This last October (2018) some folks who have the power took Bill Monroe’s (The Father of Bluegrass) beloved 1923 Gibson F5 Lloyd Loar signed mandolin out of its prison resting place (Bluegrass Hall of Fame), and put it in the able hands of Ricky Skaggs. Then in front of a live audience Ricky proceeded to give new life to this mandolin by playing it while singing, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” Some years ago I wrote a piece regarding what I thought it would be like if only that mandolin could talk. If you know the history of that mandolin, you know it is an interesting one. Some years ago when the mandolin was last sold for over one million dollars, and then retired, there were different responses. Collectors said, “It’s a good thing that mandolin is now kept behind glass, where nobody can get to it.” And players said, “It’s too bad that mandolin is now behind glass, where it doesn’t get to be played.” The aforementioned event last October where Ricky played Bill’s mandolin is now preserved in time and space on You-Tube under, “Garth Brooks and Ricky Skaggs receive footage at the honorary ceremony – by a Mandolin!” Anyhow, following is the piece I wrote about that mandolin, which I thought should be resurrected because of its recent release and then returned to its glass prison.
My Life as a (fiction based on fact)
I can’t remember how old my parents were when they passed on from their vertical state of being. I don’t have a clue. I do know that they were cut down in the prime of their lives. They were at least two hundred years old. In any case, their passing carved the way to my birth. Some people believe a cat has nine lives. I believe that it’s possible for a tree to have at least two lives after its earth shattering downfall; sometimes more. If things come together in just the right way, it is most absolutely a reincarnation.
My father was a maple tree and my mother was a spruce. It’s been said that opposites attract, and in this case it’s true. My parents got together in Kalamazoo, Michigan in 1923. The ceremony was held in the Gibson Mandolin Chapel (at least that’s what I call it). I was born on July 9, 1923.
The first twenty years of my life are mostly a mystery to me. I have the feeling that I didn’t get out much, didn’t travel a lot, or even see the light of day on a regular basis. Oh I traveled some, but not as much as I wanted. I harbor an instinct that I was in the dark much of the time, and that my life was generally boring. Not boring all of the time mind you, but in the grand scheme of things on the canvas of the big picture.
Some intermittent flashbacks that I have give me the feeling of having been in a closet, under a bed, in an attic, or stored in a garage for long periods of time. Way longer than I would have liked. But that’s all behind me now.
At my age it’s no surprise to me that I have some memory loss. So regarding that part of my past, the first twenty years, I like to think, “Case closed.”
But when I turned twenty my life exploded like a 4th of July fireworks that you humans have every year. I remember it well. I was in a barber shop, and this guy named Bill Monroe walked in. Probably he was there for a hair cut, a shave, or just to chat with the other guys getting all gussied-up.
At that time I didn’t know it but I was for sale. I was hanging on a wall in the barber shop, and for whatever reason or reasons pertaining to fate, destiny, chance, or just plain dumb luck, Bill
Monroe bought me for $150. I can still picture his eyes, as big as two banjo heads, when he first spotted me. Thinking on it more right now, luck was probably the reason Bill and I first got together. Especially if you consider that luck is when preparation meets opportunity. Ah yes, luck reared its lovely head; luck for Bill, and luck for me.
Flashing back some more on my life before Bill got me, I have a hunch that I was bought and sold a number of times. In fact I felt like a human slave much of the time. A slave that is, in the sense of belonging to different owners; being bought and sold on different occasions in my life. I have to say that there wasn’t a hint of abuse to me that I could see on my body, looking at my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall across from where I was hanging in that barber shop long ago. So my owners during that first twenty years of my life were obviously good to me. No sir, not a hint of abuse or neglect. But yes sir, even so, I felt like a slave back then. But when Bill walked out of that barber shop carrying me I felt like I had been freed. Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking, that Bill bought me too. But for me this time was something way different.
As Bill went out of that barber shop door carrying me in my rectangular black case with the green interior I got the feeling that my life was going to change. And change it did.
Things began to get exciting. For one thing, I got to travel. Not just travel, but really travel! Man oh man. I went to all kinds of different towns, cities, states, and countries. And those bluegrass festivals, concert halls, and other musical venues were really something! There were so many of those musical occasions that I lost count. And not only that, Mr. Bill gave me constant attention. Everyday! It’s like Bill’s musical spirit
would get constipated if he didn’t play me as close to 24/7 as is humanly possible. I myself could have done it, but Bill, even as strong as he was, couldn’t succeed at that.
