I never knew any fiddlers who made a living with their talents, but I did know some who received payment in liquid refreshment. My story is based on the life of a single fiddler; my report recreates one evening and its conversations, but changes the musicians’ names .
We gathered at a large Victorian structure on the edge of the town, whose exterior looked like a venue for a Hitchcock movie, and whose living room seemed large enough to house an indoor car lot. So, Jake supplied the venue and the fiddling, Cassius supplied the old time banjo and vocals, I supplied the instrument which Jake played, and played backup guitar. The Deacon supplied the applause and the libation.
We began by sitting down with our instruments, then Jake nodded for to me to “Hit a G chord.”
I strummed the guitar, as Jake tuned the fiddle to G D A E. I strummed again, while Cassius tuned a D G B D on the banjo’s long string, then a high G on the short one.
Deacon took a $5 bill out of his bill fold. “While you-all are warming up, I’m gon’ get you something that will put hair on your chest, and health in your body.”
“Where you going, Deac?” the round fiddler smiled.
“Down a back road, to a fence post, right near a pine stump.”
“How do you know which post?” the tall, spare Cassius asked.
“The one with the stump beside it,” Deac explained, with no irony intended. “The stump with the flint rock on it.” Deac paused. “I’ll pick up the flint rock; lay my money under it. The lookout will see me, and when I’m clean out of sight he’ll crawl up, pick up the money, then crawl back, get the liquor, and leave it right beside the stump.”
“Ah, shucks,” the banjo picker said. “It’s old Rant Kiker. He measures his crop in gallons to the acre.”
Jake laughed.
“Anybody says they seen him is just guessing,” Deac said. “He’s slick and he doesn’t intend to get caught. Ain’t nobody gon’ catch him delivering stump water.”
“Why don’t you try? ” Cassius smiled. “Just for fun?”
“And lose out on the best liquor in five counties?” Deacon answered. “This Deac can outfox his preacher, and get away with it. But he ain’t gon’ try to outfox his bootlegger.”
Deac turned toward the door, then paused. “When I get back with that Ball Mason jar, I’ll show you some fine corn.”
After the deacon left, Jake played the Chicken Reel in the key of D. Like most fiddle tunes it had only two chords— so Cassius and I just had to play D’s and A’s, as I closed my eyes to see that old chicken clucking its dance.
When Jake got through, I said “Play the Orange Blossom Special.”
“Nawk,” he answered, “Not yet. Can’t tackle that one ‘til Deac brings the grease. “
“Show me one fiddle chord, then.”
“Here’s ‘E,’” he said, as pressed the two middle strings with his index finger. I could tell this wasn’t the real Orange Blossom chord, because that chord takes two fingers.
Then Cassius sang The Great Speckled Bird, and Jake took the fiddle break, Cassius sang another verse then took a break in the old two-finger banjo style.
As I backed them up, I thought about the instrument Jake was playing. I knew I would have to take it home with me when I left, for Jake would not return my fiddle on his own. And even when I got the fiddle back, it would not be two weeks before he would knock on my front door and say, “Can I borrow your fiddle?”
I always gave it to him—knowing he would not bring it back—for he was an adult, and I was a kid, and felt I had to let him have it.
My reverie was broken when Jake stopped fiddling to open the door for Deac, who entered with a brown paper bag and took out a half-gallon Mason jar. Jake laid the fiddle down and got four glasses.
“You ought to have some,” he said to me.
I nodded “no.”
“Look here,” Deac said, as he unscrewed the jar lid, laid it on the bare wooden floor, then poured in enough of the clear fluid to cover the bottom of the cap. Finally, he took out a kitchen match, struck it on the sole of his shoe, then held it over the liquor, where the blue flame spread over the alcohol with a quiet whoosh.”
Deac poured the three glasses.
“Blue flame,” Jake grinned as he took the first draft. “Blue flame. That’s goo-oo-ood. “
“How does he know?” I asked Cassius.
“Ask him,” Cassius smiled.
Jake interrupted his tasting to say, “Blue flame means corn brewed in a copper still. Red flame means it’s full of lead, most likely cooked in a car radiator. Lead poisoning can kill you. “
He took another swig before continuing. “Yellow means the liquor’s the first out of the spout, which is full of methanol.” Jake said. “Methanol’s liable to make you go blind,” he said. “Or crazy.”
He smiled as he poured another glass, “This liquor will not hurt you.”
“He sure knows a lot about liquor,” I said.
“He’s drunk a lot of it,” Cassius said. “He’s a fiddler.”
Jake picked up the fiddle and dragged the first Woo Woo of the Orange Blossom Special. He played the whistle and dinged the bell; when he shuffled the speeding drive wheels, the rosin flew.
“Hot dog!,” Deac yelled , clapping his hands. “Didn’t I tell you?” he said. ”Hot dog! Hot dog!”
Jake sped us down the East Coast and back so many times, that I had no feeling in my left hand when the Special finally squawked to a halt.
After that night, I don’t remember playing behind Jake again. I still kept loaning and retrieving my fiddle, until I finished high school, when finally told him I just could not loan it to him again. After that, I lost touch with Jake.
Then I moved away. Some 15 or 20 years later I heard Jake had given up liquor and started reading his Bible. But about five years after that I heard that he had gone back to drinking, and that one Sunday morning, The Fiddler laid out his burial clothes, and took his life.
Leon Smith is a regular contributor to The Anson Record. He can be reached at leonsmithstories@gmail.com.