Estimated reading time: 6 minutes, 43 seconds

Introduction

When I was a kid, my mom got me piano lessons. They were more for her than for me. She wanted a kid who played the piano. I guess she thought it would make me a well-rounded person. It was an admirable goal, but I wasn’t interested. I was more into skateboarding, hiking, and judo.

It’s a little sad. She lined up the best piano teacher in town. Mr. Smith was the director of the chorus at the high school and truly a gifted musical instructor. It’s a real credit to him that he managed to teach me anything about the piano at all. I never practiced. Well, rarely. The evening before our weekly Wednesday lesson, I would try to cram the 30 minutes’ worth of practice I should have done into a half-hour on Tuesday evening. It was a poor strategy. I’m sure Mr. Smith knew I did that. But he worked with me anyway. He was good to me, and I think he only really got frustrated with me once or twice.

For twelve years, every Wednesday afternoon meant piano lessons. He was kind and supportive, even if I was a lost cause. I did manage to learn to read music, and I developed a love of classical music that is with me to this day. Thank you, Mr. Smith.

One of the strange things about getting older is realizing that some opportunities don’t come back around. For me, one of those was the piano. I spent twelve years taking lessons and never took them seriously enough to see what I might have become. Watching my children’s school concerts, I’m always impressed by the students who seem to glide effortlessly across the keys. Part of me wishes I had taken those lessons more seriously.

Sometime in my mid-forties, I decided to try a musical instrument again. This time it would be my choice, and I would have to teach myself. I threw myself into banjo research and lore.

I bought books and CDs, and watched William Nesbitt’s excellent tutorials on YouTube. By practicing every day, I hoped to redeem myself from my past as a pianist and become a great banjo player. I was terrible. It was a painfully slow process. The finger picks took a lot of getting used to. Thirty minutes would sometimes pass, with most of that time spent tuning the banjo. The rolls, which are the backbone of the 3-finger style I hoped to learn, were turtle-slow instead of lightning-fast. I couldn’t fret chords without muting some notes with my chunky fingers. It was starting to feel like a dumb idea.

Part of me wanted to quit.

That’s the strange thing about learning something new in middle age. When you’re a kid, everyone expects you to be bad at things. When you’re an adult, you’re expected to know what you’re doing. Being a beginner again feels uncomfortable because it forces you to confront how little you know.

But even though it was frustrating, I was learning! The little successes, like mastering a C chord, adjusting an annoying buzzing sound in the tailpiece, and playing a first song slowly, kept me interested.

Small victories.

Most men my age spend time trying to become an expert at something. Few of us take the time to become beginners again.

In my post about learning new skills, I argued that growth in middle age requires deliberately putting yourself in situations where you’re not already an expert.

Why I Chose the Banjo

I’ve always been drawn to things that sit a little outside the mainstream. Whether it’s hiking obscure trails, learning unusual skills, or reading about forgotten corners of history, I’ve never been especially interested in doing what everyone else is doing. The banjo fit that pattern perfectly.

My grandfather was from Roanoke, Virginia. It’s in the area of western Virginia, eastern Tennessee, and western North Carolina that the heart of Appalachia lies. I’ve enjoyed bluegrass music and the region’s folklore all my life. When I told my uncle that I was starting to play the banjo, he said, “Your grandfather had one. He was never any good at it.”

So I wanted the challenge of learning a new instrument, and I wanted it to be something out of the ordinary. I could have picked anything — sitar, accordion, or bagpipes, but because of my family’s connection to Appalachia, I chose the banjo. And although most would consider it an annoying instrument, it’s not #1. Looking at you, kazoo.

The Reality of Being a Beginner Again

Playing the banjo reminds me most of learning how to ride a bicycle. A child falls off a bike again and again because they just don’t have the muscle memory. Enough practice time is needed to make balancing themselves on the bike and coordinating hand and foot movements automatic. With the banjo, my hands don’t do what I want them to do without conscious attention. I still have to look at my hands when I play the banjo. Changing chords with my left hand and doing rolls with my right both seem to require visual attention at the same time.

