Banjo master Tony Trischka is a bluegrass and roots music renaissance man whose career goes back nearly 60 years, to his early days with his first group, the Down City Ramblers. He’s been making recordings for almost as long, appearing on-record for the first time on Country Cooking’s 1971 debut for the fabled Rounder Records label.
Given the width and breadth of Trischka’s career and sprawling discography, summarizing the man’s recorded legacy is not just a tall order, but a mountainous one. Nevertheless, we’ve made the attempt. Here are a dozen recordings that give a sense of Trischka’s many artistic sides as collaborator, innovator, teacher, keeper of the flame, and all-around musical good spirit.
“Kentucky Bullfight” – Country Cooking (1974)
Trischka was one of two banjo players in this collegiate ensemble. The other was future Hot Rize member Pete Wernick, who spent some time talking up his bandmate to Rounder Records co-founder Ken Irwin. “I was writing a bunch of tunes, and Pete told Ken, ‘Tony should do a solo album,’” Trischka remembered. “Ken said, ‘Sure, go ahead.’”
Irwin cites “Kentucky Bullfight” as the Country Cooking song that convinced him Trischka would be worth signing as a solo act, too.
“China Grove” – Tony Trischka (1974)
Trischka hails from the Northern environs of Syracuse, New York, and it was fairly common for Yankee banjo players of his era to indulge some unusual tangents. “My first album was, comparatively speaking, a little on the bizarre side,” Trischka himself admits. That’s certainly the case for this instrumental from his 1974 solo debut, Bluegrass Light. “China Grove” has East Asian accents throughout and even a saxophone solo from his Country Cooking bandmate, Andy Statman.
“Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” – Tony Trischka (1976)
It seems like a rite of passage that everybody has to put their own stamp on the venerable Flatt & Scruggs bluegrass classic, “Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms.” That goes for Trischka on his 1976 album, Heartlands, but few other artists would have the imaginative audacity to kick it off with a drum solo (plus more saxophone).
“Don’t Let Your Deal Go Down” – Tony Trischka (1978)
Another piece of classic repertoire from the wayback machine, “Don’t Let Your Deal Go Down” is the song that made bluegrass forerunner Charlie Poole a star in 1925. Trischka cut it on 1978’s Banjoland in an ambitious all-star arrangement alongside fellow banjo players Bill Keith and Béla Fleck. Also present are resonator guitarist Jerry Douglas, mandolinist Buck White, and guitarist Tony Rice, who adds a definitive vocal.
“They’ll Never Keep Us Down” – Hazel Dickens (1981)
Formerly half of the pioneering female duo Hazel & Alice (with Alice Gerrard), the late great Hazel Dickens was one of Trischka’s best longtime collaborators. His elegant banjo and her emotionally raw voice were a great match on many songs, among them this classic from Dickens’ 1981 album, Hard Hitting Songs For Hard Hit People.
“Bill Cheatham” – Béla Fleck, Bill Keith, and Tony Trischka (1981)
In which three of the foremost roots music banjo virtuosos of the 20th century mesh with tasteful seamlessness while deftly keeping out of each other’s way. From 1981’s Fiddle Tunes for Banjo, this was one of the album’s three tunes that featured Trischka, Fleck, and Keith all playing together.
“Country Death Song” – Violent Femmes (1984)
From Milwaukee, this folk-punk trio puts a gothic spin on folk music. To that end, they often enlist unexpected collaborators to do cameo appearances, adding just-right punctuation. Here is one of the Femmes’ early examples, featuring Trischka’s banjo on their 1984 second album, Hallowed Ground. Nearly two decades later, the Femmes would return the favor by appearing on “Down in the Cider House,” a track on Trischka’s World Turning album.
“New York Chimes” – Tony Trischka (1985)
Trischka has always had a way with clever puns, “New York Chimes” among them. From 1985’s Béla Fleck-produced Hill Country album, “New York Chimes” is also a fine example of Trischka’s higher-gear fast playing. And the band is, of course, spectacular – Jerry Douglas, Tony Rice, Sam Bush.
“Old Joe Clark” – Tony Trischka (1992)
As a dedicated keeper of the flame and teacher/mentor, Trischka has always been up for putting the music into unusual places. One of the most unusual was a 1992 episode of the children’s cartoon, “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?,” on which Trischka wandered on camera playing the 19th-century fiddle tune “Old Joe Clark” during a game-show segment.
“World Turning” – Tony Trischka (1993)
Among Trischka’s many virtues as a player, one of the best is that he knows how to back up great singers. And here is a classic example from Trischka’s wildly eclectic 1993 album, World Turning. The title track is a cover of the 1975 Fleetwood Mac song, sung by Dudley Connell and Alison Krauss with Trischka adding just-right banjo flair.
“Shifting Sands of Time” – The Wayfaring Strangers (2001)
Another of Trischka’s far-flung, multi-hyphenate genre experiments is his 2001 album, Shifting Sands of Time, with a wide-ranging guest list that goes from bluegrass patriarch Ralph Stanley to ’90s pop star Tracy Bonham. The title track is at least as worldly as anything his longtime mate Béla Fleck ever put out.
“Brown’s Ferry Blues” – Tony Trischka (2024)
We close with another of Trischka’s all-star collaborations, the opening track from this year’s Earl Scruggs tribute album Earl Jam. “Brown’s Ferry Blues” kicks off with very choice guitar and vocals from modern-day superstar Billy Strings, and Trischka, Fleck, Bush, and fiddler Michael Cleveland are all right there with him.
Banjoist Tony Trischka is a brilliant creator, an entertainer, and educator who makes his own time. He’s always on the run, trying new things and yet also always ready to stop and have a friendly chat and a catch up. His musical life includes teaching, performing, and recording as well as studying music history. And, at a very young 75, he’s always up for an impromptu jam.
In 1976, when he was 28, Oak Publications published his Melodic Banjo, an instruction book featuring his transcription tablatures of pieces by and introductions to the top players of this new style of bluegrass banjo in which he was already recognized as a virtuoso. The book became a modern bluegrass banjo classic and was later published in new editions by Hal Leonard.
