I Play My Banjo for a Crowd

Photo by Duncan McNab on Unsplash

Playing before a crowd of 80 in the college auditorium left me a little anxious.

We were all a bit nervous.

I spent a week at Mars Hill University in North Carolina earlier in the summer. The school hosts an annual time of instruction known as the Blue Ridge Old Time Music Week. People came from North Carolina, of course, and South Carolina, Ohio, Florida, California. There were retired folks, teachers, counselors, a track coach, stay-at-home moms, a couple of physicians, another clergyperson.

We were there for a variety of classes—guitar, dulcimer, mandolin, fiddle. I took banjo. It was great: five full days of instruction and jamming and being like a college student eating cafeteria food you didn’t have to prepare or clean up after.

But the conclusion, the last night of our time together, was the daunting part.

That was the time for the Student Showcase. Most of the morning classes in the various instruments were to perform one piece. And for most of us, it was a tune we had learned just that week.

There we were, a dozen or so of us in the Advanced Banjo class, taught by Rachel Eddy, a professional musician, looking ahead to putting on display what we learned (and hadn’t learned!).

But Rachel had prepped us. Already she had reassured us, commended us.

“It’s a brave thing to come to a week like this,” she had told us, “knowing you are joining a class of a dozen folks you likely don’t know. And then admit in front of others that you don’t know some things about playing—that you have areas that need work, that you need to learn.”

I liked that. And she went on: “Something special happens though.”

And she was right. Certainly we experienced the delights of discovering new tunes or mastering a new technique.

And just as powerful, we found camaraderie, a sense of community. For all our differences, a shared love of music bonded us together. And made us not care so much about performing perfectly.

And Rachel encouraged us about the recital, too. “I’ll be there,” she said. “I’ve got your back. I’ll cue you in and accompany you on fiddle.”

So there we finally stood, stage lights beaming on us.

We played. Rachel supported. As I said, we were all nervous. It was hard to tell how we sounded, but people applauded generously on our last note.

And afterward, several of us said, as we bustled off the stage so the next group could do their number, “Oh, I had a couple glitches.” Or “I made a mistake here or there.” I found myself saying the same: “I had a spot or two where I wasn’t sure I hit the right notes.”

But we also all felt good.

We had gotten the tune out. The crowd warmly received us.

And all of us in our class group seemed to come to the same discovery: None of us made the same mistake at the same time. Where one was dropping back or fretting the wrong note, the others had it. At any given point, fellow class mates carried the whole group, the whole tune along.

I’m glad I had that week and I’m glad I put myself through that exercise in performing. To learn, you have to submit to some risks. You have to be willing to rely on others, what they have to share. To grow in your musical ability you have to have at least a little humility.

And to grow in other ways—in character, in faith, in living a meaningful, joy-filled life—don’t we need others?

Why think that spiritual growth somehow can happen when we are off by ourselves, isolated from the encouragement and shared strengths of others?

I can still, by the way, play that tune our class learned.