Fiddlin' Around

Old Man Bozart was a cadaverous fellow. We never asked his age, but one of the old ladies at the bingo parlor said he was over 90. His nose almost touched his chin, and his beady little eyes sparkled like diamonds when he played his fiddle.

We met him at one of the many fiddle contests in Redding, California, where our mom would allow us some limited socialization �" among senior citizens. I guess she figured we were less likely to be corrupted by these ancient and often senile beings, than by the rest of society. So, our early social life consisted of jamming at old folks homes, fiddle contests, and a rare visit to a grocery store.

When mom met Bozart, she immediately decided he was one of the wise ones, destined to be our music teacher. And it made sense: he was too old to be a bad influence, and no one could ever understand what he was saying. So So Mom immediately signed my brother Byron up for fiddle lessons with him.

The first lesson took place in his dilapidated Airstream at the Golden Valley Trailer Park. It was like a scene from the 1950’s, with small angry dogs and plastic flamingos everywhere. We knocked on the screen door, and after several minutes of shuffling and bumping noises Bozart peered out. He was wearing the same ridiculous plaid sweater he always wore, and he cackled in glee upon seeing us.

“Weh Blezhmah hert! Ifitay mufav buncha rugraz!” he chortled, beckoning us in.

The smell of tater tots and Old Spice hit us like a wave. We were in a sea of newspapers and TV dinner boxes, punctuated by the frantic yipping of a Chihuahua.

“Shuchoh mothyoo lilpeesa shet!!!” Old Man Bozart rasped, hurling a newspaper in the general direction of the noise.

“All Throyout rinow!”

The fiddle lessons consisted of Bozart scratching out square-dance tunes note by note, all the while grinning like an idiot and occasionally blurting out “Thashow igoze!”.

Byron would attempt to copy the old man, and they would go back and forth, back and forth, while the rest of us sat like statues on the mummified couch. The old person smells were intoxicating, and in the distance the Chihuahua complained bitterly.

After a few weeks Mom declared, “Our path with the old man must now separate, it is time to move on.” Although we stopped going to Bozart for music lessons, we would see him from time to time at the fiddle jams where he would always greet us with a joyful, “Howyahl bindoon yool rapskins!?!”

But Byron was now armed with all the latest fiddle tunes, and would wade into the jams with a new found confidence. I would hide behind my banjo and try to keep up.

The fiddle contests were often held in the Redding Convention Center, a huge cement building that looked like a bomb shelter. Inside the carpeted halls were jams every fifteen feet, and we made a point of trying to hit every one.
It didn’t take long for us to become known as, “Those weird hippy kids who play really well.” Yep, we didn’t talk much, dressed like a yard sale and reeked of stale tofu, but boy, we could sure pick!
As we wandered from jam to jam, we began to catch on to a new and amazing language. There were definite rules, although no one spoke a word, and the notes flew by like bullets. You had to listen like a hawk, and try to read the subtle cues.

“You got this one?” a fiddler would drawl, sawing out a few notes of another obscure hoedown. The others would nod, and off they would go. The tune would whiz round and round, and we do our best to hold on. Bryon would pounce on his parts like a cat, and I envied how he could match the melodies with the other fiddlers. My banjo felt clunky and awkward  by comparison.

Unlike the rambling bluegrass songs I had started with, these fiddle tunes were like jewelry, intricate and precise. I soon grew tired of merely approximating them with finger-picking and began trying to figure out how to play them note for note, but it was like painting with a hammer. It was impossible. But there just had to be a way….

I had the music section of our local library memorized and knew immediately when a new book came in. So when “Melodic Banjo” by Tony Trischka arrived one day, I was the first to check it out. I gasped when I saw the table of contents. It was all fiddle tunes! I spent the next eight weeks learning about Bill Keith, the melodic style, and Blackberry Blossom.

When our family bus rattled up to the next fiddle convention, I flew out the door. I had Blackberry Blossom, Cripple Creek and Red Haired Boy ready for battle, and couldn’t wait to try them out. I sauntered up to the first jam. They were just finishing a song, and the grizzled jam leader peered across the circle at me.

“You got one, son?”

I gulped and whispered, “y-y-es.”
“Kick it off then,” the old timer growled.

“Blackberry Blossom!” I said. “one, two, three, four…”

Lips dry, I ploughed through my first break. I finished and nodded to the willowy mandolin player to my right, who scooped up the melody. The upright bass kept thumping along, and I shifted back to chords. Starting to breathe again, I watched as my song made its way round the circle. Some passed, others took sparkling variations, and eventually it was back to me again. As I played the last melody, I was flanked by Byron and another fiddler playing harmony. The song landed, and we all joined in on the ending…“Shave and a hair cut…two bits!”

Afterward, I stepped away and leaned against the cement wall, drunk on adrenaline. In the distance I could hear faint laughter and applause. The jam launched into Gold Rush, but I could barely hear it through my golden cloud. I was sold. Hooked. Helplessly addicted.

It was then that I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life…

Jam.