Boy Named Banjo w/ Cole Scheifele

16 and up
Thursday, November 18
Doors: 7pm
$15

Globe Hall Presents Boy Named Banjo with Cole Scheifele on Thursday, November 18

Long before Boy Named Banjo, two of the founding members of the genre-breaking band grew up a mile down the road from each other in Nashville. William Reames and Willard Logan both picked up the guitar at an early age, took lessons from the same teacher in town, went to the same school, and even played in the same middle school band together. A shared love for bluegrass, folk, and singer/songwriter music sparked a different musical friendship for Reames between him and banjo player, Barton Davies. Before long, the two youngsters enthusiastically bounced songs off each other and discovered some of their favorite bands like The Steel Drivers, John Hartford, and The Infamous Stringdusters together. In no time at all, they were writing and performing songs of their own, an at the age of 16, they formed their own band. Only, they needed a mandolin player. That's when they called Logan - and the two longtime friends, and now, Davies, were bandmates once again. "We were still too young to step foot inside a bar when we first started to play," Davies recalls, "so we'd set up shop on the sidewalk outside of Robert's Western World in downtown Nashville and play our own songs for whomever would listen." According to Davies - about halfway through one of their sets, a man came stumbling out of Robert's, got in Barton's face and yelled "play that thing, Banjo Boy! Faster now, ya hear? C'mon, Banjo!" Reames texted Davies later that night - "Boy Named Banjo." With a brand new band name and a bunch of original songs, the trio recorded The Tanglewood Sessions, an honest, emotional, roots-driven look into the lives of the young outfit. Unexpectedly, the debut album was received quite well and now has over 3 million streams on Spotify. In 2014, BNB added drummer Sam McCullough and released its sophomore album, Long Story Short. The band got its first breakthrough by earning a spot on the 2015 Bonnaroo lineup, which led to some hometown love for the native Nashvillians, including a nomination for Best Local Band by The Tennesseean. Shortly after releasing Lost on Main EP in 2015, Boy Named Banjo found its missing piece - Ford Garrard (bass), hit the road, and hasn't stopped touring since. Boy Named Banjo's sound has grown up alongside them into an energetic blend of rock, folk-pop, and alt-country that will keep listeners smiling, clapping, and dancing along for many years to come. You won't want to miss what they have have been cooking up for 2018. Catch a live show and find out why.
"A friend told me it was Saturn returns and that may be true. I was about to turn thirty and I knew that if I didn't change direction I was going to end up exactly where I was headed." At the end of Leif Vollebekk's twenties, his own songs didn't sound right. He had spent an entire year on the road, playing almost 100 shows, but every night his favourite moment came only right at the end, covering a song by Ray Charles or Townes Van Zandt. Every time he got home from tour he took a hot shower and lay still under a window, listening to Nick Drake's Pink Moon, feeling saved, wondering why his own music didn't give him that. Why the songs he had written himself always felt like so much work. He booked himself a secret show. One night only at a Montreal dive bar -- not to play his own songs but other people's. Leif found a rhythm section and they rehearsed once. Then midnight unspooled. Leif called it the most fun he had ever had playing music: Ray Charles and Tom Waits over a locked groove; Bob Dylan and Kendrick Lamar over a slow pulse. The light was dark blue and purple. It was time, Leif understood, to make a dark blue and purple record. An album of locked groove and slow pulse, heavy as a fever. And the lesson he learned from singing all those other people's songs was that none of those other artists seemed worried about anything except laying down their own souls, flat out. "I used to think, 'This will be kinda like a Neil Young song,' 'This will be kinda like a Bob Dylan song,'" he recalled. "I kinda ran out of people to imitate. And then there was just me." His first new song came to him on his bicycle. He wasn't thinking, wasn't trying, but the rhythm, the chords, the melody -- it all just fluttered up. He tried at first to let it go: the song wasn't meticulous enough, it wasn't studied or conceived. The next morning it still came back to him, incontestable. "I told myself, 'You're never saying no to a song ever again,'" Leif said. "I realized I had been saying 'no' to a lot of songs, over the years." Twin Solitude is what happened when Leif stopped saying no. The songs started coming so fast: fully formed, impossible. "Vancouver Time" took 15 minutes; "Telluride" took less. It was as if the songs were waiting for him. Instead of obsessing about the details of recording, "I just showed up to the studio and went, 'Let's see what happens.'" What happened was, they got it: "Big Sky Country" and its patient, coasting tranquility, "Into the Ether," which rides to reverie with the Brooklyn string duo Chargaux. There's "East of Eden," an interpolation of Gillian Welch, which doesn't seem like it ever ought to end. For a beautiful album, Twin Solitude is deceptively brave, filled with unexpected refrains. "When the cards get stuck together / so hard to pull them apart," Leif sings, "I think your face is showing." Then: "Ain't the first time that it's snowing." Yet in its heart, above all, Twin Solitude is a gesture back to Leif's long nights under a pink moon, when a record was the only thing that could keep him company. Besides a wink to Hugh MacLennan's novel "Two Solitudes," this is the unlonely loneliness of the album's title. "It isn't a record I made for other people -- it's the one I made for myself," Leif said. "It's the album I wish I could have put on." Listen to it in a rental car in cold weather, with the windows all rolled up. Listen to it laying by an open window. Listen to it all the way through, alone. "By the time the last notes die away, all that's left should be you," Leif told me. "And I'll be somewhere else. And that's Twin Solitude."