Jamming with my Dear Old Dad back in 2001.
When my father and I started billing ourselves as The God Knows We Tried String Band people here in Crisfield assumed that we were a gospel act. People would say, "They have to play gospel music. They’ve got God in the name of the band, don't they?" and then go on to invite us to perform at a pot luck supper or some such thing expecting us to play songs like "Rock Of Ages" or "The Old Rugged Cross" in a church hall full of Methodists eating tuna casserole.
The problem was that we didn't know that much gospel music. When you grow up in an Irish Catholic household Protestant hymns are not something you hear all that often. Our idea of gospel music was stuff like "I Saw The Light" or almost bluegrass tempo versions of "Uncloudy Day", "When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder" and "Will The Circle Be Unbroken". The Methodists didn't know how to handle that much rhythm in their music, and more than one performance was interrupted by somebody getting up and witnessing. The first time that happened I didn't quite know what to do. Dear old Dad and I were just sort of standing up there with our guitars and banjos wondering if we were supposed to leave or start playing some kind of rousing background music like "Battle Hymn of the Republic" to add some drama.
These impromptu witnessing moments occasionally made the folks in attendance fidgety because they already knew the stuff the penitent was witnessing about. Crisfield is the kind of town where everybody knows each other's business so the guy who was pouring out his heart and unburdening his soul wasn't really dishing out any news that hadn't already been discussed weeks ago over coffee at Gordon's Confectionary.
We never knew what to expect when we were invited to play in a church. There was this one service that featured a preacher in a red wool suit (it was the hottest day of the year and the church hall wasn't air-conditioned) talking about Barabbas, but he kept calling him Barnabus. "And they said, give us Bar-knee-bus!" Pop said that he was just trying to show everybody what hell was going to be like if we didn't all behave. I allowed as I was going to be good from that point on.
After a while the folks started inviting us to play our music rather than hymns. I felt kind of weird the first time we tried playing "The Old Rugged Cross" only to have somebody in the back row yell out, ”Play ‘You Dirty Old Egg Sucking Dog’!" I glanced over to the preacher who nodded and said something about God having a sense of humor and to just go ahead and (sigh) play the song about dogs that (even deeper sigh) suck eggs.
After a while we just became part of the church scenery throughout town. Given that there are more than twenty churches in Crisfield that was an awful lot of pot-luck suppers. To this day, I can't see Jell-O without breaking out into “In The Garden”. We were two Catholic folk musicians who didn't quite get the whole Protestant thing, but we were part of the family anyway. Every once in a while we would crank out our over-driven version of “I Saw The Light”, but one night Miss Gladys (the head church lady) jumped up in the middle of the first verse up and ran out of the room hollering, "I can't listen to this I'm a Methodist!" we figured it would be best if we stuck to playing folk and honky-tonk country in the church halls.
After we had played in almost every church in Crisfield - and that is a lot of churches - we were invited to play with a traveling preacher from Tennessee. I was kind of hesitant after my past experiences with folks witnessing I figured, "what the heck?" and agreed to be part of the entertainment at the revival. The traveling preacher was this little guy with a big white beard who had this sort of vibe going with him that is hard to describe. He really believed he was doing what he was put here to do and he honestly loved God. He preached like he was introducing people to his best friend. I know that might sound kind of hokey, but this guy was just cool.
The revival wasn't as much of a culture shock as I thought it would be. The evangelist knew how to preach in a way that wasn't too big on the fire and brimstone stuff and he was a pretty good guitar player. We had a lot of fun jamming with him, and by the time he was getting ready to move on to the next town I liked and respected the guy. He didn't even blink when people asked us to play "You Dirty Old Egg Sucking Dog". He just played along with us and pointed out afterwards that God loves everyone and everything - even egg-sucking dogs.
Right before he was getting ready to leave he complimented me on my guitar playing and I did what I almost always did back then. I went into to whole, "Aw, shucks, I'm not really that good" routine. The next thing I knew the preacher turned on me just about as angry as I've ever seen. He was jumping up and down and waving his guitar like he wanted to bonk me over the head. I was trying to figure out what I did or said to upset him while Dad was looking at me from across the room with that, "What have you gone and done now?" look when the preacher started talking.
"I gave you a compliment. I was trying to tell you how much I enjoyed playing the guitar with you and your dad and you turn around and insult me. How could you?" I started trying to say something but he was in full-blown Southern preacher mode. He wasn't talking angry anymore, it was worse than that. He was talking passionately like he really wanted me to understand this.
"False modesty isn't just a sin, Patrick. It's insulting. When somebody give yesou a complement about your music that person is trying to say, 'thank you for sharing with me!' and when you start that sandbagging routine you're telling that person that he's stupid, and even worse, you're trying to get them to keep stroking your ego telling you how good you are. When a person comes over to compliment you they might want to ask you about something else, like as an icebreaker, to lead into maybe asking for help learning the guitar. If you love music so much would you want to drive that person away? Is it so hard just to accept the compliment like a man and say, Thank you?"
It was one of the few times in my life that I didn't have some kind of a snappy comeback. I just stood there and waited for him to catch his breath. After glowering at me for a moment he said, "You play very well, Patrick. I really enjoyed your music."
I grinned at him. "Why thank you, Pastor Charlie."
He shook my hand and said that there was hope for me yet.
Ever since then I have tried to avoid making the common guitar player's mistake of answering a compliment with the "aw shucks" routine. The amazing thing about it is that the preacher was right. Nine times out of ten the compliment really is an icebreaker. My honest and direct, "thank you" is usually the opening for the person to say how he'd always wanted to play the guitar or the banjo and I always wind up sitting down and going over the basics with him or her. I make a new friend, and I get to do what I love to do by sharing the licks and tricks I picked up from the cool old dudes with a new musician.
It's easy to do the false modesty thing. Sometimes it's hard to accept a compliment because people are, by nature, pretty bashful. Looking somebody in the eye and just saying thank you takes, as the preacher pointed out, a measure of character.
So when somebody tells you that you have done a good job, even when you are convinced otherwise, just smile and say, "Thank you." You'll probably make a new friend.
And if you ever hear "You Dirty Old Egg Sucking Dog" being played at a tent revival I guess Dear Old Dad and I are to blame.
This week I rolled up a harmonica, banjo, guitar, ukulele and fiddle workshop into one video. Have fun!
I’ll be back next week with more music and stories. Until then be sure to visit me at frailingbanjo.com and don’t forget to reserve your spot at the 2017 Maryland Folk Musicians Retreat!