Daily Record article clipping

This story is about two old, dear friends. One friend was animated with a touch of fuss and feathers, and so much talent. The other, a tad more wooden; comprised of mother of pearl and abalone inlay, some nickel silver and brass. Both were, exceptional, one-of-a-kind, and somewhat quirky. Taken together, they blurred the boundary between music, musician, and musical instrument for me. There was a moment in time when we three crossed paths. Now the decades seem a moment in time. Both my buddy Clifford “Doc” Williams (the nickname “Doc” given to him by his pediatrician, the poet William Carlos Williams) and Cliff’s restored 1890s Washburn banjo were gifts. More so, looking back, they were the very definition of kindness, and once-in-a-lifetime curiosities.

Ancestry.com can’t provide much information when it comes to the lineage of friendships, possessions or unrecorded music. Those are usually off the family tree. I know of no Music-History-dot-com for delineating the heritage of vintage second (third? fourth?) hand instruments. Family trees are good for family relations, not so hot for relating family to friends or the instruments they played, and the songs they may have sung. Memory is serviceable as far as it goes for songs and stories not set down in digital media, magnetic tape or other means of recording. They echo for a while, then waft into the ether. The problem is, many oral histories and some musical heroes are eventually unspoken, and therefore, sadly … in time, unsung.

The other night, as I sat with my Washburn 5-string banjo, caressing it, I was trying to give both old friends one fond hug. I was attempting to reach back to a time when I along with Doc played and sang. For that time he was sitting beside me. I tried to remember the sound of us. Moreover, I looked back to discern some of our history of the instrument, the known histories that are written – and muse about the unknown by giving it a closer look, and holding it, and day dreaming. A few fond visual memories flashed like View Master scenes. In the instrument case, I found a folded newspaper article sporting a color photo in which I am holding that very banjo. Doc liked the article and had a copy pinned up at his house. There was, and this surprised me, much I know about the banjo, and the fellow who bestowed it on me. Receiving this old time treasure from my friend back in the late 1970s, I often wondered where it had resided, prior to our ownership (guardianship). Who else had made it ring? Where and by whom was it purchased when new? Did it spend its prior life hidden at the back of a closet or sitting on someone’s knee? Did it perform in the parlor, or on a stage? What songs were played on it before it was restored, as reported by my buddy Clifford, by master craftsmen named LoPrinzi in their guitar shop down at the Jersey Shore.

Cliff, gone now many years, was an avid … no make that a compulsive guitar collector. He meticulously, almost pathologically, would have work done and redone and redone again on his guitars. All of which became the normal flow of things to me. The tweaks and repairs were made by the best in the business. Doc knew his mind, but never could make up his mind for very long. Doc would sell old favorites in order to pay for repairs or to purchase the latest guitar of his dreams. They were carried into repair shops and sent to this or that expert for work. I lost count, and to the best of my knowledge, so did Cliff.

Eventually, Cliff’s obsession took over his being. He lived in a house known around town as “The Waffle,” a partially completed, somewhat neglected, square shaped, cinder block home (bunker) his father built on the bank of the Passaic River in Rutherford, NJ. Cliff Sr. a retired merchant seaman and his wife hoped to retire into the home. They instead retired to North Carolina, eventually passing away, leaving Doc with more money than guitars. That balance soon changed. I originally met Doc through his mother Emily, who was my high school biology teacher. My favorite subject and instructor back then. And since I attended college a few blocks from The Waffle, it was a frequent stopping point to or from classes, for a chat or a song.

Doc’s odd, infamous house sat on that lot beside the Passaic River in Rutherford where, on a regular basis, The Waffle was flooded by the rising river waters. I recall all sorts of stories about the Army Corps of Engineers, Riparian Rights, new boilers, no heat, toxic mud, walls ripped open, freeze-ups and clean ups. Probably not the idyllic place to keep one’s recording studio and dozens of prized guitars. Thank heavens for a second floor. Of course, even without floods, Doc’s place was a mess. Nobody makes you vacuum or tidy up when you live alone. Or throw out opened tuna and cat food cans in the kitchen, or piles and piles of finds and collectibles. The place had an air about it – just ask the cats.

Cliff would often get a gleam in his eye when I came to the front door. He would show me his newest acquisition or share a tune. From under the unmade bed, or from the back of the overstuffed closet, Doc would pull out a treasure, open the instrument case and place a gleaming, aromatic musical museum piece in my hands. Another beauty, another piece of vintage guitar history and another musical treasure I had only seen in a book. Here was a collection for a man trying to corner the market on Harp Guitars and Blues and Jazz axes. He would play, or pass it to me, so he might hear it. Playing was fun. Sharing was more fun. I tried to make my novice playing worthy of the situation.

