The Banjoist in His Natural Habitat

The Smoky Mountains are big and blue in the distance. The sun is rising in Townsend, Tennessee. And a barefoot man with a prodigiously frightening overbite is playing banjo in my motel. This man may or may not be me.

You can look at this banjo guy and you just know he isn’t exactly the brightest bulb in life’s marquee. The kind of guy who has struggled to find out who he is. The kind of guy who, when he first discovered that his toaster wasn’t waterproof, was completely shocked.

People are out for their morning exercise routines, power walking through the motel parking lot, looking at the barefoot banjoist with scowls, sitting on his balcony.

“My, oh my,” you can tell they are thinking. “What big feet he has.”

The better to squash spiders with, my dear.

“And what large buck teeth he has.”

The better to eat collards with, my precious.

“And what a big banjo he has.”

The better to file for unemployment with, my dear.

The power walkers are staring at me in much the same way you’d look at someone who emits lower gastrointestinal smells on an airplane.

“You really should keep that music down, pal,” one woman says with a sour attitude, as she and her husband stride past my motel room.

Pal.

“I feel like I’m in ‘Deliverance,’” the husband scoffs.

To be fair, they have a point. Playing banjo in the Tennessee mountains is a cinematic experience, although he’s a far cry from Burt Reynolds. But it’s 10:30 in the morning, and I’m playing quietly. I’m within my legal rights. Sort of.

“It’s just inconsiderate,” the guy says. “Knock it off.” Then he called me a bad name which is synonymous with an appendage of the body.

Then they crawled into a car with Connecticut plates and peeled rubber.

I just smile and put my banjo away.

Namely because I don’t want to cause a problem. Banjo players are peacemakers at heart.

I am just limbering up my fingers this morning since I am performing my one-man show tonight at the Smoky Mountain Heritage Center. I am performing an evening of mountain music, on mountain instruments, for mountain people. That’s why I am banjoing.

In my defense, the clerk at the motel counter said it was okay to pick music outside my room because there weren’t any guests near me.

“Are you SURE it’s okay?” I clarified. “Because I’ll be playing the banjo.”

She assured me it was okay and then she smiled. “You know what you say to a banjo player in a three-piece suit?”

“What,” I said.

“Will the defendant please rise?”

Hah-hah. Oh, but I have already heard all the banjo jokes at this stage of my career.

How do you get a banjo player off your porch? Pay him for the pizza.

How do you tune a banjo? You run over it with your mobile home.

What’s the difference between a banjo player and a chicken casserole? A casserole can feed a family of four.

But I’m not ashamed of playing my music. It’s the music of my people. My heritage.

Moreover, it’s cheerful music, inasmuch as nobody who plays the banjo can be in a bad mood. It’s almost impossible. And sometimes the hardest thing in this life is learning how to find cheer.

Which is why I am grateful for the banjo. No matter how bad people from Connecticut may dislike it. My cousin used to say you can’t be upset and hold a banjo at the same time. He’s absolutely right.

Although this morning I came awfully close.