Why write about an East Coast banjo player in a Colorado bluegrass magazine?
- Mike Jackson
- 57 minutes ago
- 4 min read
Because Gabe Hirshfeld showed up for people everywhere. Not in a vague, inspirational way, but in the most practical, human sense possible – his presence. He answered messages. He took calls. He showed up. He cared deeply about people, about music, and especially about the banjo. He cared about how your banjo sounded and how it felt in your hands, even if you’d never met and might never cross paths in person.
When news of Gabe’s passing spread, the response was immediate and overwhelming. It didn’t stay confined to one region or one scene. It moved quickly through bluegrass and music communities across the world, carried by people telling some version of the same story: He was my friend. I reached out to Gabe with a question, and he gave me far more than I expected. Time. Attention. Patience. Respect. A deep belief that music, and especially the banjo, and the person playing it, were worth taking seriously. He had an encyclopedic understanding of prewar banjos, banjo parts, fingerpicks, and setup techniques, and he shared that knowledge with the ease of someone who truly wanted others to understand. Just as present was his sense of humor, always close to the surface, quick and smart but never cutting. Even while battling serious health challenges, he carried himself with warmth and generosity, a reminder that mastery and kindness don’t have to be separate things.
The obituaries and on-line posts capture the scope of his life and his impact. They describe a son, brother, friend, and a musician with a rare ear, deeply rooted in tradition and modern techniques but unafraid to question all of them. A banjo player whose touch, tone, and musical judgment set him apart. A teacher and deep thinker who understood the instrument not as a collection of parts, but as a living system. Above all, they describe someone whose generosity was never performative. Gabe didn’t guard knowledge. He gave it away freely, trusting that the music would be stronger if more people understood it.
Reading those remembrances, you quickly understand why his passing feels so personal to so many. Gabe wasn’t just admired from afar. He was present in people’s lives. He entered kitchens, basements, workshops, jams, and practice rooms. He showed up in person, online, and through phone calls and video chats, helping people hear things they hadn’t heard before and understand things that once felt mysterious. Just talking and connecting.
That’s how he entered my life too.
I had just returned from a long work trip to Antarctica, where I had taken my banjo with me. After landing, I picked it up and immediately knew something was wrong. The sound wasn’t there. I tried a number of things, but I was fighting it, chasing tone that wouldn’t settle in, growing more frustrated by the day. I’d never met Gabe, but I knew his reputation and his skill in all things banjo, so I sent him a message anyway. I asked a couple of questions and assumed I might hear back later, if at all.
About an hour later, my phone rang. It was a video call.
“Hey man,” Gabe said, just like that. “What’s going on with your banjo?”
Two and a half hours later, we finally hung up. I was exhausted. In that time, he had me take the banjo completely apart and put it back together. Twice. He worked methodically, telling me what to adjust first, how much to move it, then stopping to ask what I heard. He trained my ear in real time. Tiny changes mattered. A sixteenth of an inch on a coordinator rod pulled the neck tight to the rim and suddenly released that sound, the one banjo players are always chasing. Hey man, things sound tight to me. That tailpiece, move it up a bit and see what you hear. Whaddaya think?
It was a master class disguised as a favor. Gabe didn’t just fix my banjo. He helped demystify it. He gave me tools, confidence, and a deeper understanding that I still carry every time I make an adjustment.
And my story isn’t unique. That’s the point.
Every obituary, every tribute, every personal reflection about Gabe circles back to the same truth. He was kind. He was generous with his time. He loved people, music, and especially the banjo, and he loved helping other people love it too. Not selectively. Not strategically. Just fully.
Maybe that’s why it makes perfect sense to write about an East Coast banjo player in a Colorado bluegrass magazine. Gabe was a gift. And the best way we can honor him isn’t just by remembering what he played or what he knew, but by trying, in our own small ways, to be a little more like Gabe.
Further Reading and Memorial
For those who would like to read more about Gabe’s life, music, and impact, Bluegrass Today published a thoughtful obituary that captures both his musicianship and the deep respect he earned across the community:
A memorial fund has also been established in Gabe’s name through the Boston Bluegrass Union. Contributions support causes that reflect his lifelong commitment to the banjo, musical education, and the development of young banjo players: