1.13.2007
BELA
Met with Bela Fleck in San Sebastian, Spain in the hotel lounge. He and the Flecktones played a jazz festival with Herbie Hancock, Eryka Badu, and others last July. Drinking tea, Bela wore a John Deere tee shirt and jeans. We sat and talked for an hour before Victor Wooten came down to go to a late lunch. Some of his words.
TB: "When did you first hear the banjo?"
BF: I first heard the banjo on the Beverly Hillbillies television show. I didn't know what it was. I was just a kid. But I loved it. It struck me. We were living in New York City. I was at my grandparents house. They had a tv in their bedroom, and my brother and I were watching a rerun during the day. I just flipped out.
It was a long, long time before I heard a banjo again. But then "Dueling Banjos" came out, that movie DELIVERANCE - I was about 14 - and it reawakened the whole mammuring, that sound I heard as a child. It was like a dream state. That banjo thing, it struck me in such a deep way. And then it receeded back into my head, waiting for the right time to come forward. And I remember going to see the movie, me and my friends, and I was so into that song, that "Dueling Banjos" song, I had everyone singing their parts, running home. 'Don't forget that part, don't forget that part.' I'd be singing it to them. And back at the house we had an old organ, and we tried to figure out - dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah - on the organ. I mean it just hit me so strong. Which is embarrassing that the two most influential banjo pieces are the two most hackneyed, stereotypical pieces. But the truth is that they are powerful. They are still the instrument. Earl Scruggs.
Still when I hear it, it makes my blood run. It is fantastic. I have to listen.
Coincidently, right around that period, right when I was getting ready to start high school, my grandfather bought a banjo at a flea market. I went up to see him on the weekend before school.
TB: "Did he know-"
BF: He didn't know anything. He knew I was playing a half-assed guitar. One of those kids, the summer songs, some Beatles stuff. But the fire hadn't lit. But that banjo - I just flipped put. I could not believe it. And it wasn't even for me. It was for my brother. On the ride home, a guy on the train tuned it up for me. Then, the fire was lit. I could not put it down. It was the most important thing in my life. I even took it to school with me on my back.
TB: How do you relate to an audience?
BF: I actually like it when I get lost in the music and forget about an audience. And yet, I want their reaction to change the way we play. That's the great thing about playing live - a whole new room every night.
TB: What is the difference in a Carnegie Hall atmosphere and a Station Inn atmosphere?
BF: Sometimes we play a smalltown place, rock clubs, a standup place where people are drinking, breaking stuff, standing in front of the stage. And it can be fun, there's a feeling of abandon. As long as the crowd is not making too much noise. Still respecting the music, still involved in it. I like rowdy when the crowd is still connected to what we are doing. You know, I feel like I am standing on stage with some of the best musicians in the world.
TB: Where does inspiration come from for an instrumental song? Is it different than lyrical songs?
BF: Yeah, I think it is. It's a different craft. You have to be so good with words to write a good song. Because ambiguity is so important with lyrics. Some people are poets, some people are truckdrivers. When I hear a good song, I know it. For someone who doesn't write lyrics, I am kind of critical. Fairly recently, I've loved Radiohead. The way [Radiohead's music] all works together, it is so good. Some of Dylan's stuff. It can mean a lot of things. Joni Mitchell. She's probably one of my favorites.
I would never tell anyone what a song is about though. I think people should find out what a song means to them. Not my image for it. Remember before videos, when you had a great song, Mitchell or Dylan, even if you watched them live, you mind went sailing while they sang. Then the video age came. Videos told you things. A guy leaving a girl, a war, a girl with her hair done up nice. And it was difficult to have your own imagination. It robs some mystery. The eye of the beholder. It would be like putting music to Picasso and that music playing whenever anyone saw that painting. With a good song, you come back ten, twenty years later, it means something new.
TB: Do you usually know when a song will connect with listeners?
BF: I usually get very fond of certain pieces. Like sitting on a gold mine. Usually they turn out pretty good.
TB: Do you think geography affects an area's music?
BF: This is my latest little thought: I think isolation breeds great music. Communities that are cut off. The ones where the music is pure, unpolluted. And bluegrass, a traditonally Southern music, and fiddle music, you know, the shuffle - dang da da dang da da dang - Kentucky music. Kentucky, horse country.
When I got to go to Mongolia, north of China, they were playing music very similar - ding dada ding dada ding. Still the shuffle, only straight eighths instead of dotted eighths.
It was horse-riding music. It was written to imitate the sound of a horse's gallop. And the Mongolians called them horse cellos. Because every bit of [the cello] was made from a horse, the bones and skin. I think it is very interesting that these two rural areas on different sides of the world have the same rhythm. The rhythm of an animal.
TB: You recently funded a month-long trip to Africa to spend time with string musicians. Your brother filmed and you recorded. Good month?
BF: Most worthwhile money I ever spent on anything. That was a huge investment. The banjo comes from Africa originally. Gourd and skin. Claw hammer, the old-time style, which came over with the slaves. We recorded local musicians everyday. Just incredible.
