Seem like a strange sentiment? The well-known scene from Deliverance (no, not that scene, this scene) and decades of hillbilly showmanship might agree with you. But the banjo is much older than all of this.
Africa, or rather African slaves, gave America the banjo.
These roots to the banjo are known to seasoned pickers. Blea Fleck, amazing banjo player and lifelong white man, filmed a documentary in 2008 titled Throw Down Your Heart, in which he journeyed to Africa in search of the banjo’s origins.
“I thought it was important for people to realize where the banjo comes from because it’s been associated so much with the white southern stereotype,” Fleck said in his documentary, “A lot of people in the United States don’t realize the banjo is an African instrument.”
In a handful of early paintings, black folk were illustrated picking the banjo as a part of an intimate culture. Notable examples include The Old Plantation by John Rose in the late 1700s and Henry Ossawa Tanner’s The Banjo Lesson in 1893. In 1781, Thomas Jefferson wrote about slaves’ relation to the banjo on his own plantation. Jefferson stated that, “the instrument proper to them is the Banjar, which they brought hither from Africa.”
Up until the 19th century, the Banjo was exclusively black as hell. Unfortunately, the banjo was so black that it ended up as a prop in racist Minstrel shows to exaggerate black culture for white entertainment. Aside from a handful of pickers such as Gus Cannon, early blues players settled for guitars to separate their music from the laughed at tunes of Minstrel theatre. Overtime, the banjo was phased out completely from popular black music, but continued on as a fundamental instrument in the folk tunes of poor folk, most notably in the South.
But just because the banjo was black doesn’t answer why it is black.
Common narratives of where “black culture” originated, or what it is now, tend to start from a misnomer. It’s assumed slaves of the Americas had no culture other than the fragments gained from observing white folks in the big house. This is aggravatingly false, and a main contender of why we’ve lost so much history as a community.
African slaves brought artistic symbols and imaginative storytelling. They brought traditions, dialects and communication full of wit. Clever similes and put-downs didn’t start with Sanford and Son, our contemporary flavorful language has a significant past. For example, in The Art of Rap, KRS-one explains the origin of rap battling and the tradition of “The Dozen,” done by slaves throwing around put-downs at the auction block.
But arguably above anything else, Africans brought musical traditions that have penetrated centuries of Americana.
Blues, jazz, spirituals, rock ‘n’ roll, hip-hop, reggae and ska all have elements from the rhythmic thread of the African tradition, and yes, even banjo.
Black historical significance is often downplayed in a fit of what Editor-in-chief of Very Smart Brothas, writer of supa-black stuff and all-around great modern cultural observer, Damon Young describes as “white tears.” According to Young, white tears is a “phrase to describe what happens when certain types of white people either complain about a nonexistent racial injustice or are upset by a non-white person’s success at the expense of a white person.”
Take, for instance, Black History Month, a time when mainstream culture regurgitates the same five or so historical figures of blackness in its self-righteous attempt at diversifying the common understanding of America’s past. I’m not a meteorologist, but my hunch is that more white tears fall in February than any other time of the year. For a convoluted number of reasons, white folk hold onto whiteness for dear life as if somehow all white contributions to society will be replaced in every textbook by black faces.
In February and beyond, there’s a continuous attempt to downplay any lingering impacts of racially-motivated atrocities while also remaining annoyed by anything to do with “black pride.” Even when unintentional, American culture tends to forget the fruitful blackness of its past, and antagonists claim a war on Whites when simply discussing the existence of black contribution.
It’s in producing white tears that the banjo becomes black again.
Including the banjo as a hallmark in black contribution to America would mean acknowledging yet another occurrence of cultural and historical suppression. It’s an example of yet another time we were forgotten about and not included in the peachy history of American development. All the while, the uneasy conservatives of the country will claim that adding a little color to the banjo’s history is another attempt to replace white history with black history.
Oddly enough, the banjo is the perfect example of our history. This is an instrument that helped construct songs of plantation life as well as the coal mine. The banjo has been held by the enslaved and the American Victorian. It’s as American as apple pie and fried chicken. There’s room for everyone, no matter how uncomfortable the history lesson might feel.
Taking back one’s stolen history from exploitation and exclusion means a win for a deeper cultural identity.
The more of our roots we connect with, the more we learn about how we became our present selves. For so long, the black American story began from slave ports, when in reality, there are elements of common culture even today evident of a distant and elaborate past. The African diaspora exceeds the marginalized box black culture is so often shoved into.
Contemporary musicians such as Dom Flemons, The Carolina Chocolate Drops and Valerie June have pushed against the confines of what culture allows of blackness. Every day, as we gain more of our whole identity in a historical context, we destroy the barriers of what blackness should or can be.
“African-American kids and old folks have no problem with our music,” stated former Carolina Chocolate Drops musician Don Flemons in the book Banjo Camp!, “It’s the ones in between who aren’t that far out of the country and are just making it in urban culture who say, ‘What do you want to play that kind of music for?’”
Picking banjo serves as my little way of taking back a piece of black history.
As my fingers pluck and knock against the strings, I imagine distant relatives doing the same, and I can’t help but feel an inner connection to something far greater than myself. Am I the Nas of banjo playing? Not even close. Escobar status is far outside of my abilities. But, can I play songs like those my ancestors picked more than 200 years ago with sounds of white tears falling like raindrops in the foreground? Damn right.
