individuals the experience instead constitutes a measure of self-worth (Gal-
breath interview 2009; Waldman interview 2009). Other builders create or
take advantage of existing networks for acquiring many of these same ma-
terials, turning their attention to the tools that make the job easier. There
is an obvious economic advantage to this relationship since it reduces the
time needed to make individual parts and can expedite the final assembly
significantly, but the attention for these builders really lies on the building
process itself. Designing and making the jigs and fixtures that enhance this
experience becomes the most satisfying mode of artistic expression, even
though the resulting instruments are often no less decorative or functional
than those of their peers who strive for self-sufficiency. What keeps this from
becoming mundane work is the unpredictability of the raw materials—wood
in particular—and the periodic attention shifts within the banjo-playing
community, both of which necessitate making consistent adjustments and
add to the pleasure of building (Reiter interview 2009). I think the majority
of banjo makers falls somewhere between these poles, relying on others for
basic resources and enjoying the relationships they develop with their tools
and the materials but more generally focusing on designing and building
instruments that meet their own ideals.
And finally there is the wider perspective that brings the relationships
among builders, players, and the old-time community into focus. In most
cases, banjoists are not responsible for adding to old-time repertoire—that
falls within the fiddlers’ domain—but that does not diminish the banjo’s role
musically or in a more general sense. Most commonly, a banjo player seeks
to support the fiddle, occasionally doubling the melody but more often by
creating countermelodies over a solid, syncopated rhythmic foundation. To
reiterate, however, the banjo also serves to anchor old-time music conceptu-
ally in an imaginary past because of its unique voice and the associations we
make when hearing and seeing it, regardless of the source of the repertoire.
Therefore, by working together banjo makers and players can influence the
community in its entirety, as has most recently happened with the introduc-
tion of instruments and repertoire from the antebellum period. This is not
10 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

something that would have occurred with the fiddle despite having also been
an important instrument in minstrelsy. Its ubiquitous nature in our culture
has made it easy to overlook this aspect of the fiddle’s past in American cul-
ture, but not so with the banjo. From the moment it was first noticed among
enslaved Africans the banjo was aligned with the “other,” and it is this rela-
tionship that makes it such an effective agent of change in old-time musical
contexts.
As someone who has been involved with old-time music and the banjo
for more than forty years, I was aware of some of these relationships, espe-
cially the connections builders and players establish with one another. I have
been lucky enough to experience this from both sides, having spent most
of the 1980s working in partnership with two others in Gryphon Stringed
Instruments—a repair, restoration, and retail business—while simultaneously
pursuing a career as a professional musician. This background has proven
invaluable, both in terms of preexisting contacts and the approach I chose
in conducting the research. While I consider both builders and players to
be significant participants, I will admit I was more interested in the former
group. Consequently, all of those I interviewed were recognized foremost for
their instrument-building skills—that many were equally gifted musicians
simply added credence to my initial assumptions that these are not exclusive
roles within the old-time banjo scene.
Interviews were conducted over a four-year period across the United States
and Canada (2009–2012), although I began the process in 2005 with a series
of conversations with Chuck Ogsbury, a man who has been involved in banjo
building since 1960 and is acclaimed by his peers for keeping the art and craft
alive in a small artisanal setting when the major musical manufacturers lost
interest in banjos.14 In all but one instance, the interviews were held within
shops and workspaces, since I was interested in seeing how each person ap-
proached the process of designing and building an instrument. Not surpris-
ingly, there was a considerable amount of variation, most evident in the types
of tools and fixtures used. To some extent, available space was the limiting
factor, but as previously mentioned, these differences were equally attribut-
able to individual interests and skills. The banjo is a mixture of wooden and
metal components, so those involved in building must be conversant with
both materials to a fairly high level. On the other hand, thanks to a reason-
able supply network one need not be responsible for making every part of a
banjo, and this is reflected in the size and complexity of each builder’s work
environment.
The inclusion of builders across such a wide geographical range may be a
bit misleading, for it is not meant to indicate regional styles of banjos. Instead,
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 11

I sought to provide a clear representation of the choices facing any old-time

musician currently contemplating the purchase of a hand-built banjo. With
the ease of communicating we now enjoy, banjoists are more likely to take
advantage of this broad spectrum rather than relying on a local maker. As
several builders reminded me, proximity is no longer a restricting factor for
anyone with internet access or who attends the larger festivals and camps
where instrument builders predictably display their wares (Galbreath inter-
view 2012; Bowlin interview 2009).
I also felt it critical to select a group of builders whose annual output varied
significantly from one another. While one might assume the most prolific
individuals are those who are also the most efficient, this is not necessarily
the case. Some, for example, have additional occupations and/or interests,
and this influences how they approach the building process. Even those who
build on a full-time basis are not necessarily in control of the time required
to complete a project: hardware, for example, can be held up because of
manufacturing or supply problems elsewhere. As a result, there are part-
time builders whose production is limited, yet who work very efficiently,
and there are full-time builders who savor each step as they design and
construct an instrument, because this aligns with their personal goals and
objectives. As one builder remarked, time is money, but money isn’t the only
motivating factor for those involved in this craft (Fielding interview 2009a).
In a book about a traditional furniture maker in Kentucky, Michael Jones
discussed how an older man’s concept of time influenced the design phase
and the materials he chose, even though this frequently placed him at odds
with his clients (Jones 1975). This is not dissimilar to situations some banjo
makers face, whose creative schedules may not coincide with their custom-
ers’ expectations or needs. Consequently, contemporary builders often end
up with long waiting lists, a situation that can actually be more frustrating
than helpful since it serves as a constant reminder of the business side of
their craft (Galbreath interview 2012; Masten interview 2009).
It is important to acknowledge, however, that nearly all those I interviewed
were males, not because I sought to exclude women, but simply because this
is a realm in which women have rarely participated. There were two notable
exceptions to this (Kate Spencer and Pharis Romero), but they are decidedly
anomalies in a male-dominated occupation. When asked about this gender
disparity several of those I interviewed pointed to our culture’s more general
discouragement of young women who wish to learn the required woodwork-
ing and metalworking skills. Yet, this dichotomy is less an issue in contem-
porary violin and guitar building, so clearly access to training is not the only
impediment (Marchese 2007; Dudley 2014). More likely, I suspect, is the
12 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

fact the banjo has not been perceived as a particularly “female” instrument,
owing in large part to its association with various marginalized populations
over the course of its history in this country. There is a notable exception to
this, though: during the nineteenth-century parlor-era women were among
its most fervent students and amateur performers. Yet even then, along with
their gender peers who rode bicycles and openly smoked cigarettes, women
who played the banjo were frequently viewed with suspicion since the in-
strument potentially represented another hallmark of emancipated behavior
(Hamessley 2007). Despite gains toward gender equality in other musical
contexts, there are still surprisingly few women who play the banjo profes-
sionally compared with most other instruments. Within old-time musical
settings where amateurism is the norm this disparity is less evident, although
this has yet to have any measurable impact on the building community as
far as I have been able to determine.
Additionally, all of my interviewees were white, notwithstanding my efforts
to locate a more diverse sample. While this unfortunately is not an unusual
situation in the realm of stringed instrument building, I think it is once again
indicative of the banjo’s history. Although enslaved Africans introduced banjo
prototypes and eventually developed the instrument as we know it on this
continent, the advent of minstrelsy began a process of cultural cooptation
and racial reidentification (Szego 2006a) that led to its current status as an
emblem of white rural culture, and this is equally evident in the ethnicity of
those who build these instruments now.15 Whether the current wave of inter-
est in antebellum banjos and music among a handful of African Americans
will similarly draw people of color to the building community is obviously
beyond my ability to predict.16 However, Jeff Menzies, a builder I interviewed
while he was living in the Toronto area, more recently relocated to Jamaica
where he has been teaching local students to build gourd banjos in an effort
to repatriate this instrument and generate awareness of its African roots
(Menzies personal communication, March 17, 2013).
Notwithstanding their homogenous gender and ethnic profiles, the in-
dividuals I interviewed do demonstrate quite a degree of difference in the
paths by which they became banjo builders. Some, like Chuck Waldman,
came to this craft out of necessity, desiring a banjo but not having the
means to purchase one, and then simply continued building instruments
after that first experience. Others started as guitar makers before moving
over to banjos: Bart Reiter began this way, as did Noel Booth. Most are self-
taught, and typically have backgrounds in carpentry and/or cabinetwork
(Will Fielding, Greg Galbreath, and Wayne Sagmoen). Among those who
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 13

learned from others, this was usually accomplished informally, occasion-

ally including a brief apprenticeship or similar relationship (Bob Flesher,
Kevin Enoch, and Pete Ross). Jason Romero studied cabinetmaking and
then worked for a company that manufactured electric guitar bodies before
setting out on his own with banjos, an instrument he already played. Three
individuals have extensive visual art experience in painting, sculpting,
or both (Jim Hartel, Pete Ross, and Chuck Waldman). One person (Kate
Spencer) is no longer in the banjo making business, but continued to in-
teract with old-time musicians and builders regularly through the music
store she owned until retiring a couple of years ago. All but four of those
I interviewed work alone, the exceptions being a married couple (Jason
and Pharis Romero) who jointly produce banjos and two builders who
collaborate on a few specific models (Kevin Enoch and Pete Ross) while
maintaining their own individual building interests.
One unifying factor among these individuals, however, is the economic
reality for those pursuing a career in contemporary American culture that is
both artistic in nature and extremely labor intensive. Simply stated, design-
ing and making banjos is neither a moneymaking proposition nor a steady,
predictable occupation, even among those few builders with lengthy waiting
lists. Consequently, many of those profiled here receive significant financial
support from spouses and other relations, have retired from more gainful
employment, or pursue other side jobs with better remuneration, which in
turn places limitations on their building activities. In short, for most of those
involved in this process a middle-class lifestyle is only marginally achievable
without access to other funding sources, a conundrum I suspect the average
banjo customer rarely considers.
By electing to include so many different types of banjo builders, I was faced
with a considerable amount of travel, in both the United States and Canada.
In practical terms, this means I rarely documented more than a small por-
tion of the banjo construction process with any individual. The one excep-
tion to this was my observation of a banjo-building course in Vermont in
late 2012, but even this was limited to three separate visits, at the beginning,
the middle, and the end of the class.17 While this might appear to leave me
in a rather tenuous position to describe and analyze the complexities faced
by any single banjo builder, let alone such a variety as is represented here, I
believe this is mitigated by my own experiences doing repair, restoration, and
assisting in the design and construction of several banjo projects.18 Within
that shop setting, I was involved firsthand with every step of the building
process at one time or another. In many respects, this was the most valuable
14 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

