An actor interviewed on a radio program—I think it was Rainn Wilson—confessed to being a banjo player. “I took up the banjo,” he said, “to increase my social isolation.” I feel his pain. As one who has plunked around on a banjo for years, I can testify to the instrument’s lowly cultural status. Outside of Bluegrass or Old Time music circles it usually garners the same respect as a bacon sandwich in a vegan kitchen.

Any time an enterprising soul finds a teasing reference to my beloved banjo they cannot wait to show it to me—as if I’ve never seen it before. There’s the Far Side cartoon depicting Satan ushering a well-dressed man into a room full of banjo players, and Satan says, “And this will be your room, Maestro.” And then there’s the New Yorker cartoon of a man on his cell phone in an elevator while another man stands behind him with a banjo. “I’m stuck in the elevator,” the first man whines into his phone, “but wait, it gets worse.”

I’ve heard so many jokes about the banjo that my fellow musicians and I worked them into performances:

“Hey, what’s the difference between a banjo and an onion?” “Nobody cries when you chop up a banjo.”

“What’s the definition of perfect pitch?” “Throwing a banjo into a toilet without hitting the seat.”

“What do you call a pretty girl on a banjo player’s arm?” “A tattoo.”

I now have a deep and abiding respect for bagpipes players and accordion players. In fact, some jokes can substitute bagpipes, accordions, or banjos interchangeably and still be just as funny—or just as hurtful if you wear your feelings on your sleeve. If you have no sense of humor, take up the oboe or piano. The phrase “Nobody cries when you chop up an oboe” just doesn’t work.

Like many of my fellow Boomers, I started playing guitar soon after hearing the Beatles for the first time so I turned up my nose at the lowly banjo. Over time, however, I discovered a love for folk music, and the banjo didn’t sound synonymous with “hick” anymore. I learned a few basic chords and roll patterns, but my skills never progressed much farther, even though I played banjo on some songs performed in several folk groups.

Then in retirement, as I was approaching my 70th birthday, I purchased a good banjo (some snobs would say that’s an oxymoron, but I digress), and started taking lessons. My goals were modest: (a) To be able to play interesting backup accompaniment, and (b) To be able to take a solo break on a song without totally embarrassing myself.

I’m doing well… Let’s be fair, I’m OK… Alright, I stink. But at least I don’t stink as much as I did. Banjo virtuoso Butch Robbins says there are four levels of banjo proficiency:

  • Unconsciously incompetent – You’re really bad at playing, but you don’t know it.
  • Consciously incompetent – You’re really bad at playing, but at least you know just how lousy you are.
  • Consciously competent – You’ve developed some real expertise, but it doesn’t come naturally.
  • Unconsciously competent – You’ve developed some real expertise, and you can play well without having to think about it too much.

My teacher—always the encourager—says I have progressed to level 2. He did not need to tell me. I spent several blissful days jamming with friends at the Walnut Valley Festival in Kansas, and was reminded again just how much, and how little, prowess I’ve attained. When I attended the national banjo championship at the festival, and saw a 13-year-old win second place, and a young man who looked to be in his mid-20s, at best, win first place, I wondered if I should just concede defeat.

Then, on our last night of jamming at the festival, all of us joined in playing the Dean Webb and Mitchell Jayne tune “Old Home Place.” I took a break and knew I could have played it better, but when we struck the last note a man who toured for years as a professional musician commented to the group, “Wow! That sounded like a real bluegrass song!”

OK, so I’ll never be another Earl Scruggs, but that compliment will keep me pickin’ and grinnin’ for a long time to come.