The Guildford Banjo Jamboree

A banjo virtuoso cuts off two of his plucking fingers in an accident but pioneers the three-finger roll to whoop his rival at a famous jamboree.

Shortly before the frolicking crush of 1862, and only a matter of years after Curly Hayband laid the firm foundations, Earl of the Meadows finger-rolled his way into banjo history at the inaugural Guildford Banjo Jamboree. Tassy Corns was there, strumming below the eucalypts, along with Dusty Quid and the Marauders, and so was Italian slide wizard Mario of the Mountains with his Misty Mountain Boys. Enthusiasts arrived in dribs and drabs until the train pulled in from Castlemaine and suddenly a hundred eager pluckers pitched their tents along the empty creek bed or rented rye-grass shanties on the brown loams the mining men of former times had labeled Lester's Flats. The hotel, only recently renamed the 'Duck's Nuts' because of the Prince Alfred scandal, was making a roaring trade. Harmonica legend Mozart McGill arrived on the second day almost upstaging (The Immortal) Tonsils Johnson who sang like a buzzard and gave one stirring rendition of Beryl, You're As Saucy As Your Cousin Mary-Lou, an anthem for the older generation. Late in the evening, as the stars did their best to offer up forgiveness, local diva Cumquat May was yodeling through her nose followed by the publican's son Wombat O'Connell who arpeggiated all his feelings, lost in sawmill minor, for an Appalachian lady he wished he never knew. The Trickledown Creek Presbyterian Old-Time Ensemble played The Mineholes of Kilkenny with Slim Curry on washboard and went thoroughly acoustic when the judges made it clear they loved a sad lament. They were trying out a fifth string capo, improvising with a railroad spike someone souvenired from the bridge collapse of '58. Then, country heart-throb Sassy Blonde Noelene almost stole a tear strumming ukulele, singing Blue, Blue Prosperine, while Dick Frisky & the Penetentials pleased the crowd with Sailor May I Break Your Heavin’ Heart. It was on the third morning of competition that Earl jammed his fingers in the back tray of a bright yellow ute with silver wheel trims and a clever bumpersticker about the ozone layer, severing the digits, and a kelpie named Dobro made off with them for breakfast. Ingratiously, his rival, Neville of the Backblocks, boasted that he had the competition in the bag.

"Its a lonesome road," said the organiser, Snuffy Shackleton, six foot three and a firestorm on a busy mandolin.

"It hurts like hell," Earl confessed, nursing his stumps. He explained that he was too preoccupied with slogans for the ozone to be watching what he did. The tray slammed shut and - knobbly sausage! - two whole fingers fell away and Dobro didn't waste a second. They called St John's Ambulance Brigade and the Australian Kelpie Federation, but nothing could be done.

"At least its not like losing a leg in the Civil War like in the song Ferrets in the Graveyard," said Snuffy, trying to see the bright side.

"No, its more like losing two fingers to a hungry brown farm dog," said Earl and remembered how the body would be risen into wholesome glory like in the song Great Will Be the Day.

"Just one moment's inattention. How life is rearranged!" said Snuffy, philosophical, "Like in the song The Twenty Dollar Donkey."

"I guess I’II just adjust, as soon as the bleeding stops," said Earl, "Like in the song None But My Sweet Darlene." 

Snuffy was reminded of an old tune sometimes called Wiser by the Minute which was recorded by Jackson Healy and his Toetappers under the title Lambing Time. It was full of ironics and sanguine refractions of longing like in the Bobby Monroe classic Terrible Mistake. All Earl could think of was Todd Haggard's version of I Live With Regret which he learnt by ear from a dusty 78. Missing both fingers, he wrapped his knuckles up in Chinese linen and swigged upon a whiskey for the pain. He was three times banjo champion of the southern Ozarks, twice times picker of the year, four times Scruggs-Master of the Hilldale Bluegrass Pick-along and had busked his way from Esperance to New South Wales and back again. He had a reputation as a soulful player with a strong technique best known for his cheeky blue interpretation of Trouble Will Follow You There, a lilting waltz he had made his own.

"Reduced to beatin' on a tamborine," said Snuffy, fearing for the worst.  

Wombat O'Connel came over and rolled him a cigarette. He too had bad news.

