Bluegrass Piano Picker

8/29/26

“Bluegrass Piano Picker”

A while ago, I told you about the first bluegrass band I joined as a teenager - about Harry Packard and all the fellows who got me started on this winding road. That band evolved over the years, some leaving and others sticking it out. After a couple of the boys flew the coop simultaneously, Harry asked piano player Rodger Nelson to join the band. A piano? Why not? Rodger knows the bluegrass canon inside and out and can lay down some rhythm that gets feet moving and fingers snapping. The sacred bluegrass instruments – banjo, mandolin, and fiddle were still present, and the extra added eighty-eight key attraction allowed us to play a wider variety of musical styles. Also, and this is a big plus, adding Rodger to the band increased the fun factor by leaps and bounds, which was important because we weren’t making a fortune. Our audience, who were having fun and dancing, didn’t know we had a verboten instrument. They were there for a night on the town and didn’t care one way or another (except for one fellow that I’ll tell you about before too long).

Aside from our paying gigs, we all liked to attend bluegrass festivals and jam. Rodger usually played an electronic keyboard, but he wanted to attend a festival that didn’t allow electric instruments in the camping area. So, he rolled his big upright piano onto a flatbed trailer and strapped it down for transport. A few days before the big event, I paid him a visit at his sign shop. The trailer, piano on board, was parked inside the shop, where Rodger was painting pinstripes on its side. I asked if I could give the old upright a workout because, when I saw that piano, an urgent need to attempt a Jerry Lee Lews number suddenly came over me. Now, Jerry Lee loved glissandos. That’s a technique where you slide your fingernail across the keys. I jumped up on the trailer, sat down, and started pounding out a boogie-woogie ditty. Had the song been in the key of “C”, which consists of only the white piano keys, everything would have been fine, and I wouldn’t be writing this. But alas, I was not playing in the key of “C”, so when I ended the song with a big glissando, about four or five of the black keys broke off and went flying! I just sat there with my mouth open for a long time. After coming back to my senses and apologizing up, down, and all around, I asked if I had destroyed the piano. Rodger left me hanging awhile but finally said it wouldn’t be a big repair job. By the time he rolled into the campground, the piano was back in shape.

Once at the festival, we got into a great jam session that went on until well past midnight. When it was finally over, I realized I hadn’t eaten all day, so I decided to drive out in search of food. As I left the campground, the rain started to pour down but that didn’t deter me. I was starving. What did deter me was when I slid off the road about three miles from the festival. My car, a 1972 Buick Riviera, in pristine condition until that night, landed on its side against a big rock. By then, it was about three a.m. and still pouring. Jimmie Rodgers was singing on my car’s cassette player, so I stayed in the car until Jimmie finished yodeling, then climbed out the window, as the doors were jammed shut. A few minutes later, an off-duty fireman saw me and picked me up. I wanted him to take me back to the campground, but my rescuer insisted on taking me to the police station, as my car had landed on State property. I said, “Well alright, let’s get it over with.” When we arrived at the station, its doors were locked and no cops were in sight. Lucky me!!!! So, my driver grudgingly carried me back to the festival. The next morning, it took a tow truck and a front-end loader to get my car off that rock. I think I can rationalize blaming the whole thing on Rodger and his bluegrass piano.

A few months after the “Riviera Rollover,” as my encounter with the rock was called by my bandmates, we were playing a gig on Kent Island, Maryland. We had a big crowd, and the audience (all but one) seemed to be having a good time. So were we. During our first break, an irate fellow who’d had a little too much to drink, came up to me and said, “You gotta get rid of that pie-ann-er, this is s’posed to be blue grass.” I told the fellow that everybody seemed to be enjoying the music and asked him what his problem was. “There ain’t no pie-ann-er in blue grass, Bill wouldn’t like it.” When I asked, “Bill who?” he said “Father Bill.” I didn’t realize Bill Monroe was a clergyman.

About three songs into the final set, Rodger suddenly stopped playing, mid-song. At least I thought he did, but when I looked back, he was still pounding on the keys. No sound was coming out, and a thin column of smoke was rising from the electronic piano. The poor thing had given up the ghost. After the show, the aforementioned drunk music critic stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in my shirt pocket and said, “Thank you sir, thank you so very, very much.” He thought I had sabotaged the piano.

Tom Mindte

August 2026

Rodger with the band in 1985

Rodger and his bluegrass piano

Riviera on the rocks.

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