Boy Named Banjo

IN A TOWN WITH A SKYLINE LITTERED WITH building cranes heralding the arrival of new residents daily, finding four Music City natives in the same band is akin to seeing a snowball fight in Thomasville—in August. But the singer songwriter troubadours of Boy Named Banjo have transcended the typical Nashville sound. What could be described as an amalgam of several genres oscillating between bluegrass, rock and folk is really the product of a serendipitous twist of fate that occurred while a few of them were still in short pants.

Technically, Boy Named Banjo’s origins can be traced to preschool, where members of the band first met. Grammar school followed, as did middle school, and then their teenage years, when they recognized their collective musical gift. Banjoist Barton Davies and William Reames, whose harmonica and acoustic guitar hint at Neil Young, laid the foundation for the band in high school, and soon Willard Logan joined in on mandolin. The acoustic trio recorded their first album before graduation and were playing Bonnaroo a few years later. “We started playing for fun and never stopped,” Reames says.

Eventually, bassist Ford Garrard, a jazz studies major at the University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill, and Sam McCullough, the iconoclastic drummer of the quintet, joined the band, and things got interesting. No one could have predicted then that a Beatles loving heavy metal drummer, a jazz bassist, a banjoist, a mandolinist and an alt-country guitarist (who took free harmonica lessons at Nashville’s Parthenon art museum) would someday open for Hank Williams Jr. It’s as unlikely as it’s intriguing, but that’s the ever-unfolding story of Boy Named Banjo.

Though the band’s instrumental arrangement isn’t unique, their sound is. In their recently released album Dusk, these Nashville natives envelop the listener in a melodious opus of original and ominously powerful songs. Like those of Van Morrison and Hank Williams, their ballads traverse the spectrum of emotions, from the terrible pain of divorce to the joy of youth. It’s impossible not to close your eyes, rhythmically tap your foot and hold back tears while pondering over how these young men articulate the tragedy of life so beautifully.

When asked how they do it, Garrard explains, “It’s like putting a puzzle together when you’re making the pieces yourself.”

But just when you think you can categorize them, something throws you off the scent, like a subtle infusion of punk when the cymbals on McCullough’s drums explode with an aggression reminiscent of Tommy Ramone. It’s barely noticeable, and no one would suggest that Boy Named Banjo is punk, but it’s an example of what happens when artists with different musical backgrounds find one another.

Davies’s banjo playing has the gentleness of Bela Fleck coupled with the impossible accuracy of Earl Scruggs. His judicious picking unsheathes a rhythmic beauty, drawing you into a vulnerable dance with the muse in his soul. Then come the reverberations of McCullough’s bass, floating through the lyrics like a thunderous storm cloud. All the while Logan tickles the neck of a mandolin, adding an element of Appalachian comfort. Reames’s acoustic guitar playing is tight and measured.

It’s no wonder these guys are so sought after. Going from playing fraternity parties to performing on Nashville’s most prestigious stages is quite an accomplishment. “You never really get used to it,” Reames says, smiling, when asked about playing the Ryman and the Grand Old Opry.

Nowadays, most of the members have settled down (a bit). With the exception of McCullough, the socially thriving and unapologetic bachelor of the group, all the guys are married, and some have young kids. Tours are scheduled around comfortable hotels and gyms versus bars and the rock ’n’ roll life.

“The early tours are full of wild stories and shenanigans, but now it’s take care of yourself and limit the beers,” Garrard says, adding with a laugh, “I know that’s a boring answer.”

With the wisdom gained from years of touring and creating six albums, Davies says of his aspirations for Boy Named Banjo, “I want to keep building this thing and get to the point where we’re selling out shows all across the country.”

There’s ample evidence to suggest that Davies and the boys will do just that. Their dedication to authenticity is a breath of fresh air in a world marked by appeasement and conformity. Having the courage to create music that steps outside the narrow confines of radio expectations is laudable.

These Southern boys are excited about visiting Thomasville. Though none of them has been to the Rose City, they’re well aware of its significance in the realms of the outdoors and the arts. “We’re looking forward to experiencing Thomasville, meeting everyone and putting on a hell of a show,” Reames says.

Bradley A. Evans is a writer from Atlanta, though his heart resides in St. Simons Island, Georgia, and Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He enjoys golf, squash, and fly fishing when he’s not traveling or myopically competing in a game of backgammon. He is a graduate of the University of Georgia and a devout Deadhead.

*This article was published in issue #21 of THOM Magazine - 4/20/2024