I first met C. G. Fitzpatrick or "Fitz" as everybody called him, on a rainy day in 1950 in the Clifford Essex showrooms. He was looking for a copy of "To the Front" and, as I happened to have a spare, I offered it to him. His reaction almost alarmed me-my hand was pumped for several minutes, I was slapped on the back and before I realised what was happening I found myself in the nearest pub holding a double whisky and learning more about music and the banjo in thirty minutes than anybody else had taught me in the previous three years.
"By the way," he announced suddenly, "I'm Fitzpatrick, the lousiest banjo player in the country, but if you ever call me anything but 'Fitz' I'll box your ears, young man! Come round to my place now and we'll have a session."
This was the beginning of a few short years of friendship with, surely, one of the most vital and sparkling little men the banjo world has ever seen. But what years! To anyone who did not know him, it is impossible to describe the fascination "Fitz" exercised over his friends; fascination is the right word to use and the best possible explanation of this fascination is the fact that almost everything about Fitz was, quite literally, unique.
To start with, his appearance was unique. He was Anglo-Indian by birth; a disadvantage. I am ashamed to say, that made his life less happy than it might have been. Small in stature, weighing less than eight stone; large and delightfully expressive brown eyes; a surprisingly strong clear voice; a wildly erratic but stimulating temperament; rounded off by his two indispensable accessories —a spotted bow tie and a hand-rolled cigarette he never managed to finish smoking—all these things made an indelible impression on me from the first.
Secondly, his personality was unique. Generous, impulsive, a lover of company, sometimes un-believably reticent and at other times devastatingly outspoken, he bubbled with life and nobody in his company could ever complain of a dull moment!
But the most unique and memorable thing of all was his banjo playing. I do not know whether Fitz was influenced by anybody, except possibly Cammeyer, but I do know he influenced almost everybody else. His style was not Ossman's or Oakley's or Morley's, it was Fitz's and it was always the most tremendous fun to listen to it.
Really, it was not banjo playing at all, as most of us understand it; it was the creation of a man with real music in his soul and the technical ability to express it on the instrument he loved. It would be wrong to imagine Fitz, though, as a "polished" performer; essentially, he was a brilliant improviser with an extraordinarily penetrating critical faculty and far too fond of "fun and games" to stick to the dots if he thought a few notes above the 22nd fret would liven up the proceedings!
When he was in the mood, Fitz could make his banjo sing like a Hawaiian guitar and even pieces like "Ave Maria" did not sound out of place when he played them. And how wonderful it was to play a solo with Fitz playing "second"—those throbbing four-string chords gliding over the entire range of the fingerboard; that instinctive sympathy with the light and shade of the soloist's interpretation! What a pity his Garbo-like avoidance of publicity and self-deprecation prevented him from being as widely known as he deserved to be.
Now he has gone but never, I am sure, will he be forgotten. That elfin grin; the coil of tobacco smoke; the delighted chuckle as a tricky piece of fingering startled his listeners—these things are burned into the memories of all those lucky enough to have known this lovable little man with the singing strings and the heart of gold.