When Rounder reissued Tony’s first two albums as Tony Trischka the Early Years, Berklee’s Matt Glaser wrote:
Rarely, perhaps three or four times a century, some music will be created that is a pure explosive expression of life energy and uncontaminated joy. The music on this CD is, in my humble opinion, exactly that. … I put Tony’s early music in the same category as the best of Charles Mingus, Cecil Taylor, Scotty Stoneman, and Wagner, mad and magnificent. … It’s some of the most unjustly neglected of all popular music masterpieces.
Tony’s passion about bluegrass banjo history came to the fore in 1988 when he co-edited “the most comprehensive banjo book ever written,” Masters of the 5-String Banjo, with Pete Wernick, his partner in the early ‘70s band Country Cooking.
There’s not enough room here to write about Tony’s full career, but it’s important to know that in addition to performing on the banjo doing everything from straight-ahead bluegrass to rock, avant garde, and theater, he’s also a band leader, producer, teacher and historian. A Grammy nominee and winner of the IBMA’s 2007 Banjo Player of the Year award, he now teaches an online banjo course for ArtistWorks, and continues to appreciate the pleasures and challenges of jamming – the subject of his latest album, Earl Jam, which was released June 7 on Down The Road Records.
I met Tony in 1986 in New York where I was giving a lecture to promote my new book, Bluegrass: A History. We got together afterward to explore our shared interest in bluegrass banjo. Since then, we’ve worked together on several projects, the latest being Earl Jam.
In November 1990, we reconnected at the Tennessee Banjo Institute. He took me to hear Institute faculty member Carroll Best, a North Carolinian who’d been playing melodic banjo since the ’50s. We ended up together at Best’s campsite. In 1992, Banjo Newsletter published our interview of him along with Tony’s transcription of his work.
Trischka’s 1993 album, World Turning, reflected his eclectic experiences in taking the banjo to the world. Bob Carlin called it “his bid to move the instrument back into the mainstream.” Beginning with an African tune, he explored the banjo in a variety of genres – minstrel, classical, old-time, ragtime, new acoustic, and rock, along with his own brand of bluegrass.
In 2001, Tony and I reconnected at Banjo Camp North in Massachusetts. In addition to its concerts and workshops featuring big-name instructors like Tony, Bill Keith, Pete Wernick, Tony Ellis, and Bill Evans, there was free time for informal music-making. Tony and I spent a pleasant evening jamming together.
For his 2007 album, Double Banjo Bluegrass Spectacular, Trischka recorded duets with 10 banjo pickers, with backing by top-flight bluegrass instrumentalists. These recordings have taken on new meaning now that some of his musical partners on this award-winning production – Earl Scruggs, Kenny Ingram, Bill Emerson, and Tony Rice – are no longer with us. The album introduced a generation of young musicians, showing the remarkable depth of Tony’s musical connections.
Tony’s brand new Down The Road album, Earl Jam: A Tribute to Earl Scruggs, reflects his longstanding interest in bluegrass banjo’s late founder. The album began during the pandemic, when Banjo Newsletter columnist, Bob Piekiel, author of “Earl’s Way” and a Scruggs family friend, sent Tony a thumb drive containing two hundred songs and tunes recorded at jams with Earl Scruggs and John Hartford during the ’80s and ’90s.
Tony and Piekiel had been working on the “tabs” – tablatures – for a new Scruggs banjo book. Since the early 1970s, bluegrass banjo tabs have been key musical manuscripts. None are more important than those of Scruggs, whose iconic statements – the ones he recorded – were published by Scruggs himself in tabular form in 1968. Many banjo pickers learned “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” and other familiar favorites from Scruggs’ tabs.
Like any written music, tablatures are scores meant to describe how music is created on an instrument, while simultaneously prescribing how it is to be reproduced. Tony made tabs of Earl’s jam breaks so that he could recreate them. Jamming with Hartford, Scruggs played familiar pieces he’d never before recorded or performed in public. On that thumb drive, Tony found Scruggs’ impromptu banjo statements as interesting and entertaining as the old familiar recorded and transcribed ones from his commercial appearances.
Change and innovation are part of the ambiance at jam sessions. Playing an old tune or song in a new way is a sure route to pleasant interaction in these friendly musical conversations. Here, ideas are expressed, tested, embraced. Participants play for their own delectation and to pique the interests of the other jammers.
It’s not easy for those of us who enjoy hearing commercially produced Nashville music to know what goes on informally and privately in that town’s local music scenes. Beyond the bars, stages, and studios, away from the producers, who jams with whom? In 1998 when Tony interviewed the late Bobby Thompson, melodic banjo pioneer and Nashville studio A-lister, he got Bobby’s answer to that question:
Scruggs, he’s real nice. Me and him would get together and play a lot. Lately I do him and John Hartford and bunch of them come over here a lot.
In his notes to Earl’s 1972 album, I Saw the Light with Some Help from My Friends (Columbia KC 31354), Bill Williams wrote about star-packed jams at the Scruggs home, calling it “a gathering place, a watershed of talent, a place to be oneself,” adding that “while the industry has known many outstanding jam sessions, there are none quite like these.” By that time, jams had been going on at the Scruggs house for a long time.
A number of the old Flatt & Scruggs songbooks published snapshots from ’60s jam sessions at the Scruggs home. And just as some people took snapshots at such sessions, others made recordings. John Hartford had recorded his jams with Earl and given Piekiel a copy because he worried that if his house burned down all those jam recordings would be lost.
Nashville pros like Thompson and Hartford – whose success as a singer-songwriter (“Gentle On my Mind”) underwrote a unique career – would, as Thompson said, “get together and play a lot” with Scruggs. Hartford, a Scruggs fan from an early age, played the fiddle while listening with pleasure to Scruggs’ banjo statements, and began bringing a tape recorder along.
Earl and John had played what they knew, taking pleasure in attacking old favorites in new ways. After learning and transcribing Earl’s banjo jam breaks, Tony put together a band to showcase them in a show at in the New York club Joe’s Pub. What people heard was first-class bluegrass musicians along with Tony’s musical recreation of Scruggs performing an eclectic repertoire – pre-war and post-war country classics, traditional tunes, rock, bluegrass, folk and more.
On Earl Jam, which grew out of Tony’s showcase band, we hear leading contemporary artists, including Sam Bush, Michael Cleveland, Dudley Connell, Michael Daves, Jerry Douglas, Sierra Ferrell, Béla Fleck, The Gibson Brothers, Vince Gill, Brittany Haas, Del McCoury, Bruce Molsky, Billy Strings, and Molly Tuttle, in new musical conversations with Tony Trischka providing the “banjer” voice of Earl Scruggs.
Here, today’s artists each perform with their own contemporary voice while Tony, consummate and experienced stage actor that he is, takes center stage in the role of Scruggs-at-a-jam. He’s a musical equivalent of actor Hal Holbrook, who brought the voice of a famous American author to millions in his one-man show “Mark Twain Tonight.”
A good example of the music on Earl Jam is “Brown’s Ferry Blues,” the album’s first single. It opens with a solo guitar break by Billy Strings during which rhythm instruments: mandolin (Sam Bush) and bass (Mark Schatz) come up behind. Then Trischka introduces one of Earl’s jam breaks, after which Strings sings the first of six verses.
After each verse, we hear an instrumental solo. First comes Michael Cleveland, who throws in some licks associated with Foggy Mountain Boys fiddler Benny Martin. Next is Bush playing his usual great, hot stuff.
After verse 3, Tony plays not one but two more Scruggs jam breaks, each quite different from the other. After verse 4, producer and banjoist Béla Fleck contributes a statement in his unique style. Following the next verse there’s a blazing guitar break from Strings, who then sings a newly composed verse that names everyone at this live session, after which the track closes with all five instruments going full-bore as if at a jam – instruments like voices at a cocktail party.
Tony’s newfound conversations demonstrate Earl’s economy and genius, and his ability to inject feeling – humor, soul, hot, cool – in unexpected places. Scruggs’ musical vision is an education and a pleasure. We’re grateful to Tony for capturing it, preserving and showcasing it.
This truly is a unique album. Each track combines the contexts of bluegrass and theater. We hear bluegrass and old-time music’s standard verses and instrumental breaks. They are mixed so that we can visualize each musician stepping up to the mic to sing or pick. And then the curtains open and Trischka appears spotlighted in a cameo closeup delivering lines – breaks – that Earl spoke at the end of the century, when he was in his 70s.
It’s ironic that tabs have crystallized an aural model of Earl Scruggs’s banjo playing based largely on his ’40s and ’50s work with Monroe and Flatt. That music became the model for classic bluegrass. It still sounds great today. But by the ’60s, Earl had moved on. As Tommy Goldsmith (Earl Scruggs, p. 120-123) points out, an informal backstage jam in New York with saxophone virtuoso King Curtis convinced him that he could take his banjo into other genres like rock.
As soon as he and Flatt parted ways in 1969, Earl joined his sons to form the Earl Scruggs Revue. In the following decades he played with them as well as a variety of folk, rock, and pop acts, fitting his banjo into many new contexts. By the times of his jams with Hartford, foremost in Scruggs’ mind were the then-recent years of touring with the Revue and trying new stuff.
In 1983, L.A. producer (Byrds, Flying Burrito Bros.) Jim Dickson told me why he came to like bluegrass: “It was part formal and part improvisational breaks, the same kind of structure jazz had.” (Bluegrass: A History, p. 190) Tony’s cameos highlight the improvisational genius that kept Earl’s music fresh and inspired a generation.
On Earl Jam, Trischka explores Scruggs’s genius in various ways. Several individual song arrangements have modulations (as in “Dooley” and “Casey Jones”) that show how Earl was able to recast his melodic ideas in different keys and tunings. Tracks like “Liza Jane,” “Lady Madonna,” and “Brown’s Ferry Blues” close by moving beyond solo breaks into riff trade-offs to portray the playful conversation that is the essence of jamming.
Tony’s sense of history is reflected in his repertoire choices – reflecting rich heritage and continuing experimentation. Like a painter he has blended, collaged, borrowed, and adapted widely from past art. The result is a series of vignettes building on the shared creativity of today’s most gifted singers and players while also embracing Earl’s many paths.
I visualize these tracks as tangible works of art like we might see in a museum or gallery – from antique quilts to abstract modernist paintings. BGS’s Artist of the Month, Tony Trischka, has created a veritable aural exhibition.
No BGS reader needs a rundown of Tony Rice’s biography or accomplishments. Earlier this month I chatted with Todd Phillips, Tony’s close friend and bassist across multiple groups (David Grisman Quintet, Bluegrass Album Band, Tony Rice Unit) from 1975 to 1985. During these years Tony used inspiration from mid-century jazz and musical peers, along with his innate willpower, as levers to crack open a stunning new guitar vocabulary. In doing so he rose from a bluegrass badass to a global force, operating well above tribes and vogues.
When Todd emerged in the 1970s, bass guitar was a cross-genre norm. A young upright player who melded Scott LaFaro’s gracefulness with J.D. Crowe’s timefeel was a fairly wonderful anomaly in bluegrass. I started working with Todd in 2014, and grew close with him fast. He brought something rare — a relaxed whiphand — to the feel onstage. In the van, he indulged my ceaseless fanboy questions about the old days. An equable ex-stoner with a mildly grumpy edge, he’s as adept at building an instrument or a chicken coop as analyzing acoustic riddles, and his long experience working with people as unalike as Joan Baez, David Grier, and Elvis Costello gives him a high perch from which to reflect. He reminisced fluidly about Tony over the phone with me for two hours, stopping only twice, once overwhelmed by emotion and once to get a bottle of tequila. (Read more from our conversation at my blog.)
Members of David Grisman Quintet, 1977. L-R: Tony Rice, Todd Phillips, David Grisman, Darol Anger. (Photo by Jon Sievert.)
Robbie Fulks: I listened back today to California Autumn and other records I hadn’t heard for ages, and heard little passages that sounded uncharacteristic of Tony. Did gestures come into his vocabulary, stay there for a while, and then fade off as he went to concentrate on another idea?
Todd Phillips: That’s true, yeah. He would go through cycles, get on a kick. He’d get on riffs, like hearing Billy Crystal: “You look marvelous.” He’d say that 40 times a day, and a year later, drop it for some other riff. The vocabulary would change, according to the era.
That’s fascinating, to compare it to a non-musical example. So let’s dive in, go back to the start. Tell me about meeting Tony — when, where, and how you guys got underway with the Grisman project.
I was a beginning mandolin player, and I was certainly in over my head, playing mandolin with David, but he’d never heard me play bass, which I’d played since I was a little kid. This was 1974, and Clarence White had died the year before. And we just thought, this is a good band, we don’t need a guitar — no one else could fill Clarence’s shoes, and he’d be the only guy that would work in this thing. Then David came home from a Bill Keith recording session and said, “I just met the guy that could do it.”
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Shortly after that, J.D. Crowe and the New South were on their way to Japan, and they stopped in San Francisco to play one gig. They hung with us for a couple days and… I had never hung with, um, that many guys from Kentucky all at once. [Laughs]
I’ve told you about that Mexican restaurant in Berkeley. The Californians — me, Darol, and David — and the Kentucky guys — J.D., Tony, Ricky, Jerry, and Bobby — were seated at one giant round table. First, Crowe ordered: “Six tacos and a Coke!” Then each New South guy ordered exactly the same. I guess they were used to the little three-inch tacos you can eat in two bites. So this big table ended up covered with plates full of giant tacos, surrounded by a pretty interesting mix of characters. I wish we had a photo. Polyester and tie-dye T-shirts all around.
After they came back from Japan, Tony gave J.D. his notice. He hooked up a little U-Haul trailer — clothes, suitcase, guitar, and stereo system — and got an apartment in Marin County. And we started rehearsing. At that point, we had what we had, but then Tony’s chemistry came into it. And it just catalyzed the whole thing. It was huge. Tony had to learn his harmony and a bunch of chords he hadn’t really played before — but we had to learn to play rhythm like J.D. Crowe. So we probably rehearsed for another six months before we went out and played our first shows.
Recording the first David Grisman Quintet album. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Tell me about the first gig.
Our first show was in Bolinas [in Marin County], in the community center. We made our own posters and put them up all over Bolinas, so it was sold out. And no sound system. We wanted people to hear us just like we rehearsed. There were probably 200 people there.
So small room, gather round, and somehow the guitar projected through.
We played with dynamics — if Tony was soloing, we shut ourselves up. We got down light and tight under him. Since we hadn’t played through a sound system, we just did what we did every day anyway.
The first on-the-road thing, not long after, was in Japan. Our show was a bluegrass quintet with Bill Keith and Richard Greene, followed by a set of DGQ. Then, as soon as we got back from Japan, we recorded the first quintet record. So it still had that energy. We were still excited to hear it, too, every time — it would raise the hair on our arms! It was kind of a… strong existence. Life felt — pumped up, you know?
First photo of David Grisman Quintet, 1975. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Close companions in an intense situation. A lot of people have been in a band or in the army. But on top of that, you guys were altering the course of music.
Yeah. Maybe it is a little like an army buddy. I was a cross between his bass player and his little brother. Also his babysitter, sometimes! He had left his old friends, and when he came to California, I seemed to be the guy he gravitated to. On off days, all of a sudden there’s a knock on the door at 10 a.m., and it’s Tony — “Hey man, let’s go the boardwalk, ride the roller coaster. Let’s go to the record store.” We went to the record store a million times. Came home with bags of records and stayed up all night listening — I mean, he taught me to listen close, whether playing music or just listening to records.
Any memories of the 1975 Grisman Rounder album sessions?
Tony was hilarious! We’d go out to eat, and he’d come back with a couple of cloth napkins. He’d fold one up and put it on his head, and put on sunglasses. Looking like a weird Quaker. And then drape another napkin over his left hand and go, “I don’t want anybody to steal any of my licks.” [Laughs] He’d leave that thing on his head, with the sunglasses, for like, three hours.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Have you heard guitarists who managed not to sound like Tony, in the years since?
Well, because Tony opened the door, after Clarence, you can’t help but sound like him as a bluegrass soloist. He found those avenues on a fingerboard that you can play with a strong attack and accurate, strong expression. A lot of it is mechanics. A D-28 with semi-high action, there are certain phrases that fall naturally under your fingers, and Tony found those. So I think a lot of guitarists use those avenues because — they’re there. You might hear different phrases but they’re not as strong. They might be more interesting, or more academically pleasing, but the effect — I haven’t heard it as strong as in those passages that Tony found.
Tell me about Manzanita.
There was no preparation that I remember. The guys came to Berkeley and we went to work. We ran a tune for 20 minutes, then recorded it maybe three to six times.
Béla Fleck said Tony didn’t like to rehearse much.
Yeah. Sink or swim.
David Grisman, Todd Phillips, Tony Rice (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Any road memories involving Tony?
He didn’t go out a lot. We went to Japan once, the three Rice brothers — Larry, Wyatt, Tony — and me. And Tony — maybe that’s when he started — he just never left his hotel room.
What was he doing in there?
Ordering room service. Later, traveling with the Unit, he’d stick to the room. I mean…he pretty much lived in front of his stereo, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. That’s what he thrived on.
How did you listen to music away from the home stereo back then?
In the early days, he drove a noisy Dodge Challenger. A muscle car, with a cassette player in the dashboard. We’d listen loud. And driving from Grisman’s house back to mine every night, it was pretty much all John Coltrane, the classic quartet.
Interesting!
Yeah, and later, a lot of Oscar Peterson. He’s like Tony: you recognize the phrases, and they’re strong as hell. Meticulous mechanics. Tony never studied music academically — but the sound of it. He took that in and it’d come out later somehow, the power and the attitude, more than specific notes or theory.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Did he have any relationship to the written page?
No. Not at all.
Tony cited Miles Davis and Eric Dolphy as favorites, but I don’t hear a strong kinship.
I think those were unique voices. Like Django, or Vassar.
Individualists.
I think that’s it. The attitude. He liked those kind of characters, like David Janssen — he really had an obsession with David Janssen. Or Lee Marvin.
Ha!
I’m not kidding! The Marlboro Man.
People that laid it down.
Exactly.
David Grisman Band in silhouette, 1976. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
I’m curious about the chemistry between Tony and other strong personalities. You’ve told me your take on the Skaggs-Rice dichotomy, the good and bad guys from everyone’s high school…
Yeah, Ricky would be class president and Tony would be Eddie Haskell. [Laughs] There’s a little of that, but musical respect bridges all gaps.
With David, did Tony slip easily into a sideman role?
The chemistry was — not volatile, but exciting. The New Jersey hippie and Mister Perfection. You know, when Tony was new to California, David’s living room was a real event. You never knew who you’d run into — Jethro Burns, Taj Mahal, Jerry Garcia. I think that excited Tony. He’d dig in his heels, just be who he is, and people respected that. He was…I guess I want to use the word “stubborn.” Clear-headed, with his vision.
Were cigarettes it for Tony, or were there harder things he liked to do?
No! He actually went light on the marijuana, compared to everyone else in Marin. He kinda puffed a little bit, just to participate.
Any whiskey?
No, he drank a few beers at home. I don’t remember any hard liquor at all.
New Year’s at Great American Music Hall, 1978-1979. (Photo by Jon Sievert.)
I read in The Guardianobit: “apprentice pipe fitter”…?!
Yeah! His dad was a welder, pipe fitter, and Tony and his brothers did that too.
What did he do to keep his fingers strong besides play?
Nothing. He bit his nails. He had no fingernails, and his fingertips looked like blocks of wood. Like the rounded end of a wooden dowel. The guy played a lot. He had hands that physically, mechanically, work in a different way. He could push down with his thumb, on his right hand, but also push up, with his first finger. You can look at YouTube and see it — a really strong muscular mechanism between thumb and index.
His down and upstrokes weren’t ascribed to the usual beats, weren’t automatized in the normal way — and were equally forceful.
Yeah. And rhythmically, a lot of triplet syncopation on the upstrokes. People just say “syncopation,” but technically it’s playing 3/4 against 4/4, like Elvin Jones’s drumming. You can’t tell if it’s in 3 or 6 or 4 or 2. It’s all of it. It’s all of it! And those subdivisions, I learned that from Tony — you slice that up in all kinds of ways, so those polyrhythms are all churning in your hands or head at the same time. That’s what generates good time, not tapping your foot. Tony had all those superimposed polyrhythms in him.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Bluegrassers work hard and live long, on the whole. And with so many players of your generation now in their 70s and performing as energetically as ever, Tony’s story looks more profoundly sad to me.
You know, I don’t know why Tony went the way he went. Why he couldn’t be as youthful as Sam Bush. Who knows, if there was some kind of a depression, or if that desire for perfection wore him out. You know? Because he did play with joy, but it was also that crazy obsession, to be perfect and accurate — maybe he was just too hard on himself.
He was hard on everybody around him. I know that I developed way more than I ever would have developed if I’d never known him. It was not that he was ever mean or harsh to me, but being around him, you put pressure on yourself to live up. I think everybody that played with him was like that. He jacked up the music to this level — and then it was your challenge to get up there with him. Being around him changed me forever.
Lede image by Heather Hafleigh. All photos provided by Todd Phillips and used by permission.
In an interview backstage at the Grand Ole Opry host Tom Power talks to Bluegrass Hall of Famer and Grammy award-winner Del McCoury about how he started playing banjo, his (interesting) time in the military, joining Bill Monroe’s band, being replaced by Bill Keith, starting over, playing music with his sons, and how he found his way to becoming a legend of bluegrass music — and to some, defining the whole thing.
A familiar voice across Canada’s airwaves, Tom Power hosts CBC Radio’s q, an all-encompassing public radio talk show that perhaps best compares to NPR’s Fresh Air or PRI’s Studio 360. Though it does air on some public radio stations in the United States, Power is best known to the north, not only as a radio personality, but as a musician — he’s an accomplished guitarist with remarkable prowess in Irish and traditional Newfoundland musics — and musical scholar.
As it turns out, he’s also a diehard, lifelong fan of bluegrass. As a teenager he picked up the five-string banjo and took lessons (which had a much broader reach than just banjo techniques) from once Blue Grass Boy and now Bluegrass Hall of Famer Neil Rosenberg, who just so happened to live nearby in Power’s native Newfoundland. Though his work as host on q reaches far beyond his home island and his favorite chosen folk musics, his ethnomusicological expertise still centers on bluegrass — and he is a devout and starry-eyed fan.
BGS is proud to partner with Power and his co-producer Stephanie Coleman to present Toy Heart: A Podcast About Bluegrass, a platform for bluegrass storytelling and an examination of the true narratives that gave rise to this singular genre. Over eight episodes in its inaugural season Power will interview Grammy Award-winning, IBMA Award-winning, and truly earth-shattering artists in bluegrass about their lives, their stories, and their songs.
At Folk Alliance International in New Orleans last week BGS and Tom Power unveiled the first five minutes of the first episode of Toy Heart, which features Del McCoury accompanied by his sons Ronnie and Rob. Listen to that trailer right here on BGS, and read our interview, where Power discusses the pros and cons of his status as an “outsider,” the never-before-heard stories he unearthed in his recordings, and much more.