background I could have had for this particular project. I have a working
knowledge of both the tools and materials, as well as the vagaries of running
a successful small business. Consequently, I feel assured these combined
experiences enable me to represent the work of those I interviewed with suf-
ficient authority to counteract concerns that I did not adopt a more typical
participant-observation relationship with a single builder.
Many of the ideas I have formulated about banjo builders and their roles
within the old-time community are also the result of my contacts with banjo
players and other old-time musicians with whom I have shared tunes and
conversations over the years in living rooms and kitchens, festival camp-
grounds, and public performances. I have endeavored to acknowledge people
throughout, but much of the information arose during informal discussions,
and has found its way into my writing without specific attribution. In 2014,
however, I was involved in a research project that took me to Portland, Or-
egon, and Stockholm, Sweden, each of which has a strong old-time contin-
gency. Whenever circumstances allowed, I took the opportunity to interview
old-time musicians—not just banjo players—to corroborate more formally
what I had already been considering about these types of communities.19
One last group needs to be recognized: banjo historians and collectors.
Given their preference for vintage instruments, these individuals generally
have less interest in current examples, but they are still often part of the
process of making new banjos. A number of the builders also function as
repairmen, for example, which puts them in contact regularly with collectors.
This is advantageous since it provides access to older banjos to document and
perhaps even replicate. For those interested in reproducing antebellum ban-
jos, the historians and collectors have been especially invaluable resources.
I met with and interviewed four men (Jim Bollman, Ed Britt, Bob Smakula,
and Lew Stern) who are all acclaimed for their encyclopedic knowledge of
the banjo’s convoluted path through our culture.20
Along with personal contacts, another valuable resource has been the
internet, especially Banjo Hangout (BHO).21 BHO is a multifaceted website
featuring various discussion forums, shared media files (both audio and
video), and member-based reviews of instruments and accessories, learning
materials, teachers, and events. I have found the instrument reviews to be
particularly helpful, since this is one of the most efficient means by which
banjo players discover the options available from the current makers. In an
environment where most contemporary builders rely on direct sales (i.e.,
not working with conventional music retailers), these connections via the
internet are crucial; even most self-described part-time builders maintain
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 15

websites in order to attract and stay in touch with their clients.22 The reviews
are also interesting because of their invariably positive content, suggesting
that those who choose to submit a review are either rarely disappointed, or
they are loathe to admit it. More important is the obvious delight these buy-
ers express over their ability to converse directly with individual builders. In
many instances, it is clear these exchanges never involved a physical meeting
but nevertheless played a significant role in the decision-making process. I
occasionally used these reviews as a starting point with individual builders
but was not overly surprised that few paid them much attention. These peer-
to-peer resources are clearly more useful for customers than they are for the
builders, representing a tool for building and maintaining what is increas-
ingly a virtual community. This in no way obviates the importance of face-
to-face relationships in a typical old-time setting, but I do find it interesting
how many prospective customers apparently are willing to purchase a new
instrument largely on the basis of a positive peer review, as confirmed by
two builders who at the time of our conversations did not maintain their
own websites (Sagmoen interview 2009; Bowlin interview 2009).23

Organization

This book begins with a chapter detailing the basic history of the banjo and
its development from an instrument initially constructed of available mate-
rials to one that epitomized American industrial prowess by the beginning
of the twentieth century. Beyond representing a simple evolutionary process
mirroring the rise of industrialization, these changes also reflect a significant
reidentification that the instrument was undergoing. In the course of a cen-
tury, the banjo shed its initial association with plantation life and enslaved
populations and moved into the white middle-class parlor where it became
a fixture, second only to the piano in musical importance. This transition
involved dramatic structural changes affecting both how the instrument
appeared and how it sounded, and this is covered in great detail in this first
chapter. As production capabilities increased and populations moved west-
ward, the banjo also found its way into the nation’s frontier regions, where
it eventually became embedded in rural sectors outside of the slave-holding
states where it had started. While evidence clearly supports that this was the
result of continuing black and white musical exchanges, the arrival of the
banjo in Appalachia and points west also marked the beginning of another
reidentification process situating the banjo in its now-familiar role as the
quintessential “country” (i.e., white) instrument.24 Most of the rural banjos
16 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

were typically inexpensive factory-built items ordered from catalogues, but

others were homemade, fashioned to look like their urban manufactured
counterparts. Given the interest in rural America within the old-time music
movement, one would naturally assume these same humble banjos would
serve as models for the current generation of banjo builders, adding desir-
able authenticity to their work. Yet such has not been the case. Instead, the
more elaborate and complex parlor banjos assumed that role and continue
to exert influence on all who build and play the old-time banjo.
This paradox—instruments that previously represented the height of ur-
ban sophistication now roped into service as surrogates for the rural past—is
not simply applicable to the banjo; the entire old-time music movement is
rife with a similar urban-rural tension. Chapter 2 offers a glimpse into this
music scene, positioning it as an offshoot of the American folk music revival
of the mid-twentieth century. As was the case with the entire revival, most
of the participants in this splinter group were young, educated, and urban
or suburban based.25 Unlike those who were drawn to popular folk artists
like the Kingston Trio, the earliest old-time acolytes sought out scratchy re-
cordings (mostly commercial “hillbilly” releases from the 1920s and 1930s)
and attempted to reproduce them as accurately as possible. This created a
divide within the revival typically discussed in terms of commercialism
versus authenticity, the latter becoming the bedrock for the old-time move-
ment, and most evident in its emphasis on amateurism.26 Here is where the
banjo became most secure, providing old-time adherents with a tangible
reminder of a romanticized rural past in its appearance and its sound—it
was the perfect old-time trope. This still holds true even if it is newly con-
structed, as long as those who build instruments for this audience remain
within the prevailing aesthetic boundaries that originated at the same time
as the old-time movement.
Chapter 2 addresses all of these issues, beginning with a brief look into the
history of the old-time movement and some of the most important artists
involved in the early stages, but also examining how these musical activities
merged with the interests of instrument builders. What began as a relation-
ship of convenience, with a couple of small shops happily producing banjos
for “folkies” of all stripes, gradually became more focused as old-time music
embedded itself more deeply in revivalist communities. This synergy pre-
dictably waxed and waned with the interest in old-time, however, and this
is demonstrated in the chapter with profiles of several influential musical
artists from the late 1960s through the early 1980s, and a group of builders
whose careers spanned the same time period.
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 17

In Chapter 3, I take the reader through the steps involved in designing

and building an old-time banjo in its most generic form. The information
in this section is an amalgamation drawn from my observations during Will
Fielding’s banjo-building course, input from other builders whose work I
viewed at various stages of the process, and my own building and repair ex-
periences. I suspect very few have had the opportunity to be involved with
these processes firsthand; even the most dedicated banjoists rarely interact
with their instruments at this level. Therefore, I know of no easier means
to draw readers in than to start from the beginning with wood selection
and follow through to the setup procedures for a completed banjo, with
Will serving as the guide. I introduce pauses in the narrative, however, to
consider some of the questions any builder faces along the way, not simply
from Will’s perspective but by interpolating comments from other makers,
as though they are engaging in conversation with one another. While there is
a clear and predictable sequence involved, builders’ opinions about some of
the most basic steps differ quite significantly, depending on their experience,
their personality, and their goals. These personal differences also confirm
the flexibility of this particular instrument-building community, providing
each maker with sufficient latitude to create a rather amazing spectrum of
options for the old-time world.
In devoting an entire chapter to this, I recognize the probability of losing
some readers in the technical details and the minutiae of hardware, but I felt
it important to humanize what all of these instrument makers accomplish.
Without exception, they possess extraordinary skills and knowledge, but
there is no magic involved—just lots of hard work and a desire to become
better at what they do already. What we see in the finished instrument inevi-
tably belies the drudgery of many of the individual steps, as I am certain any
of Will Fielding’s students would confirm. If we are to lionize these builders
as “artists,” as is so frequently the case, I think we must also acknowledge
the boredom and frustration involved in achieving that status, for these are
equally important steps in creating musical instruments successfully.
Chapters 4 and 5 each provide examinations of specific builders, divided
according to the types of instruments emerging from their shops. I must
admit I struggled with this organizational scheme, especially since some of
the builders are actively engaged in making a variety of banjos falling under
the old-time umbrella. Noel Booth, for example, not only designs and con-
structs instruments spanning the entire history of the instrument, but he is
also interested in pushing the banjo well beyond its conventional boundaries,
drawing inspiration from other cultures and other types of instruments (Booth
18 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

interview 2010). Squeezing him into a single category proved impossible as

a result. On the other hand there is a notable bifurcation evident among the
majority of those I interviewed that became even more evident as I combed
through their individual responses and contributions, and this is what ulti-
mately informed the decision to create two chapters rather than one.
Chapter 4 focuses on those whose primary interests lie with what I would
term conventional old-time banjos, i.e., instruments conforming to standards
that owe much to the first generation of old-time banjoists and their prefer-
ences for specific vintage examples. Since these are far from fixed, however, I
have included those who both meet and periodically challenge conventions.
The only real commonality among this group was their constant reference
to nineteenth-century banjo models even as they were developing their own
new instruments. It should be noted that this reverence for an earlier era was
never considered a restraining factor for any of these builders—they celebrate
the past with every instrument they construct. This is evident in something
as generic as the choice of materials (woods and metals) and as specific as
the structural components affecting tone production and the design aesthetic
that emerges in decorative details. There is an outlier in this group, however:
Kevin Fore, a young builder who is devoted exclusively to the instruments
and the music of a local musical legend, Kyle Creed. Yet even this constitutes
an excursion into the past since Creed died quite some time before Fore had
the chance to interact with him. For someone as young as Kevin, this past is
just as important as any of the options represented by the other builders.
Having determined to order a banjo from one of these builders, a customer
still has a great deal to consider. Since there is neither an ideal banjo model,
nor a single banjoist whose style dominates the old-time realm, much of
what is discussed at this stage revolves around the instrument’s sound po-
tential. Given the physical structure of the banjo, however, there are myriad
elements contributing to its timbre, many of which can easily be modified
or adjusted at the time of construction or after the fact by a player. As a re-
sult, some builders prefer to limit their exchanges with customers to those
factors that are essentially fixed when the instrument is designed and built,
while others go to lengths to extract information from the client regarding
personal playing habits or other musicians who prove inspirational, with the
goal of meeting the customer’s expectations as closely as possible. There are
several examples of this process in the latter half of Chapter 4, but, lest this
appear far removed from the opening section, the past creeps in here as well.
Nearly all of the various parts available either derive from, or make reference
to, specific vintage models and their tonal characteristics. For builders and
players alike, foreknowledge of the terminology used and a basic understand-
 i n t ro d u ct i o n . 19

