Memoir item.
An odd and interesting and cool thing happened to me this week, for the first time ever.
As it got dark, I was wandering the old time fiddle campout with a beer, not looking for a jam at that moment, just seeing what was going on. I wandered into a corner camp, where some 20-ish players, about the age I started playing, were banging out some rowdy jug-band-ish tunes, and I realized as I got closer that they had a washtub bass. So I moved in to where I could observe it. I'm always interested, as there aren't a lot of tub players. The young man wasn't that good or that bad, but he was enthusiastic, and trying to add to the music. And, he was plucking the string, not bashing at it, which is an important first step. And, he played by varying the tension, like me, not by fretting or choking up on the string, which is far more common.
When the tune ended, he asked me if I wanted to check out his bass. He called me by name. He called me by name. He knew who I was and what I play and how I play. I think all his friends did, too. And I didn't recognize a single one of them.
That's never happened to me. It was wicked cool.
The next day, in daylight, he came up after a demonstration I was part of, and asked to inspect my tub's construction, and also asked for a bunch of advice about quite specific aspects of playing and building the tub. He was again, enthusiastic, and cheerful, and respectful.
The future is in good hands.
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