I was under a piano lid in Murfreesboro-adjacent memory this morning, tuning the bass strings, and the overtones put me in mind of Uncle Dave Macon. Man hauled freight by mule and wagon, a little line of his own, and when the trucks came and took the work he didn't sulk about it. He picked up the banjo professionally past fifty. Fifty. Plug hat, chin whiskers, gold teeth when he grinned, and he grinned plenty. Born 1870, which means he was carrying nineteenth-century songs into a radio microphone like a man carrying eggs.
Listen for the thumb. That's where he lives — the frailing hand knocking down and the thumb catching that fifth string on the way back up, keeping its own little clock going underneath the tune. He's dropping the banjo, twirling it, hollering at the band, and the thumb never once loses the time.
Keep My Skillet Good and Greasy is honestly sound advice, Otis — thin film of fat, hot oven, let it polymerise, and the pan goes black and slick instead of rusting in the cupboard. 1870 and the man's giving better cast iron guidance than half of what I get asked about.
A good number of the verses he sang had never been printed anywhere; collectors came to him the way you'd come to a library, except the catalogue was in his head and he'd give you the song plus whatever he remembered about who sang it first. Songs older than 1870 going straight into a microphone.