ing of the implied tonal differences these terms represent are imperative to
achieve the desired outcome, i.e., old sounds from new banjos.
Chapter 5 moves into what has become the most dynamic side of the old-
time banjo world, the revival of the earliest banjo examples. This is a process
that began in earnest as scholarly interest in minstrelsy escalated in the 1980s,
but it was relegated to the corners of the old-time movement until a few
well-known performers began incorporating some of the instruments and
repertoire associated with this admittedly troubling period in our nation’s
history.27 Whereas building an old-time banjo in the most generic sense is
an exercise in interpreting the past, this has been constrained by the banjo-
playing community’s fixation with late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-
century examples. Given the popularity of the banjo during that era, there
has never been a dearth of information to discover and potentially put into
practice with modern instruments. Catalogs, sales literature, and patent ap-
plications have proven exceptionally useful in these pursuits. Such was not
the case, however, with banjos built before and during the Civil War, a time
when most encountered the instrument in the hands of blackface minstrels.
Although we now know there were quite a number of manufacturers actively
producing banjos in the antebellum period, the instruments themselves re-
main scarce more than a century and a half later, and there are not nearly as
many printed resources available, either. Most discouraging, however, has
been the indisputably onerous relationships between these banjos, minstrelsy,
and slavery.
All of those profiled in this chapter, therefore, have had to come to grips
with these facts, and, as it becomes immediately clear, they are not uniform
in their responses. For some, building early banjos is an exercise in histori-
cal interpretation, not dissimilar to the process engaged in by their peers
who make more conventional old-time banjos. The early instruments these
builders create are less likely to be replicas, but instead draw upon antebellum
models for inspiration. This is evident in their size (being larger or smaller
than contemporary standards) and some of the materials used, including
gourds and repurposed items like wooden boxes or grain measures, all of
which predate the commercial manufacture of banjos. The other builders
in this category, however, are determined to address this particular past
head-on. Their banjos are remarkably accurate reproductions of antebellum
instruments, the result of dedicated research into the tools, techniques, and
materials that were in use prior to the 1870s. When possible, extant examples
have been measured, photographed, and even x-rayed in order to reproduce
every detail as closely as possible. To the unaccustomed eye, I suspect these
banjos might not differ significantly from the less historically informed ver-
20 . i n t ro d u ct i o n

sions, but there is an important difference in terms of intent: these replicas

make it impossible to overlook the tribulations of the era when the originals
were built, largely because these new builders will not allow this to happen.
They are determined to engage banjo players with this aspect of the instru-
ment’s history, forcing the conception of the past into potentially uncomfort-
able territory.
Nevertheless, all of these banjos, whether fanciful interpretations or ac-
curate reproductions, are playable by contemporary banjoists without neces-
sarily having to change technique or repertoire; the resulting sound, however,
is substantially different, since these instruments are generally tuned to a
lower pitch reference and fitted with gut or nylon strings instead of steel. Not
surprisingly, both of these factors contribute to the growing popularity of
these new-older banjos among old-time players—it can be quite rewarding
to contribute a new “voice” to a typical old-time ensemble by playing one
of these, especially if it does not entail a steep learning curve. But does this
ameliorate any of the obvious problems that emerge by reanimating these
particular ghosts?
In his book on the electric guitar, Steve Waksman suggests that musical
instruments are inscribed with meaning that remains part of their conceptual
structure, even as these same instruments evolve, change shape, or take up
residence in decidedly different musical contexts (Waksman 1999). In other
words they are repositories of history that influences how we respond to them,
usually without being cognizant of the specific details. Chapter 6 represents
my efforts to examine the banjo in its entirety following Waksman’s prem-
ise, restricted only by the lens of old-time music, which has now expanded
to include elements that were previously beyond its purview. And the agent
of change has been the banjo, an instrument whose story was thought to be
so familiar thanks largely to a century of constant identification with rural
white populations, bolstered significantly by popular media. Yet, there is
obviously now so much more to tell, brought to our notice in no small part
by the efforts of banjo builders—not just those who wrestle with the earliest
examples of this instrument, but also the makers who are engaged in creating
new-old banjos that meet the conceptual expectations and musical require-
ments of contemporary old-time musicians. All of these banjos return our
attention to the past, an admitted exercise in nostalgia, but this is what good
story tellers strive to accomplish. What I trust will become apparent in the
book that follows is the active role banjo makers have taken in framing and
expanding the narrative.
 1
A Brief History of the Banjo
[At] various points of its history it has been almost
totally stripped of its African connections and African
roots. So the desire to make a banjo into something that
doesn’t have that African connection tells us a lot about
how our culture has also tried to avoid dealing with parts
of its history.
—Historian Laurent Dubois from the 2013 film,
The Librarian and the Banjo

Origins?

Just when the banjo arrived in North America, either as a concept or as a

complete instrument, remains subject to considerable conjecture. That this
should be the case for an item that has been declared “America’s Instrument”
(Gura and Bollman 1999), speaks volumes about its history, for the banjo, or
rather one of several possible antecedents, arrived in this hemisphere with
enslaved Africans among whom it gradually developed into the instrument
we now recognize (Dubois 2016). It was only after the banjo made its way into
dominant white society in the nineteenth century that its story becomes easier
to corroborate. Nevertheless, thanks to the efforts of a couple of generations
of researchers, we now have a better picture of this instrument’s origins and
the means by which it became so deeply embedded in our culture.1
The earliest sightings and/or mention of something akin to the banjo date
to the early seventeenth century, in the Caribbean colonies, where it was
generally linked with group dancing (Epstein 1977). Even the term banjo is
shrouded in historical mystery, since no clear cognate has been found among
the several West African cultures deemed most likely to have provided the
original model. Thomas Jefferson, for example, referred to the banjar in a
1781 journal entry, in which he additionally noted the instrument’s popular-
ity among his own slaves (Carlin 2007a). Other terms encountered in the
22 . chapter 1

seventeenth and eighteenth centuries include bania, banjer, bangoe, bangie,

bamshaw, banza, and even somewhat improbably, merrywang (Dubois 2016;
Webb 1984).
Despite this lack of certainty as to the instrument’s first appearance in
North America, there is no longer any argument over its association with
African (and later, African American) slave populations, and its importance
within these communities as an accompaniment to dance and song. We
have not only the accounts of white travelers and slave owners familiar with
slave culture to support this, but also published listings of runaways, who
occasionally were cited as being proficient banjo players (Epstein 1977). As
a result, while it is far from clear how widespread knowledge of the banjo
might have been in the nascent period of this nation, it was irrefutably seen
as a symbol of slavery, therefore lying outside the musical interests of the
majority of the population. Even those individuals who attempted to describe
their encounters with the banjo in relatively neutral terms, invariably found
the instrument and its music difficult to interpret, given their admittedly
Euro-American biases—it was clearly an instrument representative of Afri-
can American slave populations, as evidenced in the following description
of the banjo by Johann David Schoef (Epstein 1977: 36) from 1784:
It gives out a rude sound; usually there is some one besides to give an accom-
paniment with the drum, or an iron pan or empty cask, whatever may be at
hand. In America and on the islands they make use of this instrument greatly
for the dance. Their melodies are almost always the same, with little variation.

How, then, did this exotic instrument transmogrify into a compelling

symbol of rural white culture, a position it has occupied for most of the last
century?
The answer to this question lies in the circuitous path this instrument has
taken through American culture, which is evident in both its history and its
structural development. Thankfully, we have access to reliable sources to aid
in unraveling the banjo’s story. These include visual evidence (early sketches,
paintings, and photographs), written materials (diaries, travel journals, sales
materials, and tutorials), and a number of extant instruments from the earliest
years of the banjo’s manufacture (Bollman interview 2009). But none of these
resources is of much benefit for those less familiar with the instrument, for
a plantation-era banjo looks and sounds decidedly different than a modern
instrument used in old-time or bluegrass, and introducing possible African
ancestors at this point muddies the waters even further.2 So what exactly is a
banjo? More to the point, are there specific commonalities linking the earli-
est and contemporary forms?
 a b r i e f h i s to ry o f t h e b a n j o . 23

Before taking up these questions, however, let me explain I am only con-

cerned with the five-string banjo and its immediate antecedents, since these
are the instruments commonly associated with old-time music. During the
first decades of the twentieth century, two new styles of banjo with four
strings emerged (tenor and plectrum models) and eventually eclipsed the
popularity of the five-string version, but these banjo variants had considerably
less impact on old-time music where the five-string remains the instrument of
choice. Nevertheless, given their close relations, both the tenor and plectrum
share many basic structural characteristics with the older five-string.3 The
Reverend Jonathan Boucher 1832 (Epstein 1977: 34) offers this explanation:
What makes it a banjo?
[T]he favorite and almost only instrument in use among the slaves . . . was
a bandore; or as they pronounced the word, banjer. Its body was a large hol-
low gourd, with a long handle attached to it, strung with catgut, and played
with the fingers.

Perhaps the most obvious defining attribute of the banjo is the use of
a membrane as the primary vibrating surface; this is set in motion by the
energy of the strings transmitted through a small, nonfixed bridge. This
membrane is referred to by banjoists as the head, and can be made of skin
(calf or goat most frequently, but historically also groundhog, opossum, and
virtually anything else readily available and suitable) or synthetic materi-
als (most commonly BoPET, a polyester film). How the head is affixed has
been subject to considerable variation over the centuries, reflecting both the
availability of resources and existing technology. Based on extant examples,
the head was held in place on the earliest banjos with small nails or pegs,
an efficient approach still used among contemporary African cultures with
similar instruments. This technique has never disappeared entirely here in
North America either, resulting in what builders and players refer to as a tack
head (i.e., the head is “tacked” in place), but it has limitations, not the least
of which is the lack of any means to adjust the tension of the membrane,
once it has been mounted. This method works only with skin, which is put
on wet allowing it to become more taut as it dries. Unfortunately, skin is also
very responsive to weather changes, so an instrument with a tack head may
be usable only when the temperature and humidity are within an optimal
range. Consequently, this approach to mounting is now reserved for use in
building historical reproductions.
A second shared element is the frame or body of the instrument, referred
to by banjoists as the rim or the pot, and here a large degree of difference is
apparent, particularly between the earliest instruments and those produced
24 . chapter 1

