Pictured: CJ Lewandowski holding his Loar Mandolin, Photo Credit: Hylwa Media
Christopher McCracken for Bluegrass Pride - 24 June 2026
This piece is dedicated to Harry Clark’s right hand, Josette Maskin’s hips, and the generosity of CJ Lewandowski.
I became a Certified Banjo Owner on New Year’s Eve of 2021. I worked my way through Eli Gilbert’s 30 Days of Banjo and played some tunes around the house, but I didn’t step up my practice game until about two years ago.
In the meantime, however, I went deep on the fan side. Whenever I’m not listening to girly pop, I’m listening to something with a banjo in it. I have a spreadsheet of East Nash Grass livestreams at Dee’s and transcribed set lists for when I want to hear that particular cover of I’ve Heard These Words Before. I can quote you stage banter from filmed live shows chapter and verse.
As one would expect from a banjo player deep in this music, I’m an instrument nerd. I will happily sit up all night talking with you about the space between the growth rings on the top of your Big Mon, or how you used a quarter turn of all the hooks on your tension hoop to get that snappy trad grass sound.
This also means that I’ve heard the legends of old instruments; I’ve read the stories and listened to the interviews. Béla’s Number One. 58957. Paul Warren’s fiddle. Thile’s Loars. They’re things that I admire from a distance, or listen to on records, and think about how cool it must be to care for these objects.
—
It’s late Wednesday night. We’ve finished up our open mic, the jams are starting, and the vibes are flowing. I’d learned earlier in the week that CJ had brought a Loar with him to camp — and not just any Loar, but one with a fascinating history.
CJ’s up against a wall deep in conversation, and I elbow my way in while I’ve got some courage in me. I just want to get a look at his mandolin up close. I thought that if I didn’t ask then, I never would, and I’d spend the next year kicking myself for not having tried. This thing is over a century old. It’s a big deal and worth pushing past my hesitation.
The best I was hoping for was a supervised visit. I’d sit down very gently, watch CJ open the case, and don my white gloves before being handed something signed by Loar himself. I’d hold it, read the label, maybe strum a chop or two. I’d hand it back, thank him profusely for sharing, and check ‘play a Loar’ off my bluegrass bucket list.
Imagine my surprise when he points behind the stage and tells me to go grab it.
Imagine my thrill when I carry it around for hours.
—
Now is when I should mention that I don’t really like having a body. If you offered me a button to turn me into a glowing ball of light, floating through the world with an incorporeal form, I’d probably slam it. And yet — when I was playing CJ’s Loar, I couldn’t stop moving.
I’ve always admired the freedom of motion that Josette Maskin plays with. The sway and groove of their hips is something I try to imitate on the dance floor, albeit with varying degrees of success. Take that energy, dial it up to 11, and you have a good idea of the way I was jumping around riding the wave of the jam.
I don’t know the first thing about playing the mandolin, but I do know how to mute strings and chop. So here I am, set in the rhythm section between two musical heroes of mine, chopping away and having the most fun I’ve ever had playing music. I don’t know the tune, or the key, or the chords, and I don’t give a damn. I’m on stage in queer community playing a Loar. I’m playing in time. I’m giving and receiving as hard as I can give and receive. I was in my body and over the moon.
—
If relentless self-criticism were a college sport, I could walk onto a D1 team. Knowing that, you can imagine what it’s been like in my head this week as I write these recaps and try to speak into the archive with respect for the gravity of what’s happening, and with the knowledge that these words will be out there indefinitely. It’s possible that someone decides to go to a future camp because of something I said; or, far worse, they decide not to come for the same reason.
But here’s the thing I learned last night: camp’s got my back. It’s not about how clean my banjo playing is or how deep my repertoire is. It’s about being somewhere I can square dance in a cropped shirt and introduce myself with they/he pronouns. It’s where I get invited into the jam and welcomed back after completely bombing a harmony vocal. I took a jello shot while holding a Loar, grinned, and went right back into the music.
These are my people and this is my place.