The Blue Muse
I blame it all on Jeff Graves. It’s his fault I’m sweaty palmed and anxious sitting in a circle of strangers. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since High School. Then there on my screen was his frozen image underneath the title “Fox on the Run.”
One click unleashed elbows, arms and wrists as well as the fast-moving sound of strings being strummed, plucked and picked. I smiled as the lead to the song rotated from guitar to bass to fiddle til it finally came to Jeff and his mandolin.
I’d heard bluegrass from the likes of Del McCoury and Ricky Skaggs but now I was hearing it from a guy whose claim to fame had been his ability to imitate the batting stance of every Chicago Cub on the 1984 roster. If he could play music like that…
Like all the greats, I started with the subtly named “How to Play Bluegrass Guitar” purchased for full price at Half-Priced Books. This ended as you might expect,with my guitar in its case, the book on a shelf and me reminded that “how” doesn’t mean “will.”
My next effort was classic American consumer. I bought a new guitar. This also ended as you might expect with my new guitar in its case next to my old guitar and me reminded that even new guitars don’t play themselves.
Humbled, I decided to get professional help and found a teacher.
“I want to play in a bluegrass jam.” Alright, my teacher replied, let’s start with “Red Haired Boy.”
Dear reader, I doubt you want to hear the details of these lessons; suffice to say that it was the guitar playing version of Mick training Rocky. I chased chickens, punched frozen slabs of meat and finally raced up the steps of the Moore Library with guitar in hand ready to face The Blue Muse which leads me back to the sweaty palmed start.
The Blue Muse Roots Jam is a group of musicians that holds a monthly jam session at the Moore Library. They smiled and welcomed me into the room, but I harbored a secret suspicion it was all a ruse. What they really wanted, I feared, was to laugh, mock and point fingers at this bluegrass rookie.
Billy, the organizer, explained the mechanics. One person started a song while the others played along. When that song finished, the next musician would start a new song. This would proceed until everyone in the circle had a chance to lead.
I’ve jumped out of planes, repelled down buildings and on a regular basis, I speak to crowds of people, but I’ve never felt as nervous as I did watching the baton pass around the circle getting a seat closer to me with every song.
Finally, the inevitable.
“What song are you going to lead Ken?” “Red Haired Boy,” my voice squeaked.
“What key?” asked the banjo player.
“D” I said confidently. “D? It’s usually in A.” I doubled down, “I’m pretty sure it’s in D.” The banjo player slowly placed his instrument down, “Well, I don’t know it in D.”
This wasn’t going well.
“Okay, whenever you’re ready,” Billy said with a hint of pity. “Ah, one and two and three and four…duna duna duh…” Just as I got going the banjo player waved me off. I prepared for mockery but instead I heard, “That is A you’re playing it in.” Delighted he picked his banjo back up and nodded at me, “Let’s go.”
I counted down again and started to play. Guitars, mandolins, a fiddle, a banjo and even a guy on maracas joined in. A feeling came over me that I could only later name as the same one I’d had when I first rode a bike without training wheels.
I was wobbling, weaving and missing notes, but the wheels kept turning. I finished my run and smiled as others took their turn on melody. When it came back around I was about to close it out when Billy said, “Let’s do it again, but this time let’s really slobber on it.”
He increased the tempo. I tried but failed to keep up. It didn’t matter. The music was rocking, I was rolling and all the blame I held for Jeff Graves transformed into thanks.