"Have you heard Neville's rendition of Aunt Hagar Went A'Roamin'?" he asked.

Earl said he hadn't.

"The judges looked mighty impressed," said the Wombat. "A five-finger roll with one of those curly thumb slides on the G-string. Then he pulled out the clawhammer for Don't Burn the Sugar Mrs Lee."

Earl looked out over the hills which nudged together and were browning with the breath of warm November. Alas. Alas. The cruel fate of an incautious dawn. He spent the morning in the Duck's Nuts drinking bucket loads of ale drowning off his sorrows and humming bars of The Lord Forgives (So I Understand).

The animosity with Neville went back at least a decade and at the heart of it - sure enough - was the attention of a loving lass named Melissa of the Pines. Neville stole her hot affections leaving Earl to doodle on a twelve-string and write the bitter ballad Yackandada Floosey. It was thus such a great blow that Earl had lost his fingers. The jamboree was supposed to be the show-down. Neville rarely ventured from the backblocks but when he heard that Earl was playing Guildford he packed his kit and made the journey down. Earl, for his part, said that Neville was a hairy Scottish git but they'll duel with banjos like gentlemen and settle the matter once and for all.

Word had gone around that the two maestros would be competing - two desperate legends banjo-bashing over a fond heart just like in the song Parson Goes to Ho-down. (The Immortal) Tonsils Johnson was supposed to be the draw-card - and many in the crowd had come to see him - but the truly dedicated banjoids knew that Earl and Neville would be the real attraction. There were workshops on tidy banjo care, a chance for autographs, a massive sing-along of Will the Circle Be Unbroken and Cumquat May was promoting her new CD. But all ears were turned to the pluck-offs - three hefty sessions of blistering virtuosity ajudged by seven experts with the winner taking all and no second prize. The crowd was dismayed to hear of the freak accident at the back of the bright yellow ute. "Just like in the song Silver on the Mountain!" everybody said. Lopped off in his prime. Ruined at his peak. Dismembered on a long weekend. A young guitarist from Coorangamite took the tune of Nelson Town and quickly penned an ode called A Brown Dog Ate My Fingers, a mournful ditty and sorry tale of woe in the best of long traditions.

Yet Neville of the Backblocks continued unrelenting. "This be a wee toon aboot da ganglees n ach horns ick loovely rooden culled Tanner's Mool," he said in Scottish highland and broke into a ferocious version of the competition piece Tanner's Mule, a compulsory number for all contestants somewhere in their set. Soon he had the front row stomping and the judges jigging in their seats. The crystalline bells of his five-string pearl-head rang along the creek bed and could be heard in Guildford General Store. He had once scandalized the purists by going commercial - "haggis rock" they called it - but in recent years had gone back to his roots. "A bode eez geet da root ter mek a looven," he said in his defense, claiming all he sought to do was loosen up the genre.

His disdain for Earl was as Biblical as the waters of Babylon. He held a grudge as only a Scotsman can. "Der Meedows air too gude fer da leeksa heem," he said and spat into the dust through his rugged grey beard. He was twice Banjo King of Glasgow, runner-up in the third biannual Bluegrass Stomp of Aberdeen and had studied with the Kirks of Kentucky learning classics like Rarely Now Do I Recall. "Eev geet der moosik ach lin steerin fer ya sool," he would always say, which explained his authentic sound and perfect pitch. The banjo was his mistress, other than Melissa of the Pines. He concluded the session with Hazelnut Tidings and a medley of backblocks songs he knew the judges would enjoy.

As night fell Mozart McGill brought accordion to the camp-fires and the skinny saw-flies came out from their muddy abode, natural in their darting ways but with a sting like sin. Wafts of birch scented the air and city folks went to the Store for icecreams. Just by accident the motorcycle gang the Highwaymen rumbled into town and hearing of the music settled down a while. Their leader Beefheart Sweeney - "The Beef" to his friends - was a noted banjo connoisseur. His sister dated several of the Penetentials and he claimed his uncle Joel had made a banjo from plum pudding tins back in the olden days. Despite his rough attire he had a PhD in petrochemical microscopy but preferred to work ripping the heads off chickens. His favorite tune was The Lord He Spake To Moses in steely tempo and a back-beat as if it was a song that Johnny Cash might sing. He found Earl in a puddle of broken dreams sitting at the rear as a hootenanny stirred and the Duck's Nuts filled with Highwaymen in leather.