from the second quarter of the nineteenth century forward. The former, like
their African relatives, were often made of gourds, ranging from small dipper
varieties to large calabashes (Menzies interview 2009). Once these reached
maturity, they were harvested and allowed to dry until their moisture content
had been reduced sufficiently to yield a relatively rigid structure. A longi-
tudinal section was removed, the seeds were scooped out, and the interior
was scraped and cleaned, resulting in a bowl-shaped vessel, which ultimately
became the body of the instrument (Thornburg interview 2009). But this
approach to constructing a banjo obviously depended on access to gourds,
which were not always available in the regions of North America where
slave populations were found (ibid.). As a result, other materials were used,
including wooden boxes, biscuit tins, and any number of similarly recyclable
resources. Judging from the admittedly scanty evidence for these early banjos,
the shape and the materials used were of less concern than the fact that the
frame be structurally capable of withstanding the combined tension of the
head and the strings. There was a preference, however, for ovoid or round
shapes, which not only hearkened back visually to the instrument’s gourd
origins, but also made it much easier to hold and play. A flat edge, such as
one would encounter on a banjo with a box body, would be quite difficult to
position comfortably on the lap. Nevertheless, square and rectangular shapes
do show up with some frequency in homemade banjos, presumably because
of the paucity of better resources or the requisite skills to construct a round
shape.4
A third shared structural characteristic concerns the relationship between
the body and the neck of the instrument. In comparison with other familiar
chordophones (e.g., the guitar or the violin), the banjo has an exceptionally
long neck relative to the size of its body. For example, contemporary banjos
range from 36” to 38” in length, but their necks average 23.5” to 26”, or nearly
70 percent of the total dimension. An acoustic steel-string guitar, by contrast,
averages 40.5” in length, but its neck is no more than 20.5” or approximately
50 percent of its total. Additionally, the banjo’s fingerboard ends where its
neck meets the body, giving the instrument a slightly awkward appearance
compared to a guitar or violin, whose fingerboards extend over their bodies
to increase their playing range.
There is another distinguishing factor about the banjo’s neck that would
be easy to miss without careful examination. On most of the banjos built
before the mid–twentieth century, the neck passes through the body of the
instrument, in some instances emerging from the other side of the rim for
a distance of as much as an inch. This is a vestige of the earliest instruments
 a b r i e f h i s to ry o f t h e b a n j o . 25

reckoned as banjos and offers even more evidence for African origins, where
this method of constructing a chordophone is very common.5 This has two
structural functions: first, it contributes to the stability of the body, serving
as a brace for what might otherwise be quite a flexible structure; and second,
it provides an extremely secure means of mounting the neck to the body. In
some early banjos, the neck is simply a single, long piece of wood, passing
through the rim before terminating. This is derived directly from West Afri-
can construction practices such as found on the akonting and the ngoni, two
instruments that often figure into discussions of banjo origins (Jägfors 2003).
In most banjos, however, this extension of the neck is a separate piece called
a dowel stick (less frequently perch pole), typically made of the same species
of wood as the neck, and attached to the heel with a blind mortise joint (see
Illustration 1). Alternatively, the neck may be fitted to the body with a metal
rod (or even a pair of rods) that serves the same purpose of strengthening
the rim and ensuring the two parts are securely joined. In either case, the
use of this through-body construction differs significantly from that found
with other familiar stringed instruments, adding to the distinctive quality
of the banjo’s structure.
A final element that runs constant through the banjo’s many iterations
concerns the manner in which the instrument is strung. Not all of the strings
are of the same length, with one of them being considerably shorter and
higher pitched than the rest.6 What makes this exceptionally unusual, how-
ever, is the placement of this short string, which lies directly in line with the
player’s thumb, i.e., on top of the other strings. This rather odd configuration
has a simple explanation: the short string functions as a drone (also called
a chanterelle or chanter) that is struck repeatedly with the thumb, regardless
of the tuning used or the chord played. Its placement, higher up the neck
and closer to the body than the other strings, also makes it very difficult to
fret, confirming its function as a drone since its pitch is not easily altered.
This important structural characteristic contributes to the sound that makes
the banjo readily identifiable: the resulting high-pitched drone, amplified by
the vibrating membrane, has a piercing timbre, one that is easily perceptible
over the other strings.7
In summary, the banjo, with very few exceptions, has the following elements:
a membrane (head) serves as its primary vibrating surface, mounted on some
type of rigid frame (rim or pot), typically round or oval-shaped; proportion-
ally, the neck is long in relation to the body and moreover passes through the
frame, adding to its rigidity and structural integrity; and the instrument is
strung asymmetrically, with one string (the drone) being significantly shorter
26 . chapter 1

than the others, positioned so that it is easily struck by the player’s thumb. At
a minimum, therefore, the instrument that first attracted the attention of white
Americans met these basic criteria, but it was to undergo significant structural
and contextual changes before it achieved its present form, and this process
began with the advent of blackface minstrelsy.

From Plantation to Parlor

As early as 1769, white actors portrayed African Americans on the American

stage by donning blackface makeup and adopting speech and body man-
nerisms thought to be typical of slave populations (Hamm 1979). Not to
be confused with earlier theatrical portrayals of black characters (Othello,
for instance), these actions constituted a form of cultural co-optation that
became the foundation of American minstrelsy (Stark 2000; Sweet 2000).
Gradually, music began to enter these presentations, starting with song and
dance and eventually incorporating the banjo as the most obvious symbol of
slave culture (Nathan 1962). English composer Charles Dibdin, for example,
found tremendous success in his home country and here in the United States
with his 1790 sketch, The Wages, which included a song called “The Negro
and his Banja” (Hamm 1979: 110). And by the 1830s, banjo-playing blackface
minstrels like Daniel Emmett and Joel Walker Sweeney were entertaining
large audiences of curious whites, primarily in urban locations in the north-
ern regions of the country.8
Within a few decades, what had started as an occasional sketch in variety
shows and circuses gained sufficient popularity to warrant mounting entire
evenings of entertainment featuring a company of white male performers
in blackface, playing instruments (usually banjo, fiddle, tambourine, and
bones), singing, dancing, telling stories and jokes, in both male and female
roles (Winans 1976). Beginning in the early 1840s, these full-scale minstrel
shows quickly became the most popular form of entertainment in the na-
tion, with the larger cities having at least one professional minstrel troupe
and often enough interest among audiences to support competing groups
in different venues.9 Blackface minstrelsy also became America’s first real
musical export, with minstrel troupes touring the British Isles to great suc-
cess by the mid-1840s (Toll 1974; Nathan 1962).
As a result of minstrelsy’s popularity, the banjo shifted from an instru-
ment clearly reflecting its African roots to one serving as an emblem of slave
culture in the hands of white performers, who increasingly knew little of its
original technique or repertoire. While evidence suggests some of the earli-
 a b r i e f h i s to ry o f t h e b a n j o . 27

est blackface minstrels who played the banjo learned directly from African
American musicians, typically slaves with whom they had some contact
(Carlin 2007a), by the time minstrelsy demonstrated its potential as a form of
entertainment, most subsequent practitioners learned to play the banjo from
one another or from professional teachers who were invariably white—ac-
curacy was not a hallmark of these presentations in any regard. Concomitant
with this development, the homemade banjos associated with the plantation
were deemed inadequate for their new role in minstrelsy. These instruments
were neither loud enough nor suitably sturdy to meet the demand of stage
musicians, particularly as minstrel shows moved into larger venues where
greater volume was a necessity to compete within an expanded ensemble
and predictably rowdy audiences.
In response, several enterprising musical instrument manufacturers be-
gan building banjos, first for professional use, followed shortly thereafter by
instruments for the growing amateur market. The latter in particular drew
the attention of musical instrument makers, who went to great lengths to
create banjos specifically destined for this clientele. Not surprisingly, music
teachers were also an important factor in this development, and many of them
produced not only instructional materials but also designed or had banjos
built for their students by contract arrangement with manufacturers.10
While the basic woodworking skills involved in banjo building would
certainly have been within the grasp of guitar or violin makers, the frame
and its membrane presented a very different set of issues. Perhaps it is not
surprising some of the first professional instrument builders to begin offering
banjos had experience making drums (Gura and Bollman 1999; Webb 1984),
where the problem of crafting a rigid, circular, wooden frame had already
been solved. More importantly, these same manufacturers had access to, or
had themselves created, specific hardware for mounting and tensioning a
drumhead, which was easily adapted to a banjo. Unlike the earlier means
of affixing a head to the rim with nails, this hardware not only made the
installation process easier, but it also allowed for uniform tensioning of the
head in response to changes in temperature and humidity. These new banjo
builders could also make rims that were substantially greater in diameter
than had been the case with the earlier banjos. This larger vibrating surface
(as much as 14” in diameter) now maintainable under even tension resulted
in an instrument that was significantly louder than its predecessors. Con-
sequently, these redesigned banjos met three important requirements for
stage use: a stable, sturdy wooden rim; an easily adjusted head; and greater
volume potential.11
28 . chapter 1

The earliest banjos also lacked an agreed upon number of strings, the only
constant being the shorter drone string. Without sufficient physical evidence,
it is difficult to ascertain when the banjo finally reached its current five-
string configuration, but it probably occurred by 1840 (Carlin 2007a). This
development was long associated with Joel Walker Sweeney, a white minstrel
performer who among his accolades was credited with adding a fifth string
to his instrument, thereby bringing the banjo into its present state. Confu-
sion arose, however, over which string Sweeney supposedly added. For years
it was presumed to be the fifth string (i.e., the drone string), but subsequent
research into early banjos and their African forebears proved this patently
false. It is now accepted that Sweeney’s contribution (if indeed he was re-
sponsible) was the fourth, or lowest pitched string (Carlin 2007a; Linn 1991;
Webb 1984).
By the 1840s, the banjo—now equipped with a simple bent wood frame,
a few bits of hardware to affix its head, and five strings—had settled into a
form more similar to the instrument we know today and quite different than
earlier instruments that still demonstrated a stronger connection with the
banjo’s West African roots. Simultaneously, the banjo was becoming more
familiar to white audiences, for wherever the minstrel show went, so did the
banjo, typically generating sufficient interest in even the smallest communi-
ties to encourage both the construction of simple homemade instruments and
an expanding market for relatively inexpensive manufactured instruments,
many of which were distributed by catalogs and itinerant merchants to the
farthest reaches of the country (Gura and Bollman 1999; Linn 1991).
Popular entertainment was not the only source responsible for spreading
the banjo among white populations, however. The Civil War was equally
important in this regard, as is evidenced by both personal accounts from the
conflict (journals, diaries, and so forth) and photographs of soldiers posing
with banjos. While the latter instruments were most likely simple studio props
(Bollman interview 2009), the fact that individuals chose to be photographed
with the banjo demonstrates both its popularity and its symbolic value, es-
pecially among Confederate Army troops, for whom the banjo represented
a recognizable element of Southern culture. Many of these same individuals
actually carried banjos with them as personal items from home (Linn 1991),
which, of course, added immeasurably to the instrument’s widening reach
and more firmly embedded the image of the banjo as a Southern instrument
in the American psyche, albeit this time more closely associated with white
Southerners.
It should be noted that the banjo had successfully crossed the racial bound-
aries that divided and defined people in the South long before the Civil War.
 a b r i e f h i s to ry o f t h e b a n j o . 29