The progress has been very slow, with little appreciable improvement from day to day. Despite my lack of piano practice as a child, I still seemed to pick up piano a lot faster than I did the banjo. I learned in a psychology class in college that children’s brains are more adept at learning foreign languages than adults’. There is a critical period for developing bilingual or multilingual ability; after that, it becomes much harder, though not impossible. I’m starting to think that might be true for musical instruments too. Watching my children learn violin, trumpet, piano, and guitar makes it seem so easy.

What Learning the Banjo Taught Me

Learning the banjo taught me patience. I learned to slow down and let go of the need for immediate success. Most of my life, even now, I want to be great at everything I try. That ambition has served me well, but at a price. That price is the stress and pressure I’ve put on myself. In midlife, I am learning to let go, at least a little. Being really great at something takes longer than you think, and if it’s something you enjoy, is that really a bad thing?

The banjo has also taught me humility. I won’t always be excellent at everything, nor do I have to be. I play the banjo mostly because I enjoy it, not to impress anyone.

Over time, I’m improving. Consistency in practice is making up for my lack of natural talent. I still go long periods without practice sessions, so that’s not good. When it comes to learning anything, whether it’s banjo, a foreign language, or studying for a test, distributed practice beats massed practice every time.

I’ve learned that small wins are important. There are minor victories that keep it fun. The first time I fretted a chord cleanly, and the first slow, but recognizable rendition of Cripple Creek kept me going through the first few months when I was legitimately horrible. Now I’m just not good, and I can live with that.

The most significant thing I’ve learned is that an old dog can learn new tricks.

The Bigger Lesson

At some point in their lives, many men stop trying new things. They spend their life on autopilot — work, sleep, watch TV, look at the phone, sleep, repeat. I know I did this, especially as a young, career-focused man.

Sometimes what feels like burnout is really boredom and a lack of challenge.

Discomfort holds a lot of us back from trying new things. I hesitate to play in front of others. There’s a real fear of looking ridiculous. I think most kids don’t have that fear yet. They can just relax and learn. Adults go out of their way to avoid looking incompetent. Maybe it really holds us back?

For me, the banjo is proof that growth is still possible. It may be slow, but I’m still learning. One of the most important things I can model for my children is that learning doesn’t end when school does. Growth remains possible for as long as we’re willing to be beginners.

I’m not going to become a famous banjo player. It’s just not realistic at this point in my life. But it doesn’t matter. What’s most significant is that I’m becoming someone who is willing to struggle again.

What Happens Next

When learning anything, it’s good to set both short-term and long-term goals. My goals for banjo playing are to learn about 10 songs really well. I have about 3 under my belt. A longer-term goal would be to play Amazing Grace at church or try busking someday. It would be fun to just sit in a public place, open the banjo case, and play for money, as they do in big cities. Most people would probably throw money at me to make me stop playing, but it would be a real step outside my comfort zone.

The whole reason I started Struggle Bus Academy was to encourage myself to keep learning, growing, and trying new things.

Conclusion

My apologies to anyone who found this post while looking for a how-to-play-banjo article. I’m not sure I actually taught you how to play it. Maybe I’ve even dissuaded you from playing such an uncool (but weirdly cool) instrument at all. But the banjo isn’t really the point. The point is to choose something difficult and do it anyway. It could have been about kayaking, magic tricks, or webpage design. Every middle-aged man needs something that reminds him he’s still capable of learning.

What have you always wanted to learn but never started? Pick one thing this month and give yourself permission to be terrible at it.

About the Author

Rob Rice is a nurse educator, writer, husband, father, and lifelong learner. After more than two decades in nursing and mental health, he started Struggle Bus Academy to document his journey toward better health, personal growth, new skills, and a more adventurous life. His goal is simple: to make his fifties his best decade yet.