Welcome to the deep dive. Uh, pull up a chair
because today we are looking at a historical
mystery that actually directly affects the music
you probably listen to on your way to work today.
A really massive mystery. Yeah. And we always
consider you, the listener, the crucial third
person in the room with us. And we're really
going to need your curiosity for this one. Absolutely.
Our mission today is to take a stack of notes,
a bunch of historical sources, and a short but
incredibly dense Wikipedia article about a man
named John Picayune Butler and, well, basically
extract the real story hidden inside all of that.
Because it is one of those historical documents.
that it seems pretty brief on the surface, but
once you start pulling at the threads, the entire
tapestry of early American music, the physical
evolution of instruments and really the very
concept of fame itself starts to unravel in the
most fascinating way. Right. So we are traveling
all the way back to the 1820s today. A very different
world. Completely. We're exploring the roots
of American pop music, the evolution of the banjo,
and the incredibly blurry lines of historical
identity. To get us oriented, let's just lay
out the foundational details the sources give
us about our subject. Sounds good. Set the stage.
So John Picayune Butler was a black French singer,
a stage actor, an instrumentalist, and a clown.
He originally came from the French West Indies,
making his way to New Orleans in the 1820s. Right,
the 1820s. From there, he began touring the Mississippi
Valley. And his reputation just grew and grew
to the point that by the 1850s, he was a massive
name as far north as Cincinnati. What's fascinating
here is that this isn't just a standard historical
biography. For you listening right now, this
is a look at how early street performance fundamentally
shaped the entire entertainment industry we have
today. Yeah, the literal foundation. Exactly.
This is a story about how one single man's name
didn't just belong to him, but actually transformed
into a massive musical phenomenon in its own
right. So how do we actually get from a guy arriving
in New Orleans in the 1820s to a nationwide musical
phenomenon? Well, to understand Butler, we have
to look at the environment that shaped him. Right.
The influence of the street was massive. Our
sources highlight that one of his major early
influences was actually a local street vendor
known simply by the name Old Cornmeal. I love
this detail. Old Cornmeal is such a brilliant
piece of this puzzle. Yeah. Because he wasn't
just walking around selling goods in the background.
No, not at all. He actually gained significant
fame as a singer and a dancer, eventually performing
at the St. Charles Theater in New Orleans back
in 1837. It's wild to picture a vendor just stepping
off a dusty street corner and walking straight
onto a major theater stage. I mean, how common
was that kind of crossover? It was the defining
characteristic of the era, really. And WHY it
matters that a street vendor was influencing
it. traveling musician and clown like Butler.
Yeah, why is that the key? Well, you see, 1820s
and 1830s New Orleans was an unprecedented cultural
melting pot. You have performers moving seamlessly
from the open -air marketplace to the formal
theatrical stage. Just back and forth. Exactly.
The fact that a vendor like Old Cornmeal could
directly inspire a touring stage performer like
Butler shows us how American entertainment was
literally being built from the ground up on the
pavement. It wasn't coming from the top down.
Right. It wasn't trickling down from elite formal
conservatories in Europe. It was being forged.
in the markets, the ports, and the everyday noisy
interactions of the people actually living there.
Okay, let's unpack this because that ground -up
building process really comes into focus when
we look at the music itself. By the early 1850s,
Butler wasn't just playing music on a street
corner anymore. No, he was at the very top of
his field. He was at the center of a massive
three -way rivalry. He was considered one of
the top three professional banjo players of his
entire generation. The absolute elite of the
craft at that time. He was competing against
two very prominent white, blackface, minstrel
players. One was a man named Hiram Rumsey. Okay.
And the other was Tom Briggs, who actually went
on to write a highly influential book called
The Briggs Banjo Instructor in 1855. And amidst
all this really high -level competition, there's
a detail in our sources that I absolutely love
because it brings this history right into the
room with us. The Converse story. Yes. There
was a 14 -year -old banjo enthusiast named Frank
B. Converse, and young Frank managed to watch
John Pickian Butler perform live in the 1850s.
Which is a testament to how closely people were
paying attention to Butler's specific technique.