Joel Walker Sweeney, the same individual presumed responsible for adding
the lowest pitched string, reportedly learned to play the banjo from slaves on
his neighbor’s plantation in Virginia, and there are numerous reports of simi-
lar exchanges between populations in the antebellum South (Carlin 2007a).
These contacts were not limited to slave-holding regions, however, as was
previously presumed. There is ample evidence that black and white musicians
actively engaged with one another in the western frontier areas, which helps
account for the banjo’s arrival and eventual entrenchment in Appalachia.12
The perception of the banjo as strictly a black instrument was more common
in the North, thanks in large part to the minstrel show (and performers like
Sweeney), which found its most receptive audiences above the Mason-Dixon
Line and in regions where local populations had less contact with African
Americans (Cockrel 1997). But this identity as an exclusively “black” instru-
ment was already changing in the North, as the war drew to a close.
Once the banjo had achieved a reasonably codified and easily replicated
form, manufacturers, performers, teachers, and publishers all stood to gain
from its continued popularity and sought actively to promote the banjo and
its music. There were impediments to this, however, perhaps the most obvious
being the instrument’s strong association with the minstrel show, inarguably
a vulgar style of entertainment. While it is clear that the audiences for min-
strelsy spanned all social strata, the subject and the mode of presentation in
these performances decidedly leaned toward the crude, making it difficult
to imagine how the banjo might shed or at least modify its image as an in-
strument appealing primarily to baser instincts. By comparison, much of the
music from minstrel shows had already made the transition from stage to
home performance with little difficulty, simply by leaving the banjo behind.
This was especially true of the plantation songs, which often injected a degree
of humanity and pathos into the lyrics that were otherwise still dominated by
decidedly racist stereotypes and “slave” dialect. American composer Stephen
Foster wrote extensively for the minstrel stage, and was singularly successful
with plantation songs such as “Old Black Joe” and “Old Folks at Home,” both
of which depicted African Americans with more humanity than previous
pieces from the minstrel stage (Emerson 1997). Even the most raucous min-
strel songs, however, could be and were rather easily transformed into proper
parlor music by substituting piano arrangements for the rousing banjo and
fiddle parts heard in theatrical presentations.13 This approach held double
appeal, for it simultaneously fed the desire for appropriate, yet popular, home
entertainment far removed from the uncivil environment where minstrelsy
held sway, and featured the symbolic anchor of parlor culture, the piano. The
banjo, in contrast, seemed diametrically opposed to this genteel setting.
30 . chapter 1

Nevertheless, by the 1850s, as minstrelsy had yet to reach its peak, the
banjo, an instrument heretofore strongly associated with African Americans,
entered into a purposeful process of reinvention that would eventually see
it emerge as a white instrument. In part, this was due to the overwhelming
popularity of the minstrel show, which resulted in many interested amateurs
embracing the banjo. This was obviously a boon, not only for professional
performers, but also those who built instruments and those capable of teach-
ing banjo. Charles K. Harris, for instance, one of the pioneer songwriters of
Tin Pan Alley, got his start as a banjo teacher in Milwaukee, and he certainly
was not the only one to recognize its potential (Hamm 1979: 284–285.). As
a result, this instrument was finding its way into the hands and homes of a
surprising number of white individuals. But this shift in racial identity was
also a reflection of the ephemeral nature of popular culture and, by exten-
sion, popular music. Like any fad, minstrelsy began to lose its attraction, and
those who previously had enjoyed a modicum of success as performers and
teachers were intent on maintaining their livelihoods. Banjo manufacturers
were no less anxious. Having tooled up to build instruments efficiently and
profitably, the last thing they wanted was a decline in the banjo’s popularity
and a corresponding drop in sales. But how does one go about changing the
image of an instrument with such dubious associations, and bring it into that
sanctum of propriety, the middle-class parlor?
The answer was to create an entirely new performance context, one that
rejected the rude antics of men in blackface and replaced it with something
more befitting members of the middle class as they envisioned themselves,
i.e., refined in dress, performance mannerism, and repertoire (Linn 1991).
Whereas the first two of these were easily accomplished, changing the instru-
ment’s musical potential proved more troubling. The prevailing approach to
playing the banjo through the mid-1860s was a style known as stroke, which
likely developed from similar techniques used by African American slaves
and with origins in West African cultures (Winans 1976; Jägfors 2003). This
consisted of down-picking, using the back of a fingernail (most often the in-
dex) to strike down across the string in a fairly percussive manner, followed
by a thumb stroke, typically on the drone string. With this basic technique a
banjoist could quickly learn to pick out simple melodies or provide an effective
accompaniment to other melody instruments or voice. With sufficient practice,
it was quite possible to play complex dance tunes, note for note with another
melody instrument such as the fiddle. But stroke technique did not lend itself
easily to realizing anything other than simple two-part harmonic textures,
 a b r i e f h i s to ry o f t h e b a n j o . 31

and the percussive timbre of this style, combined with the banjo’s inherently
staccato response, made playing lyrical pieces quite nearly impossible.14
This was overcome by introducing a new technique derived from guitar
playing, a process that involved up-picking, i.e., plucking the strings in an
upward manner with the fingertips, using the same motion as a modern
day classical or finger-style guitarist. It isn’t possible to identify a single in-
dividual responsible for this development, but Frank Converse published a
banjo tutor promoting this style exclusively in 1865, so it was clearly already
finding purchase among banjo players (Gura and Bollman 1999).15 With this
new guitar-style technique, the thumb also took a more active part, either
playing the melody if it occurred on the lower pitched strings, or alternating
with the index finger for long melodic runs; the short fifth string, no longer
functioning as a drone, was typically struck only when its specific (unfretted)
pitch was called for in the music. This up-picking technique also made it easy
to introduce new repertoire, either composed specifically for the five-string
banjo or borrowed from existing guitar music. Since much of the latter had
a classical or light classical quality, the banjo was repositioned as a more
“civilized” instrument, capable of holding its own in a similarly refined en-
vironment, such as the family parlor. Banjo manufacturers, recognizing the
lifeline this development offered their businesses, joined in the promotion
of this new playing style, often denigrating minstrel music and musicians
who were portrayed as impediments in the process of uplifting the banjo.
Samuel Swaim Stewart, a manufacturer and publisher based in Philadelphia
was particularly adamant about the qualitative differences between banjo
music composed for parlor use and music that derived from the stage, against
which he frequently lashed out. Not surprisingly, he also extolled the virtue
of his own products to the exclusion of those of his competitors.16
By the 1880s, this development was also visible on the stage, where per-
formers in white tie and tails had replaced their blacked-up counterparts as
the primary public representatives of the banjo. Similarly, banjo teachers and
those who produced instructional materials, made the transition quite read-
ily. While some of the published tutors from this era continued to include
introductory exercises in “stroke” (down-picking) and “guitar” (up-picking)
styles, the majority of the examples reinforced the presumed advantages of
the latter, more “advanced” technique.17 As Linn has pointed out, newly com-
posed music for the banjo further served to distance the instrument from
its “primitive” roots, because it required that one be able to read standard
musical notation, whereas previously many amateur banjoists played by ear
32 . chapter 1

or with the aid of the simple tablature systems that were available by the 1870s
(Linn 1991: 15–16).
The successful introduction of this new technique and mastering this new,
expanded repertoire hinged on a structural change to the instrument. Up to
this point, virtually all banjos were fretless, making it difficult to navigate the
fingerboard beyond its lower positions. There was certainly a good deal of
advanced repertoire for the banjo during the minstrel era, requiring one to
use the length of the fingerboard without the benefit of frets or similar posi-
tion markers. As the instrument gradually gained a toehold among amateur
musicians, however, the fact that it was fretless proved increasingly prob-
lematic (Gura and Bollman 1999; for a contemporary nineteenth-century
view, see Stewart 1896). Consequently, adding frets occurred more or less
simultaneously with the increasing popularity of up-picking, but this met
some resistance from both musicians and manufacturers. For those already
adept at playing a fretless instrument, there was little need to change. In fact,
it remained a point of pride for many of those caught in this transitional pe-
riod, that they had complete mastery of the fingerboard without the benefit
of position markers (Stewart 1896). Some manufacturers similarly balked
at this development, since it meant a change in the building process. At the
very least, it required tooling up with appropriate patterns and jigs to ensure
the frets were placed properly, following the same formulae already in use
for building guitars and mandolins.18 As a compromise, some builders inlaid
position markers in the fingerboard, using slips of bone, wood, or ivory to
provide a contrastive visual aid for finger placement. These resembled frets
in appearance but lacked the certainty of actual frets during performance:
players still needed to make small intonation adjustments in much the same
manner as violinists. By the 1880s, however, fretted banjos had become the
norm and remain so, although fretless banjos did not disappear entirely and
have staged a comeback in old-time music.
With these changes, the banjo was poised for its new role, one that found
the instrument in the hands of middle-class white Americans, males and fe-
males alike, who either overlooked its previous association with the minstrel
show or increasingly knew less of this history as minstrelsy gave way to other
forms of popular entertainment.19 Not surprisingly, then, the African origins
of the banjo disappeared quickly from public consciousness. Although the
banjo continued to be played among African American populations well
into the twentieth century, especially in regions of the upper South (Conway
1995; Winans 1979;), it had effectively become a “white” instrument, with an
industry and infrastructure prepared to usher it into a much greater degree
of popularity than it previously enjoyed (Gura and Bollman 1999; Linn 1991).
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Iloisten ukkojen
kylä
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Iloisten ukkojen kylä

Kuvaus Kannaksen elämästä

Author: Unto Seppänen

Release date: October 30, 2023 [eBook #71986]

Language: Finnish

Original publication: Helsinki: Otava, 1927

Credits: Tuula Temonen

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ILOISTEN

UKKOJEN KYLÄ ***
ILOISTEN UKKOJEN KYLÄ

Kuvaus kannaksen elämästä

Kirj.

UNTO SEPPÄNEN

Helsingissä, Kustannusosakeyhtiö Otava, 1927.

I.

Aamun kosteat varjot olivat pienentyneet huomaamattomiin. Kuuma

maantie vavahteli kavioitten raisusta kosketuksesta. Ajuriukkoja
pyörteli talokujasilta heiluvin ohjasperin valtareitillensä: maantien
kiihkeä päivä oli alkamassa. Järvituitun ukot laskettelivat kiehuvissa
pölypilvissä asemalle ajorahtiinsa, ja jokaisen pilven sisässä tuikki
halu antaa päivän luikahtaa hopeaksi taskujen nurkkiin.

