“Give me your ‘A’, Paul.
I scoot onto the wooden stool and shift the guitar strap over my neck. The banjo twangs once, twice, three times—the solemn bestowal of the “A.”
Another “picker” comes down the basement stairs as I am tuning up. He’s holding a guitar case in one hand and a mandolin case in the other.
“Hey, do you think Mike’s going to make it? Will we have some fiddlers? What about a bass?”
As if on cue, others begin to arrive, some carrying as many as three instruments. I drag out more stools and armless chairs to accommodate new arrivals. Empty instrument cases begin to pile up in the corner like cast-off cocoons.
Another “A” is passed around with the conversation, intermittent twangs, plinks, and plunks sneaking up on it until each instrument is pronounced “within hollerin’ distance.”
Anticipation building with excitement, the melodic strains of “Wildwood Flower” begins to emerge from somewhere within the group. It’s a false start. There is some retuning while latecomers settle themselves on the floor and stairway. Then comes the announcement, “Wildwood Flower in G!” And we are off—it’s a full-blown jam session!
Since there is no formal conductor or format at most jam sessions, the tenuous role of leadership is usually passed around. Subtle orchestration intervenes amid the free-for-all with, “Take the next break, Charlie,” or, “I’ve got it!” as the verses and musical breaks are tossed back and forth. One song can go on and on as long as there is a musician with the creative momentum to excite the group with another improvisation.
This is music by ear, by heart, by the spirit, playing for the sheer joy of experiencing the music of the moment. I believe that this is music in its purest form. Perfection is something else.
The hours fly by on the notes of bluegrass and old-time favorites such as “Nine Pound Hammer,” “Little Cabin Home on the Hill,” and “Faded Love.” A friendly one-upmanship settles in, each break getting a little flashier and complex as cold fingers warm up. Facial expressions are a mixture of contentment and furrowed concentration. Whoops and hollers of encouragement and approval are awarded generously.
Something else is going on, too, less obvious but equally important. “Here comes a G, now C, back to G—get ready for your D 7th—then back to G.” We not so-hot pickers, we wannabees, are patiently coached. Those of us who pick, strum, and bow with more passion than talent, and who sing with more sincerity than diaphragm are carried along and become part of the great moments of the best.
“John Henry,” “Wreck of the 97,” “Fireball Mail,” “Wabash Cannonball”—the train songs carry us on through the evening. More favorites are called out and musically explored until our sore fingers tell us it’s time to call it a night. Reluctantly, one by one, the still warm guitars, fiddles, mandolins, and banjos are carefully cradled into their cases.
Finally, there are only three or four left. A few old gospel songs—“Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” “I’ll Fly Away,” “Where the Roses Never Fade”—bring the session to a close.
The last case closes with a sigh. It’s over. But it was magic, and we were all a part of it. For an evening we had set aside our worries, problems, and busy lives to cheer each other on in this magic we call music.
Who were we? We were homemakers, teachers, ranchers, engineers, a retired policeman, a newspaper journalist, students, and even bouncing toddlers. We had jumped out of our spectator seats, grabbed an instrument and joined right in. After all, the roots of jazz, bluegrass, folk, and old-time music are firmly planted in the premise that music is not a spectator sport.
I bet that there are some old instruments gathering rust and dust in your attic or basement, long forgotten since high school band or orchestra days. If not, run down to the local music store and buy a harmonica with an instructional CD. It’s never too late. Call a few friends in next Saturday night. Clapping for others is enough for some; as for me, hand me that old guitar in the corner and please, join right in!