Met with Bela Fleck in San Sebastian, Spain in the hotel lounge. He and the Flecktones played a jazz festival with Herbie Hancock, Eryka Badu, and others last July. Drinking tea, Bela wore a John Deere tee shirt and jeans. We sat and talked for an hour before Victor Wooten came down to go to a late lunch. Some of his words.
TB: "When did you first hear the banjo?"
BF: I first heard the banjo on the Beverly Hillbillies television show. I didn't know what it was. I was just a kid. But I loved it. It struck me. We were living in New York City. I was at my grandparents house. They had a tv in their bedroom, and my brother and I were watching a rerun during the day. I just flipped out.
It was a long, long time before I heard a banjo again. But then "Dueling Banjos" came out, that movie DELIVERANCE - I was about 14 - and it reawakened the whole mammuring, that sound I heard as a child. It was like a dream state. That banjo thing, it struck me in such a deep way. And then it receeded back into my head, waiting for the right time to come forward. And I remember going to see the movie, me and my friends, and I was so into that song, that "Dueling Banjos" song, I had everyone singing their parts, running home. 'Don't forget that part, don't forget that part.' I'd be singing it to them. And back at the house we had an old organ, and we tried to figure out - dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah - on the organ. I mean it just hit me so strong. Which is embarrassing that the two most influential banjo pieces are the two most hackneyed, stereotypical pieces. But the truth is that they are powerful. They are still the instrument. Earl Scruggs.
Still when I hear it, it makes my blood run. It is fantastic. I have to listen.
Coincidently, right around that period, right when I was getting ready to start high school, my grandfather bought a banjo at a flea market. I went up to see him on the weekend before school.
TB: "Did he know-"
BF: He didn't know anything. He knew I was playing a half-assed guitar. One of those kids, the summer songs, some Beatles stuff. But the fire hadn't lit. But that banjo - I just flipped put. I could not believe it. And it wasn't even for me. It was for my brother. On the ride home, a guy on the train tuned it up for me. Then, the fire was lit. I could not put it down. It was the most important thing in my life. I even took it to school with me on my back.
TB: How do you relate to an audience?
BF: I actually like it when I get lost in the music and forget about an audience. And yet, I want their reaction to change the way we play. That's the great thing about playing live - a whole new room every night.
TB: What is the difference in a Carnegie Hall atmosphere and a Station Inn atmosphere?
BF: Sometimes we play a smalltown place, rock clubs, a standup place where people are drinking, breaking stuff, standing in front of the stage. And it can be fun, there's a feeling of abandon. As long as the crowd is not making too much noise. Still respecting the music, still involved in it. I like rowdy when the crowd is still connected to what we are doing. You know, I feel like I am standing on stage with some of the best musicians in the world.
TB: Where does inspiration come from for an instrumental song? Is it different than lyrical songs?
BF: Yeah, I think it is. It's a different craft. You have to be so good with words to write a good song. Because ambiguity is so important with lyrics. Some people are poets, some people are truckdrivers. When I hear a good song, I know it. For someone who doesn't write lyrics, I am kind of critical. Fairly recently, I've loved Radiohead. The way [Radiohead's music] all works together, it is so good. Some of Dylan's stuff. It can mean a lot of things. Joni Mitchell. She's probably one of my favorites.
I would never tell anyone what a song is about though. I think people should find out what a song means to them. Not my image for it. Remember before videos, when you had a great song, Mitchell or Dylan, even if you watched them live, you mind went sailing while they sang. Then the video age came. Videos told you things. A guy leaving a girl, a war, a girl with her hair done up nice. And it was difficult to have your own imagination. It robs some mystery. The eye of the beholder. It would be like putting music to Picasso and that music playing whenever anyone saw that painting. With a good song, you come back ten, twenty years later, it means something new.
TB: Do you usually know when a song will connect with listeners?
BF: I usually get very fond of certain pieces. Like sitting on a gold mine. Usually they turn out pretty good.
TB: Do you think geography affects an area's music?
BF: This is my latest little thought: I think isolation breeds great music. Communities that are cut off. The ones where the music is pure, unpolluted. And bluegrass, a traditonally Southern music, and fiddle music, you know, the shuffle - dang da da dang da da dang - Kentucky music. Kentucky, horse country.
When I got to go to Mongolia, north of China, they were playing music very similar - ding dada ding dada ding. Still the shuffle, only straight eighths instead of dotted eighths.
It was horse-riding music. It was written to imitate the sound of a horse's gallop. And the Mongolians called them horse cellos. Because every bit of [the cello] was made from a horse, the bones and skin. I think it is very interesting that these two rural areas on different sides of the world have the same rhythm. The rhythm of an animal.
TB: You recently funded a month-long trip to Africa to spend time with string musicians. Your brother filmed and you recorded. Good month?
BF: Most worthwhile money I ever spent on anything. That was a huge investment. The banjo comes from Africa originally. Gourd and skin. Claw hammer, the old-time style, which came over with the slaves. We recorded local musicians everyday. Just incredible.
posted by TB at 14:09