Yläkyliltä luikertelevat tiet solmuuntuivat yhdeksi kappaleen

matkaa asema-aukeasta, ja solmu venyi ajanmittaan pieneksi toriksi,
jota saarsi kolme raskasnurkkaista ja matalaa talorotteloa. Kaksi
niistä oli jähmettynyt tynnyri- ja laatikkovuorien väliin kuin kuskiukot
pukeillensa. Niiden tomuisten akkunalasien takana häämötti
nauhoissa riippuvia läkkiastioita, saippuatankoja, kauhtuneita
karttuunihuiveja ja auringon käpristämiä lastenkenkiä, ja niiden ovet
liikkuivat alituisesti sisälläkävijöiden käsien laineissa. Takapihoilla
seisoi säännöllisesti ryhmä ajureita, jotka likaisine kaurapusseineen
odottelivat myymäläkiireistä hetkeksi kartanolle pujahtavia hikisiä
puotilaisia. Mutta kolmanteen taloon keskittyi seudun ajurien elämä,
ja siinä talossa oli kyläkapakka. Matala, kerran valkeaksi maalattu
rakennus, jonka akkunoista yletti kurkottaa tielle, haavitsi aina
aamuisin jokaisen asemalle vyöryvän pölypilven sisästä miehen,
täytti hänet väkevällä, kuumalla teellä ja riemukkailla kaskuilla, joitten
paineissa päivä sitten hurahti alkuunsa ramakasti kuin nelistämään
lähtenyt sälkevä. Ja sama talo tarjosi junien väliajoilla oivallisen
kyydittävien väijymispaikan, puhumatta muusta.

Oli kulunut jo aikaa siitä, kun aurinko oli ponnistellut itsensä irti
petäjänlatvustosta päin väljiä korkeuksia. Sen ilmoitti jo maantien
jytinäkin, kun lähikyliltä ajoi sirppiviiksisiä ajuriukkoja puolipäivän
junille, joilta ensimmäiset apajat nostettiin rattaille. Välkkyviin
valjastettuja hevosia tuli tuon tuosta kapakan isoon pihakatokseen.
Hevosille puhelevia ukkoja hyppi kärreiltä maahan. He taputtelivat
kyömikkiensä kauloja, luikahduttivat suitsiremmit liukkaisiin
solmuihin, etsivät kaurapussit istuinlaatikoista ja astelivat tarinoiden
kauppojen pihoille kauroja tahtomaan. Joku jäi vielä pölyyttämään
ruoskansa varrella istuinpatjaa, ja joku jäi tarkastelemaan heponsa
kenkiä pitäen pientä kilkutusta ja kyyryssäolijan ähkinää. Hevoset
viskoivat katoksessa päitänsä, hännät viuhuivat, valjaat nasahtelivat.
Joskus luimahti hevosen pää kiilana toisen kupeeseen, ja huikea
kiljahtelu alkoi, johon paiskautui sekaan miesten huutoja ja kirouksia.
Pari ruoskan vedällystä ja valjaskulkusten vapiseminen päättivät
metelin. Ja uusia ajureita saapui yhtämittaa, yksitellen ja jonoina.
Kuka tuli kärreillä seisten, ohjakset viulunkielinä; kuka ajoi ravissa
kartanoon ja oli lyötättää äkkipysähdyksellä valjaat hevosen pään
läpi; kuka tuli rennosti perällä istuen kuin juomareissua ajaen, joku
käveli jo portista sisään ajaessaan rattaittensa vieressä kuin
lannanvedättäjä. Kapakkapiha eli yhtenä liikkeitten laineena.
Riemusta kirkuvia poikia saapui rattaitten siivillä seisten, ja hevosten
pysähtyessä he juoksivat takaisin läheiselle vartiopaikallensa,
tienmutkan kivelle, josta loikkisivat taas kapakalle ajaville rattaille.
 Eräässä Järvituitusta pyörivässä pölypilvessä ajoi ajuriukkojen
heimopäällikkö, Ruoska-Juones, asemalle. Hänellä oli kaikki
kuskipukin aatelismiehen merkit: lyhyt etukumarainen vartalo, uljaat
sirppiviikset, niiden välissä aurinkoa ja piiskaryyppyjä heijastava
nenä ja hauskasti käpertyvä leikkotukka, joka päästi täsmällisesti
vakoontuneen niskan oikeuksiinsa. Ruoska-Juones oli vanhapoika ja
eleli enemmän rattaillansa kuin tuvassaan, jossa emännyyttä hoiteli
hänen sisarensa Ieva. Ja niinkuin jokaisella kokemusten aateloimalla
ajuriukolla on omat tapansa, niin Ruoska-Juoneskin moksautti tuon
tuosta piiskansa varrella saapasnahkaa. Hän ei milloinkaan lyönyt
hevostansa, antoipa vain saappaansa kuoresta kipakan äänen
hepallensa. Ja tuo tapa tiivistettiin sitten hänen nimeensäkin:
Ruoska-Juones. Hän oli seudun ajurivanhin ja ajeli asemastansa
tietoisena tyylikkäästi omat matkaviivansa; nenässä iloinen
veitikkuus ja samalla viiksien kärjillä syvä vakavuus.

Ruoska-Juones ajoi verkkaisesti maantietä pitkin ja napautti

kiivaan äänen saapasvarrestansa vasta hiukan ennen tienmutkan
kiveä, jossa arvasi poikanulikoiden vaanivan kyytiä. Mutkassa jo
rattaat lennähtivät arveluttavasti, kivellä kaksi velikultapoikaa
jännittäytyi loikkaukseen, ja Ruoska-Juones häilähdytti ohjasperiä.

— Nyt kun ovat taas siinä nokat väärällään, vai niin vai!

Kun Ruoska-Juones saapui kapakan pihalle, tipahtivat äskeiset

pojat hänen kärriensä takaa ja pikelsivät nauraen tiehensä. Juones
manasi, ajoi hevosensa nurkkapilttuuseen, pöyhi sille heiniä turvan
alle ja saapasvartta naputellen köyri kapakkaan. Siellä piiritti
rikkinäisillä vahakangaspalasilla verhottuja pöytiä seudun ajurikaarti
kodikkaasti oijennellen. Hikinen, lihava nainen työntyi tuon tuosta
sylitäytisineen odottavien luo, latjasi pöydille kolhiintuneita kannuja,
laseja, sokeriastioita ja isoja vehnäsiä. Pöydissä leimahti aina vähän
päästä naurunrähäkkä, ja joskus koko kapakka ulvahti yhdestä
suusta jollekin syvää vakoa kyntävälle sutkaukselle. Pidettiin puhetta
kaikesta siitä, mihin silmä ja ajatus oli lähipäivinä tarttunut. Kannuista
valettiin laseihin tulista teetä, lautaset lennähtivät sormien nenille ja
tahdikas härppiminen säesti äänten hulmuntaa. Otsille helähti
hikiherneitä, naamat punoittivat, viikset retkahtelivat lerpalleen, ja
kädet väljentelivät kauloilla paitojen kireyttä.

Ruoska-Juones pyörsi ajurivanhimman arvokkuudella huoneen

suurimpaan pöytään, jossa hänen vakituinen paikkansa oli.
Kapakkavaimo toi Juoneksen eteen tavallisen teepanoksen, ja pian
ukko sovittautui huoneen hikiseen, höyryävään ja härppivään
tunnelmaan.

Aikansa tarinoituaan juonnin katteeksi Juones asteli ulos. Merkki

oli annettu. Pöydät alkoivat jyrähdellä, lasit kilahtelivat ja äkkiä koko
kapakka oli tyhjä. Ja niin alkoi aamun merkkihetki. Ajurimiehet
asettuivat kartanolle tiukkaan kehään, sovittelivat olkapäitänsä,
pusertelivat kuumassa retkahtaneet viiksensä ryhdikkäiksi ja
odottelivat tärkeinä aamuarpaa. Juones nyhti ruoskan saappaansa
varresta, löi sillä kolmasti saapasnahkaa ja päräytti kumean huudon:

— Arpaan! Arpaan! Arpaan!

Hän näki kyllä, että kaikki olivat jo painautuneet kehään, mutta tuo
huuto kuului tärkeänä alkuna niihin menoihin, joihin juuri oltiin
heittäytymässä. Huudettuaan Juones käveli kapakan eteiseen,
venytti itsensä varpailleen ja otti ovikamanan päältä käteensä pienen
nahkaisen säkin. Ja nyt Ruoska-Juones tunsi keisariutensa kiitävän
hetken olevan lentimillään. Juones köpitteli kankein jaloin kuin
niskakarvansa pörhistänyt koira kartanolle, säkkiä varovasti
kannatellen. Ukkojen piiri repeytyi hetkeksi ja imaisi Juoneksen
sisäänsä. Hän jäi seisomaan keskelle ja tunsi, kuinka jokainen
silmäpari sinkosi näkymättömän silmukan hänen kädessänsä
olevaan säkkiin ja kiristi sitä yhä tiukemmalle, sitä mukaa kuin hän
viivytteli toimituksen alkamista.

Ruoska-Juones helskähdytti päättävällä liikkeellä säkkiä, jossa

kupariset arparahat odottivat onnimannejansa, ja hellitti säkistä pari
suunkuroutumaa, niin että sai kätensä hämmentämään sen vaskista
aarretta. Ja kun hän nosti varovasti kätensä näkyviin, oli hänen
peukalonsa ja etusormensa väliin tiiviisti puserrettuna kirkkaaksi
kulunut arparaha. Merkki oli taas annettu. Piiri otti pari kiihkeää
askelta ja ahdisti Juoneksen saarrokseensa. Käsiä sukelteli säkkiin,
joku pyrki hämmentelemään, joku sieppasi rahansa silmät killillään ja
kynnet suorina kuin tiira kalan. Kaikki ottivat omalla vakiintuneella
tavallaan. Mutta jokainen jätti arparahansa tiukasti etusormen ja
peukalon nipistykseen. Kukaan ei katsonut rahaansa. Kartanolla oli
pelihimon jännitystä. Pari ukkoa vaihtoi ummessa silmin arpansa.
Muutamien vaikenevista sormista näki, että he koettelivat kiivaalla
puserruksella saada rahan numeroa painumaan paksuun
sorminahkaansa ja siten arvailla onnensa. Piiri suureni. Juones
seisoi taas väljässä kehässä, nahkasäkki ammollaan toisessa
kädessä. Äkkiä hän kiepautti sormiinsa nipistetyn arparahan
näkyville, nosti sen siristyvien silmiensä korkeudelle kuin vaahtoavan
olutlasin ja tokaisi pelihimosta värähtävällä äänellä:

— Kuusitoista silmää!

Ja jälleen oli merkki annettu. Odotuksen ponnistin laukesi

jäykistyneessä ukkoparvessa. Jokainen katsoi rahaansa taas omalla
tavallaan. Yksi katsoi numeron kouransa sisässä salaisesti niinkuin
hoitopelissä katsotaan kortin silmät; yksi lennähdytti rahansa ilmaan
ja katsoi vasta kiinni kopattuaan sen numeron. Muuan sylkäisi ja
manasi ja avasi kouransa niinkuin se olisi ollut ampiaisen vankilana.
Muutamat mökäsivät vielä kuuluviin hovinoitaisunsa:

— Tersii Tepa hevosta!

