Politics run amuck. The BTBP (Big Tent Bluegrass Party) whose national logo was a medley of guitars, fiddles, mandolins, accordions, beat boxes, and didgeridoos, was attempting to out-muck out the STP (Small Tenter Party) that proudly displays a golden banjo logo with the party motto of “no banjo no bluegrass”. A small, but highly vocal party of loosely associated independent individuals that have an unofficial mascot resembling a guitar with a hubcap affixed to the sound hole, also known as a dobro (in hushed tones so to not offend the Gibson BAC (bluegrass action committee; a 501z0 organization dedicated to changing the perception that Gibson was the sole universe-wide producer of the instrument)), but officially called a resophonic guitar, were attempting to flex their political muscle by trading votes. It was a difficult prospect for the independents because the obscure initiation rite for inclusion in their caucus was a prominent brand on one butt cheek that reads “banjo killer” thus drawing the anger of both main-stream parties. Since the brand is not visible to the eye though, what are believed to be newly initiated caucus members can be identified by having to stand in chambers for about a week after the initiation ceremony, it was a well-kept secret as to who the independents really are. Some call them spies, some traitors, some acknowledge their transcendent skill in playing a difficult, almost mystical, instrument.
Within these tight-knit groups, each fighting for dominance, we can recognize a few key pickers, the band leaders, the rhythm section, vocalists, supporting players like the under-appreciated rhythm guitar players, the individuals trying to make their mark on audiences by playing louder than others, sometimes with the melody, sometimes playing out-of-key, and then of course there are the solo artists that play loudly, creatively, sometimes longer than they are accorded, sometimes playing over other solos, creating conflict. Within each tent, each party, we find these pickers, all with different levels of skill, determination, dedication, and motivation. In spite of reality, some are into it for the money, a few are into it for the fame, some are into it to jump to what they perceive are better bands, and all are into it because they are addicted to the jam and the performance on an international, nay national, nay local level. To the audiences, the on-stage machinations appear well rehearsed with possibly predestined outcomes. There seem to heroes that stand out, sometimes those heroes become villains, and like El Mongol, the Mexican later billed as Peruvian professional wrestler who was billed as a Mongolian refugee, some transcend their careers from villain to honored hero.
Act One Scene One: enter stage right a confident, maybe arrogant individual, in business attire, wearing a Stetson, polished boots, gently strumming a mandolin. He looks out on the audience and says in a strident voice “fake instruments should be banned; dobros ain’t no part of no bluegrass music Son, they ain’t no part of nuthin”……
To be continued…
(Disclaimer….the author is a dobro player)
