the genre already had a slew of names and, soon afterwards, its
own cozy niche in the summer-festival circuit.
And I'll admit to a certain naive surprise when "alt-country" became the
target of the same genre-conscious derision as "punk rock" and
"electronica" -- perhaps for no other reason than someone had bothered to
name it. A shiny new label, a deluge of press, my unrealistic desire for
something "authentic" and untarnished -- all of the sudden, this music that
sent down tap roots into the core of American music began to seem hollow
and manufactured. For a while I stopped listening. That's when I picked up
the banjo.
Last Summer, Chicago's Old Town School of Folk Music put billboards at
several El stations announcing its move to a new headquarters not far from
my apartment. The featured performer on those signs looked 90s indie rock,
not 60s urban folk. He was playing the banjo.
That settled it. I had never been a musician, and thought I never would. My
last performance experience came at age seven, when I got tossed from a
xylophone class because the teacher said I "had no talent." But here was a
place that somehow understood there was a place for traditional instruments
in the modern world, even if that place would never again be on the radio
waves or the CD section at Best Buy. How could I not give it a try?
The person in the picture is Eric Johnson, a guitar and banjo instructor at
the school who, as fate would have it, became my teacher. He's the first
one I heard mention "punk rock banjo."
Johnson also came upon traditional music after a detour through insurgent
country. "I wouldn't have discovered old-time music if it hadn't been for
Uncle Tupelo," he said. After listening to a range of "No Depression"
bands, Johnson said, he "ended up going backwards from there," discovering
in old-time music a "real universal quality" that was inviting and
accessible, even for someone accustomed to 90s indie rock.
By now, most readers are probably thinking of bluegrass. When I first
picked up the banjo, that's the only style of "old-time" music I thought
there was. "People are always going to think it's bluegrass," Johnson
admits with a sigh. But bluegrass is a relatively recent phenomena; though
accounts vary, most versions place its genesis somewhere in the 1940s, in
the heavily industrial cities of Northwest Indiana. It was there that Bill
Monroe -- a Tennessee expatriate who spent his days in an oil refinery and
his nights playing mandolin -- blended a variety of rural styles with the
rhythms he heard at Chicago's South Side jazz clubs. Then Monroe picked up
a Carolina banjo player named Earl Scruggs who helped him forge a new type
of "rural" music based on breakneck speed and syncopated beats.
The music that Monroe and Scruggs grew up listening to is what I mean by
"old-time" music. Often it dates back as far as the Civil War, sometimes
even farther. The tunes represent a complex lineage that blends Scottish
folk tunes, Irish reels, and indigenous African American musics, among
others, all filtered through the distinct sounds of the American South and
mountain regions. Bluegrass bands have taken this music to new technical
heights, adding sophisticated musical elements that far outpace the skills
of most players.
That's not to say that there aren't old-time musicians that rise to
virtuoso levels; the best of them are breathtaking to watch. But Johnson
says old-time music is appealing because it is "not very hard to do. . .
Once you get over a few hurdles, traditional music in general is very easy
to reach. . . . Just learn a few chords on banjo or guitar and you'll be
doing it."
Perhaps now is a good time to dust off the old adage about punk rock as a
place where you don't need to be a musician to make music. Punk rock was
billed as the music of the little guy, the working stiff. There was no need
for pricey equipment or fancy music training. Anyone with the passion and
the interest could learn to play it. For more decades than rock-n-roll has
even existed, old-time music occupied the same place in rural America. Real
people could learn to master old-time music even after putting in an honest
day's work, and could do it without spending a fortune on instruments. Many
say that old-time music actually sounds better when played on an
authentic, homemade banjo -- the older, the better. Think of that old
Marshall amp that lurches and crackles but just sounds so damn good
on those nights it doesn't short out on stage.
Creatively, too, old-time music and punk rock share basic similarities.
Eons before Thurston Moore fiddled with odd guitar tunings, old-time banjo
players mastered the art of tuning and retuning their instruments, often
with dramatic effects. Mountain musicians came up with spooky and dissonant
"modal" tunings that even those versed in music theory have difficulty
explaining. In the early days of rock-n-roll, these tunings must have
sounded archaic and outdated, but now their dark, brooding sound seems
eerily modern.
"Eons before Thurston Moore fiddled with odd guitar tunings, old-time banjo
players mastered the art of tuning and retuning their instruments, often
with dramatic effects."
In some ways, old-time music seems more punk-rock than punk rock itself.
Old-time musicians freely borrowed licks from each other's songs -- a
tribute, not a slight. Why bother squabbling over turf when there's so much
great music to be played?
I'm not the only one to be drawn backwards in time because of the
popularity of insurgent country. The banjo is popping up in dozens of songs
-- not just the usual countryfied suspects such as Wilco and the
Bottlerockets, but also indie-rock staples like Ani DiFranco and Pavement. Even siren
songstress Sophie B. Hawkins wanted to insert a banjo into one of her
singles, though Sony Music put the kibosh on that idea in a hurry. What's
even more exciting is that the banjo seems to have shed its stereotype as
happy-go-lucky shorthand for cornpone kitsch. Musicians are allowing it the
space and freedom to convey a complex range of emotions that stretch far
beyond the squaredance -- just like the range of styles and emotions you
find in real old-time music.
But what does the rise of insurgent country mean for old-time music, or
even for the "country" musicians that can't find a place in Nashville, New
York, or Los Angeles? Johnson says that insurgent country is "a great
vehicle to awaken new music lovers to the unsung heroes of the past,"
including great songwriters like Townes Van Zandt and Alejandro Escovedo.
"They're artists who worked really hard for a long time . . . and are now
appreciated by a new generation," Johnson says. Still, he says, the
prevalence of easily accessible bands with a country sound may not unleash
a new surge of interest in traditional music because "people may think they
can listen to [the new alt-country bands] and think they don't have to go
any further back."
Still, the possibility exists that for at least some rock bands,
traditional rural music could serve as an inspiration . . . or at least an
influence. Bluegrass emerged when economic circumstances forced rural
musicians into the City. You could argue that insurgent country emerged
when urban musicians started to look to the country for sounds and feelings
simply not available in the musical vocabulary of the city. Take this to
the logical extreme and you unleash a torrent of fiddles, banjos, and
mandolins onto rock listeners, maybe even creating a genre with the staying
power to silence critics who say alt-country is nothing more than a fad.
Stranger things have happened. Johnson cites David Byrne's experiments with
traditional Brazilian music as a "catalyst" for U.S. bands, such as
Tortoise, to experiment with those same sounds in a rock context. "Who
knows," he asks, "what the next big thing is?"
by Chris Schwartz
schwartz@outersound.com