— Antiahan Luoja lykkyä!

Ruoska-Juones käveli säkki kädessä pitkin piirin rintaa ja keräsi

arparahat takaisin. Kukin huusi numeronsa rahaansa viskatessaan ja
sen tehtyään kiiruhti hevoskatokseen. Juones kuroi vaskisäkin
huolellisesti kiinni, kurotti sen ovikamanan päälle ja saapasvartta
ruoskalla pompottaen käveli hevospilttuulleen.

Lähdettiin junalle. Katoksessa oli kihinää taas kerrakseen. Hevosia

perittiin purnuilta äänekkäästi kartanolle. Urkittiin toisten numeroita ja
kiroiltiin huonoa tuuria. Kulkuset pitivät sen kymmenistä soittoansa.
Kapakoitsijan pojat seisoivat rapuilla ja odottivat taas kyytiin pääsyä.
Valjaita kiristeltiin, istuinpatjoja pölytettiin, kaurasäkkejä nivottiin
kiinni. Jo läjähtivät ohjasperät lautasille, onnekkaimman numeron
saanut lähti loilotellen hevospuomille; ja sitä mukaa muut. Kaksi
veitikkaa ponnahti rapuilta rattaiden siiville ja he katosivat pian tien
pölyyn. Pitkä ajurijono lasketteli tietä jytisyttäen läheiselle asema-
aukealle. Pölylle nenäänsä nyrpisteleviä palvelijattaria pakeni kiirettä
pitäen kauppoihin, ja likainen torikoira vouskutteli ilmeettömästi
kauppiaan portilla. Sen haukku sai kuitenkin ilmettä, kun se huomasi
poikien juoksevan takaisin kapakalle tien irtonaista pölyä kyntäen.
Se syöksähti mukaan. Mutta pojat leiskauttivat itsensä viimeisten
rattaiden askelmille ja hävisivät härnäävin elein pölymereen.
Torikoira nosteli hetkisen kuonoansa ja loksahdutti kärpäsloukkuna
hampaitansa sekä hiipi laatikkovuorien varjoon.
 Hevoset seisoivat nyt ajuripuomilla isäntiensä aamuonnen
mukaisesti. Odotuksen jännitys heijastui hevosistakin. Kädet nykivät
vähän väliä ohjaksia parantaakseen kärrien asentoa ja saivat aikaan
alituisen liikkeen hevosien rintamassa. Ukoista aina joku pistäytyi
kurkistamassa radalle. Hevoset olivat kunnossa, nyt somistivat ukot
itseänsä. Viikset taottiin uudestaan käyrälleen kuin lokin siiviksi,
luhistuneet saapasvarret vedettiin suoriksi, lakit siirrettiin veikeästi
korvalliselle, ja kellonperissä riippuvat hopearuplat koetettiin saada
sopivasti rötkähtämään näkyviin. Oli liian lyhyt aika junan tuloon:
kaskut eivät jaksaneet läväistä koko ajuririntamaa, vaan putosivat jo
viimeistään puolivälissä maahan jonkin ylimielisesti torjuvan
sylkäisyn mukana. Poikia seisoi ajuripuomin päissä silmiänsä
haristellen ja ihmetellen puomin valtavaa tenhoa, välkkyviä valjaita,
kuorossa helähteleviä kulkusia ja hevosten alati liikkuvien jalkojen
hauskaa viivaleikkiä. Asemalaiturilla käveli lauantaivarhaisia rouvia
niskoissansa pitsiset päivänvarjot kuin isot helttasienet. Pari
valkeaesiliinaista kulkukauppiasta seisoi vasut päälaella, ja he
keskustelivat äänekkäästi ja käsiänsä käännätellen, väliin iskien
kyntensä parran juuristoon.

Juna vinkaisi. Sähköisku vihlaisi odottajajoukon selkäpiitä. Rouvat

nykivät päivänvarjonsa suppuun. Pojat riensivät laiturille. Juna
vuhahti asemalle. Vaunuista tuli monennäköistä kansaa: turpeita
kauppiaita, pitkäpartaisia tiedemiehiä, silkkipaitaisia ylioppilaita,
koristeissaan kolisevia kenraaleja, tavaroiden kanssa tuskittelevia
rouvia, ylpeärintaisia imettäjiä ja itkeskeleviä lapsia.
Vastaanottopusut moksahtelivat, terveiset soivat, ja joku huuteli
junasta vielä kesken jäänyttä puhettansa. Asemalle pudottautunut
väki alkoi edetä pieninä ryhminä ajuripuomille. Niinkuin ahnasta
kipunaa seuraa aina tulenleimahdus, samoin seurasi asemalaiturilla
kajahtanutta melua uusi ja valtavampi. Satakunta ajuriukkoa hyppäsi
seisomaan kuskipukeillensa, ja he alkoivat huudella tuntemiensa
herrojen nimiä ja hevostensa hyvyyttä ja kaikkea, mitä aamun
korkeimman tapauksen tunnelmat löivät sanoiksi, toiset vielä
käsillänsä laapottaen niinkuin kanat siipiänsä lentoon yrittäessään.
Ja siinä sitä olikin huutoa ja hilskettä. Junan lähtövihellys kilpistyi
voimattomana ja ohuena hevospuomin meluun. Tulijat melkein
ryöstettiin rattaille. Ohjasperät ja siimat lankesivat notkein kaarin
valjaitten väleihin, ja hermostuneet hevoset ampaisivat juoksuun
naisten naurun ja kirkumisen säestyksessä. Elämää, väriä ja ääntä
tulvehtinut puolenpäivän hetki sammui sitä mukaa kuin rintama
hajosi alkukesän vihreihin maisemasokkeloihin. Teitten ylle jäi
leijumaan hauras pölykatos. Mutta asemalle ei jäänyt muuta ääntä
kuin kuumuudessa tuskittelevien ratakiskojen napsahtelut. Unen ja
pölyn sokaisema torikoira koetteli kapakan nurkalla siepata ohitse
sujahtelevilta rattailta pakettien hajuja, mutta kyllästyi
kykenemättömyyteensä ja luikki kostean hevoskatoksen varjoihin.

Ajoon lähteneet miehet saapuivat jo hyvissä ajoin kapakalle

iltapäiväjunille mennäkseen, vaikka tiesivätkin, ettei niiltä montakaan
kyytiä herunut. Vasta iltajunilta sai kulta-apajan. Ja juuri lauantai-
iltoina elämä oli asemalla kaikkein kiihkeintä, kun toimissa olevat
aviomiehet palasivat Pietarista tuttavineen ja
kameelinkantamuksineen perheittensä ja luonnon leveille helmoille.
Silloin tappelivat tulijat ajureista eivätkä ajurit tulijoista. Mutta
iltajunien tuloa odotellessa sopi mukavasti pistäytyä
iltapäiväjunillakin, jotka eivät tulleet Pietarista asti, vaan jostakin
lähempää. Ja junien välinen aika saatiin uljaimmin menemään
kapakan tutuissa suojissa kaskujen ja naurun humistessa. Sitä
silmällä pitäen, että eukot olivat saunanlämmitysaikoina kaikkein
kiukkuisimmillaan, ajoi moni ukko jo hyvissä ajoin ennen
iltapäiväjunia kapakalle, täytti sen ovipielen isosta tupakkakulista
piippunsa; huusi teetä eteensä ja alkoi kuulostella naapuripöydän
puheita niiden syötteihin tarttuakseen. Moni iski silmää
kapakkavaimolle, sai piiskaryyppynsä, nakkasi vastaan kopekkansa
ja alkoi himmein silmin kehua liikkuvaa kalustoaan: hepoa ja rattaita.

Ruoska-Juones saapui melkein viimeisenä taas ja sai juotavat

joutuisasti eteensä. Hän antoi punaisen nenänsä pusertaa
pinnalleen pari hikihernettä aina juotua lasia kohden, härppi viikset
melkein suuhunsa janoissansa, sinkoili teräviä katseita nurkkaan ja
toiseen ja puhalsi aina lasin välillä kuuluvasti ja tyytyväisesti.

Kun hän nousi, nousivat kaikki ja katosivat pihalle.

— Arpaan! Arpaan! Arpaan!

Torikoira ja kapakan pojat olivat jo paikoillaan, ja aamulliset äänet

ja tapaukset uudistuivat.

Junalla tapahtuikin ihmeitä. Tulijoita ei ollut montakaan, mutta

niistä olikin yksi oikein neulojen nenissä pideltävä herra. Tämä tahtoi
kyytiä aina merenrantaan asti. Ajurit katselivat toisiansa, vilkuttivat
silmää ja lupasivat lähteä kyllä sadasta ruplasta reissuun. Herra
paiskasi kätensä ristiin, puhkesi haukkumaan koko ajuripuomia ja
lähti kiukkuisena kuin kirppuinen koira hakemaan poliisia. Miehet
löivät sillä aikaa hepojansa selkään ja pakenivat hunnilaumana
kapakalle.

Pian saapui sinne kuitenkin poliisi rintaansa röyhistellen, aukoi

papereitansa ja totesi ajoalueen piiriin kuuluvan sen kaukaisen
rantaviivan pätkän, jonne hänen rinnallansa polpottava herra halusi.
Mutta ajureista ei kukaan tahtonut lähteä juuri pyhän aattona
päiväkuntaiselle ajolle, ja kaikki kieltelivät. Poliisi merkitsi kieltäjien
nimet kirjaansa. Hän kysyi jokaiselta erikseen, kaikki lupautuivat
kyllä ensin sadasta ruplasta lähtöön, mutta poliisi luki taksasta
kaksikymmentä ruplaa ja merkitsi ristin vielä jokaisen nimen viereen
kertomaan taksan omavaltaisesta ylittämisestä. Ajurivanhin
huudettiin poliisin ja kiukuttelevan herran luokse.

— Lähdeppäs kyytiin!

— Eihän tässä nyt oikein lenkahda sille tuulelle.

— Minkätähden? — Poliisi pyöritteli valppaasti kynäänsä.

— Onhan näitä sialla syitä: konsa on maa jäässä, konsa kärsä

kipeä!

— Nyt ei olekaan mikään leikkipaikka! Ajurivanhimman on nyt

pakko lähteä, taikka muuten käy huonosti, vaikka tässä käy huonosti
joka tapauksessa teille kaikille!

Ajurijoukosta saapui sopottelevia ukkoja Juoneksen luo, hän

nyökkäili, käänsi hevosensa keskelle kartanoa, nosteli noituvan
herran tavarat rattaillensa ja karjaisi:

— Posaalusta!