Our BGS audience, being largely American, might not have an understanding of who you are already. Then the audience there in Canada will know who you are as an interviewer and on-air personality, but maybe not that you are a dyed-in-the-wool bluegrass nerd of the best kind.
[Tom laughs]
How does it feel being the person executing these interviews, creating this podcast, and being in the center of that odd Venn diagram between really traditional bluegrass and folks who love it, and your more outward-facing persona on the radio in Canada and, to a lesser degree, here in America?
Tom Power: I am a little apprehensive and a little scared, but I also know that the things that are making me scared about this are making our podcast good. I feel like I have a lot of bona fides in this music, in terms of my knowledge of it. I’ve been obsessed with it since I was about fifteen years old, studied it extensively, did a lot of work on it. When I went down to Nashville and met the community there I started to understand that I was an outsider, that I was not someone who was part of that community. I’m from a very different group, I play very, very different music.
I’m kind of a new member, [everyone has] been very welcoming, but it’s a little intimidating. That being said, I think the perspective I have allows me to ask different questions, or at least think differently about the music than someone who’s in it. In this case I’m on the outside looking in, which allows me to ask different questions, allows me to have different conversations. I wouldn’t know the history of say, Ricky Skaggs and Bill Monroe as well as others. I know the history of how they got together, but I was able to look at Ricky and say, “Hey man, I don’t remember a lot from when I was four years old. Do you actually remember him handing you that mandolin? How is that possible?” Which is a question that maybe someone who was a little more involved in this community may not have thought of. They may have just accepted it as part of the lore.
As you’re describing this apprehension I’m wondering, are you thinking about how to mitigate for folks being like, “What about my favorite Del McCoury song? What about my favorite Ricky Skaggs anecdote?” How much of that are you anticipating and/or how much of this is you specifically turning over stones that haven’t been turned over before?
The format of the podcast is largely autobiographical. Each episode begins with, “Where were you born?” Or, “What was it like growing up?” I try to let the guest [lead]. On the radio show, q, say I have twenty minutes and ten pieces I really need to hit. In this case I have an hour, I have an hour and a half. I’m able to let them guide me where they want to go and I can steer them back around.
One nice thing about my interviewing background, and I think the reason q has been in any way successful in Canada and a bit in the U.S. as well, is because we focus on what the listener might want to know most. When I’m doing an interview I’m always thinking about how it’s coming out in someone’s headphones, how it’s coming out over somebody’s car stereo. What are they shouting at the radio? What are they shouting at their phone? I’m always trying to keep that in mind.
When you imagine that hypothetical listener, the average person you’re trying to target with the podcast, is it a diehard who knows everything about bluegrass, or is it somebody who’s maybe a new initiate? Who do you hope will come into the audience of this podcast?
More than anything what I’m trying to do is trying to get a record of some of this music. I think the podcast format is a great opportunity to get these kind of biographical stories on record. I found myself listening to people like Marc Maron, Howard Stern, and Terry Gross thinking, “Why can’t I do this for the music I love the most? Who’s doing this work?” The music that Del McCoury’s making, the music that Ricky Skaggs is making, or Alice Gerrard or Alison Brown, is as valid to me as something nominated for an Oscar or nominated for the Booker Prize. Who’s treating this music this way? Who’s giving it this attention to detail?
In any kind of music there’s a lot of myth-making and a lot of legend-making. I’m really interested in what the actual story is. Even if it might seem a little boring to them. The eight-hour drive from Nashville to somewhere else, I want to know what they talk about on that bus ride! I want to know the minutiae.
Some of my favorite interviews have been with people who I didn’t know. I’ve turned it on and I’ve gone, “Who is this person? Who is this director? Who is this actor?” And I found myself engrossed in the story. Take Jesse McReynolds, who told me on this podcast about driving around with his brother Jim from schoolhouse to schoolhouse, taking the car battery out of their car, putting it on stage, plugging the PA into it, and seeing if they could just get people to come. Is that not just a beautiful, human story? Bluegrass is the story of the original DIY music, as far as I can tell. These people were living what punks thought they were living for the first time in the 1970s. [Laughs]
I am aware that I’m entering sort of a hallowed ground of music and music aficionados. I really believe that this is just a matter of getting it on the record and using the little bit of training that I’ve had on public radio. Being able to sit down with Del McCoury and go through his entire life, his entire career, and ask, “What was it like when you had to quit music and go work in the logging industry? What was it like working in a sawmill? Tell me about the actual moment. I know the story that you were playing banjo [in your audition] for Bill Monroe and then Bill Keith came in, how’d that happen? Didn’t that hurt? You lost that gig — what was it like playing in a band with a guy you lost a job to?”
You do have these moments with so many of these icons that we know and love. We know their “mythology” intimately, yet you get stories out of them that people like you and I have never heard before, let alone people who don’t think and write about music every day for a living. You mention Del and Jim & Jesse, but is there another story that you’ve uncovered in your recording so far that you were surprised to hear?
I spoke to Del McCoury about the time he [spent] in the military. I said, “So you were in the military, how did that go?” Pretty broad, right? He tells a story about being in the military, about a couple of things that transpired while he was in the military that were hilarious. We laugh about it, and on the way out Ronnie and Rob McCoury stopped me and said, “Tom, we’ve never heard that story before.” These were his sons! Not just sons, but his business partners, his bandmates, and they said they had never heard him tell that story before.
I can tell you, Alice Gerrard told me what it was like to sing at Hazel Dickens’ funeral. I felt so honored that she would even be able to tell me that. I asked Béla Fleck, “Where is Tony Rice?” And what his relationship with Tony is like these days. I asked Jerry Douglas about drug use in bluegrass, something that often gets overlooked. And I should be clear, the goal is not to be in any way sensational. The world I come from in public radio, I find stories about humans way more interesting than stories about legends. What I was able to do is have human conversations while finding out the history of how a bunch of people created this thing that changed my life and it changed the lives of people all around the world. How is that possible? It’s largely by an unglamorous industry, a hard life on the road, touring nonstop, playing small barns, having lean years — the story of what actually happened there is more interesting to me than anything else.