Perhaps I failed to mention, and this is important, Cliff really could play. My god could he play. Like nobody I had ever heard before – or since. You’ll have to take my word for it. I have spent the last few months to no avail, searching for reel-to-reel tapes I thought I stored for safe-keeping, tapes which would document that fact. Apparently, I took my inventory lessons from Clifford. With guitar in hand, he seemed in another world. He was an artist, a genius. The music was an escape from a world with which he did constant battle.

You see, Clifford did not do well in the real world. Shopkeepers in town cheated him. Neighborhood kids befriended him, only to do damage to his home, and rob him of a guitar now and then. Like many artistic geniuses, Cliff was troubled. I tried to help ground him. I might hear the phone ring, and, interrupt Doc leaving a rambling message on my Panasonic cassette answering machine. Often, his voice was dark, lost, meandering or brooding. I would pick up the phone to offer an hour or two of support and solace. When we talked he seemed buoyed, and happier. When we played music together, he was happier still.

One day, early on, Clifford showed up at my apartment door. He was holding the banjo by the neck as it then, had no case. I had played it a few times in The Waffle. It was an Old-Timey jewel, but, although beloved, it was just another item in his collection of so many instruments. I never expected he would part with this one. He could not play it, but he was charmed by it. I never saw anything like this banjo, it had lovely inlay on the fret board and a heart set into the heel cap. Doc didn’t play the banjo, but he adored its beauty after having spent a lot of time, effort and money on its restorations. Here he was at the door, asking me if I would buy it for $65. He said he could use the money and wanted the banjo to have a happy home where it would be played, rather than sell it to someone else, or leave it to the store in trade. I told him I would not take advantage of him, and could just give or loan him the money if he needed it. “If you don’t take the Washburn, I will just leave it on your porch.” He responded. I gave him the money – which went for another partially completed project. Gold plated tuners for a Gibson electric guitar.

At least this one was rescued from floods, freeze ups and neighborhood bandits. There were repair shops all over the state of New Jersey with Clifford’s instruments in them. I recall one shop with five of his guitars being worked on at once, all in different states of non-finish. Occasionally, money was required to continue a project. It occurs to me that when Williams passed away, some of these instruments were probably never recovered. That day of the banjo adoption, Doc smiled a broad smile and handed the instrument to me, pointing to the heart inlaid into the heal cap. He thought that was special, appropriate, and symbolic of our friendship. Williams gave me an embrace and told me to keep it safe, that we would be friends forever, and any time I played it or looked at it, I was to remember him. We sat on the steps to my apartment for a very long time, playing my new old banjo, as Doc listened and beamed during the adoption ceremony.

“Keep it safe,” he said. I know what he meant. He was aware that the kids on his block were coming into his house to steal an instrument now and then. The neighborhood kids he was so good to. This was one sure way to keep the banjo safer. For a while I thought, he was, well, more paranoid than usual, but in time, a closed circuit television system showed him to be right. He played me a video recording. There on the television screen were the little thieves grabbing stuff and laughing. He did not inform the police, who had long tired of interacting with Clifford. The world did not treat him fairly. He just told the youngsters he had them on tape, and they were no longer welcome. I believe that made him sadder than the instrument thefts.

Roger with Clifford “Doc” Williams in 1973

We played a fair amount together, and then I realized something. I was among the very few who knew how good this fellow played. What a formidable presence he had as he sang and played. This secret really seemed a shame. Cliff Williams either did not have an ego to stroke, or felt he had nothing to prove, or, as he finally admitted, he suffered from stage fright. I asked if he had ever performed in public, and he sort of went sullen. “No,” he responded, “but I would like to.” I had begun booking The Closing Circle Coffeehouse for The Folk Music Society of Northern New Jersey. “Do you want to play there?” I asked, “I know the booking guy.” Doc agreed, said he would. But in the weeks prior, he got pretty nervous, needing pep talks to keep him focused and to keep him from cancelling. But Williams pulled it off. I could tell as he played, he was scared, but brilliant. Afterwards, Clifford was on cloud nine. He thanked me, although he never performed on a stage again.

Clifford passed away a few years ago. The doctors said he had some horrid organic brain issues. I saw the brain scan films. I was appalled at the pathology, but not surprised to see those pictures. But to me, he was just okay, an eccentric but good-natured fellow I knew as Doc. Flesh and blood, fuss and feathers.

This is all just to say, I have been playing that “old” banjo. Ever so old, I thought, when given to me … in its sixties when I was born. And now that I’m in my sixties, I guess it’s twice as old, and I have some perspective on how much narrative can be pressed in the pages of an oral history. It is amazing how quickly sixty-plus years pass. To hold something like that banjo in one’s hands is a simple gift, one that has endured the bumps and bruises of time; part harmony, part mystery. Simply put: it is a joy to play. Whatever recollections or secrets it holds, I will never know. It is just a remarkable experience to make music on something so venerable. I’ll do my best to continue to remember Clifford “Doc” Williams, as I play and play and play, “Simple Gifts” … So, that’s what was on my mind; a simple gift of a banjo, and the simple gift of friendship, the friendship of one very musical unsung hero.