Right. Frank wasn't just a fan clapping along.
No, he was taking mental notes. He watched exactly
how Butler's hands moved, how he physically struck
the instrument. Converse later used those direct
observations of Butler to formulate the standard
system for teaching what is known as the stroke
or claw hammer style of playing the banjo. And
Converse even went on to author several banjo
instruction books himself based on this. He did.
It codified the style. For you listening who
might not play the banjo or if you're having
trouble visualizing this, let's just break down
that claw hammer style for a second. It's very
unique. It really is. Imagine you are holding
a modern guitar. Usually a player plucks upward
with their fingertips or a plastic pick, but
with the claw hammer style, your playing hand
is shaped almost like a literal claw. Hence the
name. Exactly. Instead of plucking up, you were
striking downward on the strings with the back
of your fingernail and then catching the thumb
on a string as your hand moves back up. It creates
this incredibly rhythmic, driving, almost percussive
sound. It's so fast and heavy. It fundamentally
turns a stringed instrument into a drum as well.
It's an incredibly physical way to play. And
because it is so physical, Converse noted a very
specific, tangible detail about Butler's gear.
Butler used something called a banjo thimble.
A fascinating piece of history on its own. Really
is. These were little metal covers that a player
would slide right over their fingernails to strike
the strings. Those thimbles are such a crucial
piece of 19th century technology. Yeah. Think
about it from a purely acoustic standpoint. Yeah.
If you were striking thick strings with the back
of your bare finger. fingernail over and over,
you're going to wear down or just break that
nail very quickly. Well, instantly. But more
importantly, I want you to imagine being a performer
in the 1850s. You are trying to captivate a raucous,
unruly crowd in a tavern or a theater. A tough
crowd. Very tough. There are no microphones.
There are no amplifiers. The room is echoing
with shouting, drinking, moving chairs. You need
every single decibel of loud, clear sound you
can possibly generate just to be heard over the
noise of the room. So the metal thimble essentially
turns your finger into a little metal hammer.
Precisely. It increased the volume and the sharp,
bright clarity of the instrument significantly.
That banjo thimble wasn't just a musical accessory.
It was a literal survival tool for a working
musician who needed to command a noisy room.
And it was a tool that clearly worked because
Butler was using it to compete at the highest
possible levels. In fact, our sources note that
in 1857, Butler participated in the first ever
banjo tournament in the United States. Held at
Chinese Hall in New York City. Yes, Chinese Hall.
A massive, highly anticipated event. To be invited
to the first national tournament means you're
rep... But the outcome of this tournament is
quite the historical punchline. We know Butler
was arguably the greatest player of his generation.
But he only placed second at Chinese Hall. Did
the sources indicate who beat him or maybe why
he fell short? They explicitly note the reason
for his second place finish. He was inebriated.
Wow. Yeah. The legendary John Piccione Butler
showed up to the first national banjo tournament
drunk. If we connect this to the bigger picture,
it is such a wonderfully humanizing detail. Really
is. It really highlights the gritty, completely
unpolished reality of early professional music
competitions. History often paints these foundational
moments as sterile, formal affairs with everyone
in suits acting perfectly polite. Right, like
a classical symphony or something. Exactly. But
the reality was loud, it was messy, and sometimes
the legendary master showed up a little too intoxicated
to win the first place prize. It grounds the
history in a very relatable reality. Sadly, Butler
didn't live much longer after that tournament.
The records show he passed away on November 18th,
1864 in New York City. A huge loss. But his influence
absolutely outlived him, which brings us to a
part of the history we need to navigate carefully.
We're going to look clearly and impartially at
how this musical influence actually flowed through
the culture of the 19th century. Right. The historical
record recognizes Butler as one of the first
documented black entertainers to directly influence.
the trajectory of American popular music. Which
is a monumental legacy. It is. And a huge part
of how that cultural transfer happened was through
the publication of a blackface song in 1858 called
Picayune Butler's Come to Town. It appeared in
Phil Rice's book, Phil Rice's Correct Method
for the Banjo, With or Without a Master. The
fact that his name is right there in the title
of a widely published song shows you the cultural
weight he carried. Absolutely. But it goes beyond
just sheet music. Butler's actual live performances
directly influenced white entertainers of the
era who were building the minstrelsy industry.
