Every Monday at 6 p.m., a few mandolin, guitar, banjo and fiddle players get together and jam at the Sentient Bean. The atmosphere is loose, and they invite anyone to come along and play with them. As I flew down Whitaker Street, trying to make it to the Sentient Bean on time, I was nervous because I was going to play along with them. Now, music is not foreign to me. I’ve played the guitar in a few bands before, and my high school job was giving guitar lessons at a local music store. But that was rock music. My post-Regan era, suburban-grown brain had been embedded with rock music since infancy. But these guys played something called old-time music. What does that even mean?
With the music industry the way it is today, it’s hard to imagine a time when a song was just a simple song, built out of three or four basic chords. Few people remember this time, and even fewer people care to take part in continuing its tradition. It’s called old-time music, a name that is just as simple and straightforward as the music it represents. Old-time music originated in the Appalachian Mountains of the southeast and the rural communities of the late 19th century. This was the music that influenced the bluegrass players. And make no mistake; old-time music is not bluegrass.
I arrived, put down my mandolin (or Mando Calrissian as it’s affectionately called) and looked around the coffee shop. Nobody looked like musicians to me. It seems I was early. Early enough to wait around and get more nervous. Finally, a few older gentlemen arrived, each carrying a case of some kind. I introduced myself to the one closest to me. His name was Frank DeBolt, and he was holding a nylon-stringed banjo.
“Are you a part of the bluegrass band?” I asked.
“No, I play old-time music,” he retorted. I felt like an idiot. Like I had just called a Korean man Japanese.
I met with the other regulars, most of them into or graying into retirement age. I could tell right off the bat that they were nice men. There was no rock-and-roll ego to deal with here. They just wanted to play music, pure and simple. I nervously asked, “Can anyone play with you guys?” I tried to hide my mandolin case with my body.
“Sure,” said Alan Schroepfer, as he tuned up his very own “mando.” His was a lot newer than mine, and probably had a better nickname.
Lastly came Joe Nelson, the “leader” as the others called him. He was the only fiddle player of the bunch. Maybe he could help me grasp the essence of so-called old-time music. “We play traditional tunes from way in the past,” Nelson said. Sounds simple enough. Too bad I don’t know many tunes from way in the past. Then he continued, saying that he had been holding these jam sessions at the Sentient Bean for about three years. Wow. Now I had even more trepidation about participating.
All of the musicians sat in a circle, and each had a large packet of songs on the floor in front of them. Each song was laid out simply. There would be a title — one like “Red Fox Shuffle” — and then a simple chord progression underneath. That was it. For the first few songs, I just listened. The music was pleasant, jaunty and light. Yet, some songs had parts with a tinge of sadness, or nostalgia. Maybe it just sounds that way to modern ears.
I wanted to play, but I wasn’t sure just how difficult it would be to step in. I’ve only played the mandolin a handful of times, and those were pretty disastrous. After about three songs, I decided to join the circle. I sat next to Alan, the other mandolin player. I figured I could look at his hands if I got lost.
After the first song, I started to get the hang of it. The timing of old-time music is different than that of most modern music. The hardest part was keeping it simple. As I started to get into the groove, I realized I didn’t need the paper as much as when I had started. It was all about the feeling. It was a great object lesson. Sometimes, following the simplest guidelines are the toughest. Love one another, be patient, be generous these are all very simple ideas. Yet we turn them in for more complex excuses as to why we can’t love one another, and why we can’t wait any longer.
On the way home after the jam, I was listening to the radio. The songs didn’t sound quite the same to me. And then I thought about the paradoxical situation I was just in. Now, the old-time music was new to me, and “newer” music seemed old. I guess there’s a first time for everything.