But the biggest “wow” experience for me was the music that came out of me after Bill Monroe worked his magic. It was something brand new; never knew I had it in me. I think you know what I’m talkin’ about.
As the years went by I got all kinds of attention from thousands of humans. Seems like everybody who played a mandolin or knew about mandolins gave me attention, and way more than just a few folks wanted to have a mandolin just like me. I have a hunch that a number of humans did want me for themselves, but that was not going to happen.
You see, I had a really nice body. “Mighty purty,” Is how some folks described me back then. I have a fancy scroll on the Left side of my upper body where Bill attached one end of his mandolin strap. And I have two design “points” on the right side that stick out from my round, firm, and fully-packed musical body. You can use one of the points to anchor me to your leg if you’re sitting down playing. And even if you’re standing and don’t need that point to rest on your leg, it still looks good. The other point, the second point, is part of my design. It all just works together well. As one famous luthier put it, “Even though the design is asymmetrical, the scroll and two points give it a balance.” Even if I do say so myself, I look good!
“Florentine” design is what I’m talkin’ about. It has to do with the style of art in Florence, Italy a long time ago. I have it on good authority that this American guy by the name of Oroville
Gibson designed my ancestors, and then later this other guy Lloyd Loar refined that design to make me into what I now consider is my beautiful body and voice. Lloyd added the number “5” to designate my body style. But instead of calling me a “Florentine Body Style 5,” I got the nickname of “F-5.”
That’s okay with me, sort of. To be honest about it I would have preferred the nickname, “Flora,” but I didn’t have any control over it. It all turned out okay.
As I mentioned, Lloyd Loar was the guy in charge of making sure that I developed in the best way possible. Lloyd was an acoustical engineer. He made sure that all of the mandolin doctors (musical instrument pediatricians is what I call ‘em) did the correct procedures to insure that my birth would result in the ultimate musical outcome. And you know what? I was beyond happy with the results.
I mean it could have been way worse. Like the result of the creation by that Dr. Frankenstein, if ya get my drift. Anyhow, back to Bill Monroe.
It’s my opinion that Bill Monroe and I really were partners. For me it was a symbiotic relationship of sorts; he got something out of it and so did I. He created a ton of new songs and tunes, and made a pretty good living. I got to “sing” my heart out, travel, and had medical benefits, so to speak. You know, like adjustments and check-ups as the years went by.
Bill was good to me; most of the time. But intermittently he would “whip me like a mule.” This is in the musical sense of that term, and it just means he played me really hard. Bill’s strong
hands played me so hard that sometimes my best friends, the mandolin stings, would break. Sometimes three or four of them would break during just one performance. It didn’t hurt me, but I felt sorry for my string buddies.
I found out in the long run that being “whipped” like that really was in my best interest. That’s because it made my wood vibrate in a big way, made me really “open up” and be the best that I could be regarding how I sounded. And not only that, some folks would swear on the Holy Bible that I was the best sounding Gibson F-5 mandolin that they ever heard. Guess that’s why I often referred to Bill as, “Father.” He knew what he was doing to help me develop and bring me along. It helped Bill too because big things were in store for him in the world of bluegrass music; even if he didn’t know it at the time when he first rescued me from being a wall flower in that barber shop.
‘Course now people are humans. And humans make mistakes. They sometimes do things they shouldn’t do, right along with the good things. All I’ve got to say is that Bill was definitely human.
I remember one time when Bill got especially mad at me. Well I shouldn’t say mad at me personally, but mad at someone else for doing something to me that he didn’t like. But he took it out on me anyhow. I don’t understand it, but he did. It was when he gave me to some of those “musical doctors” I told you about for a check-up. They did some stuff to me that Bill didn’t like, so he took a sharp object and scratched out the name of those doctors’ private practice where they created me. That wouldn’t have been so bad in itself, but that name was on my head (some humans
call it a peg head on a mandolin). It left a big scar. And I’ll be the first to tell ya that it really hurt!
In the end I forgave Bill. I know he just did it in a fit of rage. Some humans are more prone to anger than others. That’s just the way it is. But there’s one thing that was done to me that was way, way, way, way worse than what Bill did. It was definitely the worst part of my life, so far.