I’ll give you one more. Ricky Skaggs, for the first time ever, tells the story of how Bill Monroe almost hired him to be a Blue Grass Boy. Hearing Ricky’s tone when he told me that story — he says to me, “I haven’t really talked about this before.” I felt so honored that I saw not a bluegrass legend on the Opry, but I saw a kid still being blown away because his hero spoke to him.
I think that’s one of the most beautiful things about bluegrass and even folks with even the most casual relationships to bluegrass understand that the community is just as important a part of the whole thing as the music itself. The legends that you’re describing just so happen to also still be human.
And they have stories they want to tell! And maybe haven’t even had the chance to tell them. I want to hear about it. I want to hear the story of how Béla Fleck heard that Tony Rice was making records without banjo and he thought, “That’s not right, and I gotta be the banjo player.” So he leaves New York! These are the stories of ambition, of love of music, honoring a tradition, and wanting to further things. Of humanity. I find it fascinating.
Ideally, if enough people listen to it, this season will just be one of many. I want to get to everybody! I mean, my white whale is Tony Rice. If you listen to these interviews a lot of them close with, “How do I get in touch with Tony Rice?” [Laughs] Alison Krauss is another I’d love to speak to, because other than Bill Monroe she is maybe the most transformative artist in the music’s history. I want to know what it was like to be a twelve-, thirteen-, fourteen-year-old child prodigy playing this music. I want to know what emails — I know there weren’t Tweets back then — or messages she got when she started adding drums to her music. I’m dying to talk to Larry Sparks! And the Osborne Brothers! These are crucial — I had to limit myself to eight people this time around and it was so challenging.
As someone who got a Bluegrass Unlimited subscription mailed to Newfoundland when he was fifteen, and a Banjo Newsletter subscription mailed to Newfoundland when he was sixteen, I still would not know anything about this if I wasn’t under the tutelage of, in my mind, the greatest mind in the history of bluegrass, Neil Rosenberg. It changed my life forever. When I first took this on the first thing I did was fly back to Newfoundland to see Neil. I told him, “I’m doing this thing, what should we talk about?” And he helped me out. If I can be a pebble onto the beach of the work he has done that would make me very happy.
Before we turn out the light on 2019 — and the 2010s — let’s celebrate one last Tunesday Tuesday. This column began in 2018 as our instrumental answer to our now-dormant Song of the Week feature, with an understanding that roots music (especially bluegrass, old-time, and country) wouldn’t exist without virtuosic pickers, and that most outlets, by nature being centered on more commercial forms of music, tend to overlook the incredible offerings of instrumentalists.
As we look ahead to more tunes, more breakdowns and waltzes and jigs and polkas, in 2020, it’s a fitting time to visit “Auld Lang Syne” as recorded by Bluegrass Hall of Famer and banjoist extraordinaire Bill Keith in 1976 on Something Auld, Something Newgrass, Something Borrowed, Something Bluegrass. (Please, on behalf of the tenor of this column, ignore the sung verse by Jim Rooney — or simply treat it as a once-hollered refrain line in an old-time tune that doesn’t negate the tuney-ness of it all. Everybody good?)
Joined by Tony Rice, David Grisman, Vassar Clements, and Tom Gray, this version of the truly ubiquitous, ingrained melody begins with a jazzy, ragtime flair, circa the late 1800s and banjo’s golden age. Then, as most bluegrass covers of non-bluegrass tunes go, it kicks into time with the chord progression massaged towards diatonic simplicity and the tempo dialed into ideal banjo range. Keith utilizes his namesake tuners and signature melodic style to capture the song in a way that oozes traditional bluegrass, but is still fresh and innovative — even forty plus years on. It’s a perfect banjo-y, bluegrassy way to bring in a new year and say goodbye to the old, too.
Loose and lovable Jim Lauderdale and Del McCoury will host the 30th annual IBMA Awards in Raleigh, North Carolina, coming up on September 26. McCoury is a nine-time winner of IBMA Entertainer of the Year — the most of any artist — while Lauderdale has won two Grammy Awards for his exceptional bluegrass work. These fan favorites don’t just bring a wealth of bluegrass experience to the stage; they’re seasoned masters of ceremonies as well. We got together at Nashville’s City Winery for a public conversation about the show.
BGS: As a 30th anniversary edition, I’m sure there will be quite a focus on the history of the music and of the awards over these 30 years. Del, what do you remember about the first IBMA Awards?
DM: It was so exciting, ’cause it was the first time that bluegrass music was really recognized. And there were still quite a few of the senior people there, you know, who started in the music years ago. We were fortunate that they were still there. Bill Monroe was even there, you know? But we’ve lost a lot of the great pioneers since that first one, and that’s probably the biggest difference, I would think.
BGS: When was your first one, Jim?
JL: I believe it was 1998, and I got to do a song with Ralph Stanley during the awards. Then I started going back and doing showcases. And I saw the move to Nashville and then the move to Raleigh, which I think has been really, really a great thing.
BGS: Do you guys ever surprise the jammers playing on some floor and stride in and go, “Hey, fellas, can I play a song?” And they go “Holy cow, that’s Jim Lauderdale and Del McCoury!”?
JL: Not quite like that! I go, “Hey everybody!” I like to be inclusive. But I do like to pop in if it calls for it.
DM: For me, I’m a little too old for that these days. But I remember the time when the festivals started when I would stay up all night and jam with people and go do a gospel show in the morning. And of course, I had a voice that would take that kind of punishment then, but I don’t have that voice anymore. So I do have to get my rest. But it’s a temptation, if you hear a jam session, to at least go listen to it.
JL: That’s the thing about bluegrass. Of course in any musical genre you can jam but you’ve got your acoustic instrument and you come across a group of folks that maybe you’ve never even met, but [you have] the bluegrass vocabulary or common language with these songs. It’s something that everybody can pick up.
BGS: Del, because of your 80th birthday and your longtime involvement in IBMA, I understand that they’ve just told you that on Saturday at the Wide Open Bluegrass festival, there will be a big “Del-ebration” for you. What do you know yet about this?
DM: I’m embarrassed! I had an inkling they were going to do something, you know? But I didn’t know who was going to be on that Saturday night show until me and Jim came here today. We’re going to have different folks from other genres of music come in, and me and Jim will do duets and sing all kinds of stuff.
JL: When we get together, you never know what’s going to happen. But I’ll tell you, in all seriousness, for as long as I’ve known Del, I’ve loved to make him laugh. …For several years I used to love to do this, when Del and the band was backstage somewhere. I’d walk up and say, “Hey you guys, what are y’all doing here?” And then I’d say to whoever is standing next to me, “It’s like these guys go to almost all of my shows! They’re from Canada, right? Anyway, good to see you guys!”
BGS: You guys have an interesting thing in common that people might not know, because you’re both guitar-playing frontmen. But you both started playing the banjo early on, right?
DM: Yeah, we did, didn’t we?
BGS: Del, in your case, the fellow who coaxed you away from the banjo into the lead guitar and the lead vocal was Mr. Bill Monroe, right? You hoped to play banjo, but he needed a guitar player. Is that the story?
DM: Yeah, myself and Bill Keith, you know, we auditioned together and he took Bill on banjo and wanted me to start playing guitar. I had played some guitar before that, but after I heard Bill Keith, I thought, yeah, that’s what Bill needs that guy. He needs that guy right now, cause it was a different thing. You know Bill called him Brad. He didn’t want to have two Bills in the band, so he called him Brad. He said what is your full name? And Keith said, William Bradford Keith. He said we’ll call you Brad. And he did from that time on.
BGS: And you never looked back. You were a singing guitar player from that point forward?
DM: Yeah, begrudgingly I was. Because I liked banjo. I’d heard Earl Scruggs when I was about 11, and Don Reno. They were our idols, those guys, so I learned to play. I did a date with Bill Monroe up in New York City. He took me up there, and he offered me a job, and I didn’t take him up on it. So maybe a month later, I did decide to come down here and when I did, Bill Keith was here, at the same hotel. He told us both to come to the Clarkston Hotel, which was on Seventh Avenue. You’d get a room about two dollars and 62 cents a night, from what I remember. Bathroom down the hall. No air conditioning. That’s the things I remember about it.
The next morning I walked into the lobby with my banjo and another guy walked in from somewhere else. About that time, Bill Monroe walked in and he said, “Come on, boys. Follow me.” We went next door to the Clarkston Hotel’s restaurant, I think. We sat down and he said, “Now go ahead and order something. I’m paying for it.” So we sit there, and Bill was not a man of many words. I didn’t know who this other guy was, and he didn’t know who I was, and Bill didn’t introduce us either.
So we got done eating, and he paid and we walk next door to the National Life building. That’s where they had the Friday Night Opry [and WSM’s studios.] We went into this room and I saw an old Gibson guitar case over in the corner. When we got in there, Bill said, “Del, you could take guitar there.” I thought, “What kind of deal’s this? I wasn’t lookin’ to play no guitar.”
So we tried out that way and Bill Keith told me later, only about 10 years ago, “You know, he tried me on the guitar, too.” [Monroe] tried us both ways and he wanted to see what’s gonna work best. And Keith said, “I was no guitar player.” And I said, “Well, when I heard you play banjo, I figured I was no banjo player either!” [Bill Keith] was really good. And so [Monroe] hooked us up that way and then I thought, “Well, I guess I was up for the challenge, I’ll try this job.” But I had to learn all the words his songs. That was the hardest part.
BGS: Jim, how did you make the journey from banjo to a guitar-playing songwriter?
JL: I was a pretty good banjo player, but I got to a certain point in my late teens where it’s like I’m just not as good as Earl, Ralph Stanley, Don Stover, or Bill Keith. Those were my go-to guys at that time. I was getting a little discouraged. But I did get a dobro. I was such a big Mike Auldridge fan and I was playing that a little on the side. I thought, I’ve reached my peak. I’m not going to get any better. So I start playing rhythm guitar and writing songs. When I did come to Nashville and did that record with Roland White, I thought, “OK, this is it.” You know, finally after 22 years this is my big break.
So I moved up to New York City because I wasn’t able to really make a living here in Nashville. New York City’s the most next logical choice! But I had some friends from college up there. And I got a country gig before I moved up there. But anyway, I sent this record with Roland out to the bluegrass labels that I knew of — sent a cassette — and every one of them wrote back and said we like the record, but you’re an unknown and you’re not on the circuit. But stay in touch. Keep us posted. And that discouraged me so much. I just thought the writing is on the wall. So I started doing more country stuff. But in New York I was in a couple of bluegrass bands too.
BGS: You’ve seen this music keep renewing itself and raising up younger artists and seeing them join the flow, and you’ve watched the audiences change and evolve over the years. What are your observations about this music? How healthy is it? Where do you think it may be going, and what do you hope for?
JL: It seems really healthy, and you’re absolutely right about that with the younger audiences and the younger players. It’s so cool to see these kids sometimes playing that are eight, nine, seven. I know at IBMA, they’ve got a program for youth. And at different festivals — Pete Wernick has a thing at Merlefest. There is a big outreach, and parents I think are so supportive of that to see their kids playing bluegrass, and kids love it. I’ve had this theory for a long time that if you start out playing bluegrass, you can play anything if you want to, because the ear training is just incredible.
Inset photo credit: Amy Beth Hale, IBMA (L-R) Craig Havighurst, Jim Lauderdale, Del McCoury
Bill Keith, known for revolutionizing the field of banjo playing, passed away last week at the age of 75. For a full obituary, head over to the New York Times.
Other Roots Music News:
• ICYMI: Punch Brothers will release a new EP, out November 20.
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