The Original Banjo

This time last year I was convinced I could teach myself to play the banjo. I had a brand new instrument (a 22 fret Dean Backwoods 3), a fair amount of dexterity, and several musician friends who were willing to learn some old-timey cover songs. Then I broke a finger. I'm not particularly proud of my progress since, and quite honestly, I've lacked inspiration. It turns out that a film recommendation from a friend was all I really needed.

Currently touring small theaters in the US and Canada, Throw Down Your Heart is a feature documentary that follows acclaimed performer and recording artist Béla Fleck through Uganda, Tanzania, The Gambia, and Mali as he seeks to learn something about his chosen instrument's continent of origin. Speaking with NPR at one point, he explains his motivation for making the five week trek around Africa: "I thought it was important for people to realize where the banjo comes from because it's been associated so much with a white Southern stereotype. A lot of people in the United States don't realize that the banjo is an African instrument."

I wish the director, Sascha Paladino, had included an interview with a musicologist, or perhaps just delved deeper into the folk history of the ngoni or the akonting (both thought to be closely related to a chordophone more familiar to American ears), and I could quibble over some of the edits, but taken as a whole, Throw Down Your Heart is a joyous and poignant film crammed with incredible musical collaborations. It's absolutely worth seeing on a big screen now, or at home this fall once the DVD is released. As for my inspiration, I walked out of the IFC Center on Sunday night with conflicting desires: should I research airfare to Dar es Salaam, order a copy of The Zawose Family's debut album, or simply go home and tune my banjo?
Photo of Béla Fleck © Argot Pictures 2008. All rights reserved.

Reading While Traveling

When compared to other units of measure, a week doesn't seem very big—except when most of it has been devoted to a single pursuit. I recently agreed to help a friend polish a manuscript that he intends to shop around to agents this summer, so in my case, the past week involved lots of editing. The title of this yet-to-be-published novel refers to a place in Australia, but many of the events in the opening chapters actually occur in a Norwegian city I've grown quite fond of.

On my last visit to Oslo, I paid a visit to Norway's largest bookstore dedicated to maps and travel. Located behind the Royal Palace on Uranienborgveien, Nomaden is a ideal shop to peruse if you happen to find yourself in Oslo and can't decide where to go next. Its shelves and staff do not lack for sources of inspiration. You might also consider stopping by if you've chosen to walk from one of the attractions downtown to Frogner Park in the west; Nomaden is on the way.

Love and Tornadoes

Music moves me. It might be a lyric that conveys a sense of place, the persistent beat of a snare drum propelling a melody to an unknown destination, or the ascending notes of a guitar chord played in succession that sets my mind wandering, but the restlessness certain albums stir up is nearly impossible to resist.

Lately I've found myself repeatedly listening to Neko Case's new album Middle Cyclone. On the opening track, "This Tornado Loves You," she sings: "My love, I'm an owl on the sill in the evening—but morning finds you still warm and breathing." Stretching out that last word, she lets it fade completely like an echo. An instant later she begins again, pleading the refrain as the music builds, swirling around that singular voice, and I'm carried away.

Earlier this week I watched her perform songs from this excellent recording at the Nokia Theatre Times Square. The energy in the room naturally rose and fell as the band alternated between slower waltzes and smoldering rock numbers, but to me the entire set felt like an invitation to hit the road. Especially after Neko's backup singer Kelly Hogan encouraged the assembled New Yorkers to howl like coyotes in their cubicles the next day.

As the night wore on, I couldn't help thinking about my camping trip to southern Utah last May. Even as I left the venue, the urge to roam lingered. Instead of riding the subway back under the East River, part of me wanted to climb into a car and drive West: across the Hudson, past the Appalachians, through the Great Plains, and beyond.

Cup of Gold

"The sea was a round lake of quiet undulation, spread with a silken skin. Slowly, slowly, passing to rearward, the water set up a pleasant hypnosis in the brain. It was like looking into a fire... There is a peace in the tropic oceans which passes a desire for understanding. Destination is no longer an end, but only to be sailing, sailing, out of the kingdom of time."

John Steinbeck was a 27-year-old aspiring writer when his first novel, Cup of Gold, was published in 1929. Supporting himself on money earned as a laborer, a journalist, and a caretaker, he had visited Panama several years earlier and likely drew on some of his own experiences while penning this romanticized biography of Sir Henry Morgan. And yet, passages like that above still resonate 80 years later. In spite of spending such a short time in and around the isthmus between North and South America, he described this part of the world with convincing detail. For all of his determined effort and raw young talent, he received a $250 advance from his publisher, Robert M. McBride & Company.

I wasn't familiar with the book when I started planning my trip to the country this winter, but I happened upon a paperback copy at Idlewild Books and bought it on a whim. Reading it on the Pacific island of Taboga a few weeks ago, I learned something about Panama's piratical past and rediscovered an author I hadn't paid much attention to since high school. Add this book to your beach reading list now—especially if the stretch of sand you have your eye on happens to be an hour-long ferry ride from Panama City.

In the Beginning

If a writer posts to a blog, and no one is around to read it, does it serve a purpose?

Maybe not, but I've decided to find out for myself. In addition to functioning as a space where I can post links to my published travel articles, essays, and interviews, I intend to treat this site as a running challenge—a reminder that I need to put fingers to keyboard with regularity.

On a given week I may devote a few sentences to what I'm working on, listening to, looking at, or reading about, but journeying and the joy it brings me will always be the prevailing theme. My hope is that you'll follow along, lead me to an ambition, or offer entertainment on the way.