Our sources highlight a white circus clown and
early minstrel performer named George Nichols.
And Nichols didn't just casually observe Butler.
He directly absorbed his material. The historical
record shows that Nichols outright took the song,
Picking Butler is Going Away from Butler's Act.
And made it his own. He just took the song wholesale.
Yes. And an article published in the New York
Clipper on November 24th, 1860, drops an even
bigger historical detail. In that article, Nichols
claimed that he actually learned the song Jump
Jim Crow from Butler. Which is wild. Nichols
stated he was performing the song years before
Thomas Rice, who is famously and historically
associated with popularizing that incredibly
loaded caricature ever did. That is a staggering
piece of historical lineage. Jump Jim Crow wasn't
just a popular tune. It became the defining,
overarching caricature of an entire era, lending
its name to the systemic laws of the segregated
South later on. Right. To trace the performance
origins of that specific song back through Nichols
and directly to Butler is a massive revelation
about how culture was moving. And the New York
Clipper article also notes a very specific shift
in how Nichols performed. Initially, Nichols
sang Jim Crow in his traditional circus clown
makeup. Like the white face paint. Exactly. But
he watched John Pickey and Butler imitating the
character while performing the song. After seeing
Butler's physical performance, Nichols got the
idea to switch his act. He changed his whole
aesthetic. He abandoned the clown makeup and
began to sing the song in blackface instead.
Nicole also notes Nichols was heavily influenced
by Old Cornmeal, the street vendor we discussed
earlier. When you synthesize all of this information,
it provides a very stark, factual map of the
complex and highly appropriative nature of early
American entertainment. It's all connected. Very
much so. You have the direct innovations of black
performers. like Butler, creating these performance
styles, or Old Cornmeal innovating on the streets,
being actively observed, absorbed, and then repackaged
by white performers like Nichols for massive
commercial gain. And that repackaging changed
everything. It did. It demonstrates exactly how
cultural and musical techniques transferred across
racial lines in the 19th century, laying the
foundation for what would become massive yet
deeply fraught popular entertainment trends.
It is absolutely essential for understanding
how the mechanics of American music actually
traveled. Definitely. But wait, here's where
it gets really interesting. Because when you
look closely at the history of John Pickium Butler,
you don't just find a biography. You hit a massive
historical mystery. Yes, the timeline of Butler's
life and the sightings of him performing start
to become incredibly crowded. Too crowded for
one person, right? Far too crowded. A music historian
named Lowell H. Schreier put forward a fascinating
theory. Schreier suggests that Picayune Butler
might not have been just one single man. Because
the song Picayune Butler's Come to Town became
such a massive hit, Schreier believes that several
different people across the country may have
actually adopted the name as their own. It's
a brilliant piece of historical detective work.
through the contemporary records, newspaper clippings,
and sheet music from the 1800s, you can actually
break down four distinct possible butlers operating
during this era. Let's run through these four
suspects for the listener right now because the
details are just wild. Let's do it. Suspect number
one is what we might call the 1825 original.
This is a performer who is the subject of a song
written in 1845, which states he was playing
music around 1825. Okay. Crucially, the sources
describe this specific player as using a three
-string gourd banjo. We have to pause on that
specific instrument. Because historically, a
three -stringed gourd banjo is an incredibly
important clue. How so? That instrument traces
directly back to the descendants of African people
living in the Caribbean islands and parts of
North America from the 1600s into the 1800s.
Wow, that old. To give you a clear visual, the
oldest known banjo on record dates back to roughly
1770 to 1777, originating from the Surinamese
Creole culture. The 1770s? Yes. It was literally
a hollowed -out gourd, usually with an animal
skin stretched tight over the opening, a carved
wooden stick or plank serving as the neck, and
just three strings. So this 1825 original butler
is playing an instrument with deep, direct, largely
unmodified modified African and Caribbean roots.