"I hear a kelpie made off with your fingers," he said, compassionate. "Like in the song Whatever Happened To the Light." He had a friend, he related, who had lost his testicles to a dingo. He would have bought Earl another beer but the banjoman was already sozzled beyond all recognition - like in the song Down That Mine Again - so instead he told him an encouraging tale. There was once a member of the Highwaymen, he said, who parked his bike by a billabong under the shade of a coolabah tree. Then, just as he was roasting this lamb he had found, the Central Victorian Road Patrol arrived to check upon his registration. The biker quickly jumped onto his chopper and roared straight into the black water, vowing never to be seen again. It was a tale of courage in adversity, loyalty, lamb chops and British road bikes. Earl just sat and listened, like in the song Say No More Before You Go.

When the fire trucks left the morning after and what remained of the hotel smoldered in the dawning mists, rumors said that Earl had gone back to the Meadows or that he'd joined the Highwaymen as an honorary member forsaking the banjo forever. The pub had run out of beer at about 2 AM leaving bikers and musicians drinking Creme de Ménthe and lemonades. The blaze began when a feral chick from Alice Springs was demonstrating fire-breathing with a dijireedoo full of methylated spirits. The flames leapt from her dreadlocks to the curtains and from the curtains to the bar. Only the Presbyterians from Trickledown Creek were sober enough to notice. Most importantly, they salvaged the winner's trophy, yet unclaimed, and the next day it sat upon the stage as the jamboree reassembled and the sun rose over Guildford for the final day of competition. Neville came out in his kilt and was expecting to be unopposed.

It was at this juncture, however, just as the judges were tallying their scores, that three-fingered Earl strode among the music fans and declared himself to still be a contender. He was conscious again and the bleeding had stopped and he claimed he'd heard the biker from the black billabong in the middle of the night. "Bring me my banjo," he announced. "There's one more session to go!" And as he sat it on his knee and wriggled up before the microphone he dedicated his performance to Melissa and winked unto the Scotsman watching stunned near the drink machine where a family of well-wishers cheered. Taking up his instrument he positioned it awkward in his lap, for where he would usually hold it steady with his pinky which acted as a fulcrum he had to find a balance on his leg and twist his wrist against its natural inclinations. He strummed the strings. Open G. Then he burst into a version of Its Best You Set Things Right coyly sliding up the scale and building up a head of steam in the key of C. When he finished that it was Frogs in the Swamp, the old Matty Ryan classic, followed by an original The Murumbigee Tailor. Every break was filled with whoops and hollas and a woman in her gumboots whistling with her lips. "Yeee Haaa!" yelled Dusty Quid and the Marauders. "Here," said Earl, "is an old Yiddish tune called Rabbi's Got His Ways..." and the judges gave him points for innovation.

It was just like in the song Dawn is the Joy of my Eye. The disadvantaged hero out-picked the ill-tempered Glaswegian until the judges all agreed. Snuffy Shackleton took it all back. He couldn't believe his eyes. It was as if those phantom fingers were playing all the while. But in fact Earl had found a new modality adapted to such standards as Wedding Under Willows and  Quince Rabbit Stew. Finally the crowd joined him for a chorus of A Kiss Before a Slice-a Pie and he took an encore or two.

Thus it was that Earl of the Meadows  invented the smooth-flowing three-finger style that banjo afficienados have treasured ever since. The younger players there that day went home and taped up their two unneeded fingers so as to play that way. It became known as "Earl-ling" and it revolutionized the music of the day. To "earl" is to pick the strings with barely three fingers as if the other two were eaten by a brown dog for breakfast. It is also known among the experts as the "Guildford tickle". It became consolidated at subsequent jamborees and spread even to the highlands when Neville took it for his repertoire and acknowledged that the course of banjo music had been moved like a great river shifting on a sand bar. Tassy Corns was there, strumming below the eucalypts, and he says that, flattered though she was, Melissa went off with the Highwaymen and lost her passion for the banjo, though she had inspired men who shook the firm foundations, the hill-billy's muse, like in the song Mary, Mary, Mary (Where Ya Been)? or that other gem of lonesome homage Who Will Tend The Rosebush Upon My Mother's Grave?