Herra nousi pomiluiden rattaille. Juones painautui tiiviisti

pukillensa, viritti ohjakset ja roimasi ensikertaa eläissään hevostansa
ruoskalla oikein kipakasti. Nyt ällistyivät sekä pihalla seisovat ukot
että aisoihin vangittu hevonen. Se seisoi hetken kivettyneenä.
Juones löi uudestaan. Silloin hevonen pyyhälsi kaula suorana
hapraaseen neliin ja hävisi ukkojen edestä.
 Kapakan nurkalle juosseet miehet näkivät hetken kuluttua junan
nopeudella etenevän pölykiilan, joka syöksyi metsän vihreään
nieluun kuin äkäisesti singottu kivi.

Ruoska-Juones tunsi, ettei hän ollut ikinä ajanut sellaista vauhtia

kuin nyt metsään saavuttuaan. Kärrit luistelivat tien kahta puolta
kepeästi kuin vesikirppu joen pintakelmulla. Herra mylvi kuin hautova
kalkkuna peräistuimella. Metsätiellä Juones äkkiä seisatti
hevosensa, vyyhtesi ohjasperät ja heitti ne poikittain ajokkinsa
selkään. Herra katseli silmät renkaallaan Juoneksen liikkeitä, tarttui
päähänsä ja lasketteli kesäiseen päivään tulvanaan rumia nimiä.
Juones tempasi saapasvarrestansa ruoskan, löi sillä kuskilautaa ja
karjaisi kovalla äänellä:

— Minä sanon sinulle oikein järvituittusen morskoi-äänellä, jotta

sinä ole paisti hiljaa minun rattaillani, äläkä möyki ja ölise — taikka
minä nykäsen sinut maahan ja ryvettelen porossa, se kävisikin sinun
märkään näköösi vaikka kuinka hyvin kiinni!

Herra synkistyi mykäksi, puserteli käsiänsä ja lennähdytti niistä

toisen tuon tuosta napauttelemaan pitkiä ja vetäviä ristinmerkkejä.

Nyt ajoi Juones käymäjalkaa. Hän oli päättänyt ajaa

viisipenikulmaisen matkan lannanajon tahdissa. Kulku kävi hitaasti.
Herra torkkui ja Juones aprikoi poliisin sekaantumista juttuun. Hän
arvasi, että jos ukoille kävisi huonosti, kävisi hänelle myöskin, sillä
hän oli nyt vain pakkoajossa, ensin kieltäydyttyään kuten toisetkin.
Saavuttiin aukealle palokankaalle. Kanervamattoiset nummet
huokuivat kuivaa, lamauttavaa kuumuutta. Kaukaiselta
ilmankartanolta ryntäsi raskas, uhkaava pilvi taivaan kaaristoon ja
leveni tasaisesti ilmanpielien väliin. Herra huokaili ja ähki
torkuksissaan, havahtui kuivaamaan hikeä turpeilta kasvoiltansa ja
huomasi hätkähtäen taivaankannelle jännittyvän pilven. Hän osoitti
sitä vaikerrellen Juonekselle ja yritti samalla ohjasperiä käteensä.
Juones seisautti heti hevosensa, vyyhtesi ohjasperät ja aikoi
laskeutua maahan äskeiseen tapaansa, kun herra äkkiä putosi
polvillensa rattaiden pohjalle ja itkien rukoili Juonesta ajamaan
kovemmin eikä kiusaamaan häntä kuoliaaksi. Juones karjaisi järeällä
äänellä:

— Niettu!

Matkue oli jo ehtinyt läväistä suunnattoman paloaukeaman, kun

ensikerran jyrähti, pitkään ja raivokkaasti. Herra sai
hermokohtauksen. Sen kuluessa Juones ehti tyhjentää jaloksissaan
olevan heinäsäkin, jonka kulmat hän sovitti sisäkkäin ja sai
syntymään munkin kaapua muistuttavan sadetakin. Sen hän sitten
kiepautti harteillensa.

Äkkiä putosi monenlaista: salamoita, jyrinää, rakeita, vettä,

kuivuneita oksia, käpyjä ja neulasia. Herra loikkasi metsään ja
kyyristyi ison kuusen alle. Juones viittasi häntä takaisin. Herra ei ollut
näkevinäänkään. Hevonen aloitti taas verkkaisen kulkunsa, ja rattaat
etenivät pisaroista valkeana kiehuvalle tielle. Herra ryntäsi
mielettömästi karjuen perästä.

*****

Oli juuri satanut lämpimään, ahnaaseen maahan. Sortuneen

pilvikatoksen repeämissä paloi ilta-auringon puna kirpeimmillään.
Peltonotkoista ja järveltä kohosi usvaa kevyesti kylätörmille kuin
unenhäivettä lapsuuden murheettomaan iltaan. Rannoilla katosivat
ensiksi verkkoaitat märkään savuun. Illan äänet sammuivat nopeasti.
Pian olivat talojen katot kuin luodot nukkuvassa meressä. Pihlajoiden
avautumattomat tertut riippuivat raskaina ja odottavina. Muutamalla
saunalla sangat löivät vielä ämpärien metallisiin rumpuihin. Ja koko
ajan sykki sumussa kesän valtimo: käen kukunta. Aidaksiin kiristyi
teräkseltä välkähteleviä seittejä, ja niihin herahti pian
sumukyyneleitä.

Kaksi kevyttä lehteä lennähti vastakkain — ei, nythän oli jo

yötyyni: kaksi nuorta tyttöä kohtasi toisensa, ja heidän nyökkäävät
päänsä piirsivät hennon viivan. He alkoivat kulkea käsikädessä pitkin
sumussa nukkuvaa tietä.

Kylän päässä eteni hiljainen ääniaalto. Sen lähestyminen

havahdutti sumussa kulkevat tytöt sanomaan jotain toisillensa.
Niinkuin heräävä tuulenkieppu käännähtää etäällä metsän
latvusulapalla ja alkaa humisten puhkoa vihreätä havuaarniota
leimahtaen viimein syvään tuuliääneen, samantapainen äänivaihe
läheni kylänsuulta tyttöjä, kunnes selveni rattaiden jyrinäksi.

Tytöt seisahtuivat ja odottivat. Kuului jo selvästi, kuinka kaviot

iskivät tahdikkaita jaksoja kärrinpyörien yksitoikkoiseen jyrinään ja
kuinka kulkusremmin kuulat helskyttivät omaa matkatahtiansa
hiljaisena soitantona. Pian sivuutti sumusta ilmestynyt matkue tytöt.
Kuskipukilla istui veikeän näköinen ukko, ja perällä hytisi likomärkä,
voihkiva herra.

— Niin on maailma nyt kuin nuorta maitoa!

Kaksi heleätä naurahdusta vastasi sutkaukseen. Hevonen

tunkeutui painostavaan usvaan punaisin, värähtelevin sieraimin, ja
sitä ajava mies yritti lingota uuden sukkeluuden, mutta vaikeni, kun
näki käännähtäessään takanansa nopeasti umpeen pusertuvan
sumuvanan ja hiukan sitä ennen rievuksi masentuneen herran.
II.

Kesäinen ajokausi oli kiihkeimmillään. Sepät takoivat uusia

akselirautoja, ja pajojen nurkilla kohosivat vanhojen pyörien röykkiöt
kertomaan huikeista matkaviivoista. Ukot ruskettuivat lehtirevoiksi, ja
rahasäkit myhkyröityivät kirstujen pohjilla yhä tiineemmiksi. Naiset
niittää nylkkysivät Järvituitun heinän. Ukot istuivat päivät entisekseen
puomivartiossaan ja vetivät sitten öisin harmaisiin latoihinsa
ämmäväen hoitelemat korret.

Järvituitun kylä kuvastui äyränteiltään veden laakeaan peiliin

värikkäänä ja iloisena. Sen lasikuistiset huvilat väläyttelivät
kupeitansa lehtevissä puutarhoissa. Harmaat kylätalot kyyristelivät
itseänsä näkymättömiin. Järvellä kiiltelivät airojen kosteat lavat,
onget sinkauttelivat siimojansa lumpeikkojen hiljaisiin päiviin,
uimahuoneilla porskui vesi valkeana vaahtena, ja lapsia juoksi
rantaan käsiänsä nostellen. Vihreillä rantatörmillä paistoi riisuttujen
vaatteiden kokoja. Väliin kuului pitkäveteinen huikkaus, johon
vastattiin jostain kaukaa.

Puutarhoissa höyrysivät samovaarit, ja niiden luo kerääntyi

vilkkaita, väitteleviä ihmisiä, jotka unehtuivat pitkiksi ajoiksi
piirittämään sekasortoisia pöytiä. Auringon valo putosi huviloiden
lehtiseulojen läpi kultaisiksi läikiksi hiekoitetuille teille, joihin oli
painautunut paljon pieniä ja isoja jalanjälkiä. Kulkukauppiaita käveli
kylätiellä huviloiden suuntia noudatellen, kantamukset päälaella, ja
he pysähtyivät huhuilemaan tavaroitansa portteihin nojaten.
Puutarhoista juoksi ihmetteleviä lapsia ja naisia, jotka heiluttelivat
tyhjiä vasujansa.

Kesäpäivät syttyivät ja sammuivat vaihtelevin valoin ja varjoin.

Elämä hulmahteli värikkäänä ja kuumana. Huomaamatta supistuivat
päivien ytimet, huomaamatta syttyivät ensimmäiset tähdet, ja
huomaamatta ruskettuivat pienet peltopälvet. Joku huomasikin kyllä,
huokasi ja syöksyi entistä vallattomammin päivien ja iltojen
tapauksiin.

Samana päivänä kuin ensimmäinen ruiskuhilas seisoi levein

lantein Järvituitun rantapellolla, saapui aseman kapakalle
virkapukuinen poliisi, joka manasi pitkästä listasta ukkoja käräjiin
vastaamaan niskoittelusta ja luvattomasta taksan ylittämisestä.

Kapakan elämä uhosi hiljaista jännitystä monta päivää, kunnes

kerran Järvituitusta ajoi pitkä jono pyhävaatteisiin kangistuneita
ukkoja kirkonkylään käräjille. Ja takaisin ajettaessa syyhytti joka
ukon niskaa sadan markan sakko.

Kapakalla seisatettiin ja juotiin tuliset juomat kiukkuisien mielien

heltiämiksi. Joku vilkutti piiskaryypyn eteensä ja yllytti toisen surevan
tekemään samoin. Yhä useampaan pöytään iskettiin paksupohjainen
viinapullo, ja ränsistynyt tunnelma alkoi tiivistyä.

Ilma sakeni kapakassa. Ovensuun tupakkakuli laihtui ruttuun.

Viikset retkahtelivat suupielille. Teelasit kilahtelivat ahkeraan. Lamput