“Whack, whack, whack!” was the sound I heard as I felt the ice cold metal hitting my body again and again, breaking me apart. I screamed, “Stop, stop, please stop!” But I could not be heard.
You see, one night Bill was away from his house without me, and this terrible thing happened. Somebody broke into his house, got hold of a fireplace poker, and tried to kill me. I was split wide open, and was left to die. 500 pieces of me were scattered all over the floor! “This is the end of my life,” is what I was thinkin’. “I’ll never make music again.”
Nowadays If you ask the right people, and you read the right books, you may know that there are some theories about who did that horrible deed, and why. Even if you’d have asked Mr. Monroe about it when he was alive he would have said something like, “Well sir, I just really don’t know who done it. No sir, I don’t know how somebody would get such a crazy idea in their head to do a terrible thing like that. That mandolin never hurt nobody!”
‘Course I know who done it cause I was there. The thing is I’m not revealing nothin’ either, ‘cause sometimes it’s best to let certain
mysteries be. What I will say about the person who done it is, the devil never had a better friend. As I told ya, after I got pokered I thought I was a goner.
But there was this wonderful man by the name of Charlie Derrington who was my savior. He worked for the Gibson Company. And as hard as it might be for you to believe he put me back together again. Lots of humans said it couldn’t be done. Why one person said, “Might as well use the thing for firewood!” But Mr. Derrington worked his wizardry and I was as sound (pardon my pun) as before. ‘Course I wasn’t as purty. You wouldn’t be either if somebody busted you up into 500 pieces.
Yes sir, after that I made bluegrass music just as good as before my attempted murder. And you know what? Some humans said I sounded better than ever! I won’t presume to be the judge of that, but I do know one thing. My operation turned out a whole heck of a lot better than that Humpdy Dumpty guy who was sittin’ on a wall and fell off.
But that was then, and this is now. Thanks to all you readers who have stuck with my ramblin’ about myself during these many words. And right now I know what many of you readers are thinking, “Anthropomorphism.” You know, attributing human characteristics to something that isn’t human. A mandolin can’t talk; it’s just an inanimate object. Or is it? Haven’t you ever seen the TV show, “The Twilight Zone?” Anyhow, if you have the time to keep reading, there’s one more thing.
After Bill passed away I ended up with Bill’s son, James Monroe. He did something that I like to think Bill never would have done. James sold me!
Like I told ya before, humans are human, and they do what they do. I don’t fault James Monroe for selling me. He didn’t make a whole lot of money or gain fame standing in Bill’s shadow all those years. It’s just like it would have been with Elvis’ son if he’d a had one.
Sold! I was sold at the price of over one million dollars! My body isn’t as nice as it used to be. Now I have scars and scratches, and big areas where my skin (you humans call it varnish) is completely rubbed off.
Be that as it may, I was still in high demand. I was sold to the highest bidder, who in this case turned out to be a most generous person. Why? Well because after the purchase my new owner donated me to the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum in (Page 9) Nashville, Tennessee, where I now reside. And right now you just might be thinkin’, “Isn’t that wonderful. It’s a marvelous thing. Thousands of people get to see what is considered the most famous mandolin in the world!” But regarding that I have one last thing to tell ya.
My new home is a very nice place. It’s bigger, prettier, and a lot warmer than in that old barber shop a long time ago; especially at night when the barber and customers would go home. And these days famous people come by to see me all the time. Once in a while a lucky human gets to play me for a couple of tunes. ‘Course he or she has to be a famous musician, and get permission. And I have to tell ya that my head just swells with
pride when I think about my latest selling price compared to the $150 that Bill Monroe paid for me. But for me it’s not enough.
You see I want to get out! I want to play more. I want to be free to go to all the different places and bluegrass festivals all over the world; just like when I belonged to Bill. You can think it selfish, but I feel like a slave again. I wish I belonged to Ricky Skaggs. He still plays bluegrass music on the mandolin everywhere. If you’re still reading this, I know that you know who Ricky is. He owns some of my brothers and sisters. Why if Mr. Skaggs brought me to his home it would be my family reunion.
Right now I’m like a bird in a cage. A fish out of water. A train without a track. A me, without a you. I need to be on a bluegrass bus out on the highway that’s heading to a bluegrass festival, and then another, and then another. I want to be on stage at the Grand Old Opry. I want to keep movin’. I want thousands of people to say, “Would you listen to that mandolin!”
The only thing I have left to say is, “Somebody please help me!