Which gives us a very specific profile for suspect
number one, an older instrument, an older era.
Exactly. But then we move to suspect number two,
the Eagle Circus performer. There's a historical
listing from November 1845 for a performer using
the name Picayune Butler, who was touring heavily
with a troupe called the Eagle Circus. Touring
where? This performer was documented traveling
through Louisville, Kentucky, into Indiana, and
up to Cincinnati, Ohio. which is a vast geographic
area to cover for a traveling circus in 1845.
Right. Way too much ground to cover if you're
also playing in New Orleans and New York constantly.
Exactly. Then we have suspect number three, who
seems to be the main subject we've been focusing
on today. The New Orleans guy. Right. This is
the man who originated from New Orleans, the
one the New York Clipper listed in 1860 and whose
death was reported in 1864 in New York City after
the banjo tournament. OK, so what sets him apart
physically? The historical description of this
specific man noted he was copper colored. And
importantly, he played a four string banjo, not
the older three string gourd instrument. That
is a huge distinction. We have evolved from a
three string gourd to a four string banjo. suggesting
either a completely different era of playing
or just a completely different person entirely.
Almost certainly a different person. And finally,
we have suspect number four. The stage name.
The sources report that Picayune Butler was actually
used as an alias or a stage name for a completely
different performer named William Coleman, who
lived from 1829 to 1867. So when you lay it all
out, you have four separate entities, all operating
under the exact same moniker, spread across several
decades and vast geographic regions of the United
States. It is almost like Picayune Butler became
less of a single biological person and more of
a franchise. A brand name. Yes. Think of it like
a 19th century Dread Pirate Roberts from The
Princess Bride. It's the perfect analogy. It
becomes a title that gets passed along or co
-opted because the brand recognition is just
that strong. One guy builds the initial reputation
on the streets of New Orleans. A song gets published
that makes the name famous nationwide. And suddenly
you have multiple guys touring different states,
all claiming to the local crowds that they are
the one and only famous Picayune Butler. This
raises an important question for you, the listener.
To ponder about the nature of history itself.
What's that? How do we actually record and verify
facts before the era of mass media? Before everyone
had a camera in their pocket or instantaneous
communication across state lines. You really
couldn't. Right. When a name became popular enough
in the 1850s, it could easily become an umbrella
term for multiple artists. The audience sitting
in a theater in Cincinnati might watch one Picayune
Butler perform. while the audience in a New York
City hall watches another, and neither crowd
has any idea there's a discrepancy. They just
saw the poster and bought a ticket. Exactly.
They just know they paid to see a legendary banjo
player, and that is exactly what they got. It
completely reframes how we think about historical
fame. We've taken an incredible journey today
pulling these threads out of this single source
material. From a single Wikipedia article. Right.
We started in the French West Indies, traveled
to the bustling, noisy, melting pot streets of
1820s New Orleans to watch a vendor named Old
Cornmeal. We witnessed a drunken second place
finish at a high stakes New York City banjo tournament
and watched as a single man's identity fractured
into a shared stage name adopted by performers
across the country. And every single one of those
threads traces back to the physical music itself.
Which is exactly why this matters to you today.
Everything connects. The next time you are listening
to folk or country music and you hear a banjo
being played in that driving percussive claw
hammer style. The striking down with the nail.
Yeah. Or the next time you think about the very
deep, complex roots of American pop music, you'll
know where it comes from. You'll know that the
sound traces its way back through metal fingernail
thimbles, back through three -string hollowed
-out gourds, all the way to a deeply influential
and highly mysterious figure named Picayune Butler.
I want to leave you with a final thought to mull
over as you go about your day. Let's hear it.
If a single hit song in the 1850s was powerful
enough to turn one man's identity into a shared
alias used by multiple performers across the
country. Just off the strength of one song. Exactly.
How many other historical pioneers that we celebrate
today as singular geniuses might actually be
a composite? How many other historical legends
are really just a collection of different people
who simply share the same brand? Man, it is absolutely
something to think about. Thank you so much for
joining us for this deep dive. Keep asking questions,
keep looking into the history behind the music,
and we will see you next time.