1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . .
It was a simple song. The fiddle, banjo, mandolin, and guitar all came in right on time. People were tapping their feet by the time we hit the B part.
For several months we had gathered every third Thursday at Chimneyville BBQ to play an hour for ribs and banana pudding. We were known as the Hinds County Revelers, named after an early 1900’s Mississippi string band called the Leake County Revelers. Our fiddle player, Tim, was the Jackson, Mississippi guru of all things Celtic and Old-Time. For a living he taught multiple instruments to wannabe players of all ages. One of the geniuses of his method was teaching his students many of the same tunes no matter what instrument they played so that, when and if they ever got together, they could play as one.
The first time I witnessed the fruit of his labor was at a Mississippi Old-Time Music Society meeting that we hosted at our house. Our living room vibrated with energy from the deep thud of a washtub bass and the bum-ditty of the banjos. The cadenced guitar rhythm with alternating bass notes filled any gaps while the fiddles and mandolins sang out the melody lines. The realization of the beauty of the event struck me as I watched our very young son bounce to music for the first time.
Licking the remnants of Chimneyville pudding from the paper dish, Tim informed us that we were entering the Mississippi State Fair string band competition. All we had to do was play two songs before judges and wait for the results. Sweet. That sounded fantastic and intimidating.
The day having arrived, we sat a couple of rows back from the tented stage listening in nervous awe of the bands that played before us. We had reason to be nervous. Our guitar player was a college student who really didn’t know much about playing the straight style of guitar rhythm that was desired in old-time music nor did he listen to old-time music. Our banjo player struck nylon strings on his Banza . . . a banjo made out of a gourd. Occasionally his banjo would shock us when the tall bridge would collapse onto the hide head with a BAM! and then its owner shout out an expletive starting with the letter F. I was a music memorizer. I memorized the notes and learned to play them faster and faster on my mandolin. If, for some reason, we needed to improvise, I was lost. Tim was the only professional among us.
I remember standing on the stage silently praying for my hands to work. It felt like we were fifteen feet off of the ground looking off a cliff at the small crowd gathered to hear us. It was mostly other bands and their families. A few fair-goers were there out of curiosity or just way too early for the evening Allison Kraus show.
Tim started in: “1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4”
We played. We ended. People clapped. Other bands played.
“And in first place in the string band category . . . the Hinds County Revelers!” We had won the Mississippi State Fair string band competition.
Though the notoriety would be miniscule it was in the Clarion Ledger the next day. I believe it was in section 3 on page 7. That was back when papers had sections . . . and pages.
A year later, our band was still gnawing weekly ribs at Chimneyville BBQ after playing an hour, but we did have an occasional cash paying gig here and there. The largest was playing for a fall college ministry kick-off in the famed Grove at Ole Miss. We each got $100.00. To Oxford, Mississippi and back probably cost us $32.00 in gas. Again, the notoriety was miniscule. Again, our banjo player explicated an f-bomb on stage and mic’ed.
As the fall temps dropped from 94 to 92 degrees we started dreaming again of our victory and the opportunity to defend our title. I secured our entry form and contacted the band members for conformation before I sent in their names. Tim, our one professional player who had taught us all how to play, was out. Another band he had formed claimed him for the competition. Our best player was now our fiercest competitor. We changed the name of the band for the competition to Hop’n Gator String Band. It didn’t feel right to maintain the same name without our best player.
The only other fiddle player I knew played violin for the Mississippi Symphony Orchestra. The only time we had to practice together was the evening before the competition. We ran through the two songs twice.
“Tell us the name of your band.” Into the mic, I said, “Hop’n Gator String Band.” “ What two songs will you play?” “Barlow Knife” and “Angeline the Baker.” “You may begin.”
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . .
I barely remember playing. I do remember thinking, “Just get through the song without any embarrassment or expletives.” We played. We ended. People clapped. Other bands played.
“Runner-up in the string band competition is the Mississippi Possum Hunters!” I thought there was a mistake. How could my instructor’s band not win. They were by far the most experienced of the bunch. We continued listening.
“First place in the string band competition goes to the Hop’n Gator String Band!”
Honestly . . . I felt terrible. Our unpracticed, non-historical, rag-tag band had energy for sure. We were so nervous we played fast. Maybe we covered our unfledged slights. The other bands had played together for months. We certainly did not get the back slaps and handshakes of the previous year.
Thus ended our state fair competitions. We did pick up a coffee shop gig. Free BBQ and free coffee. Notoriety? Meh.