Guitarist and banjo player David Ward. Photo / Brett Phibbs
David Ward is a guitarist and banjo player who composes music for theatre and film. Part of New Zealand's music scene for more than 20 years, award-winning Ward is a regular collaborator with theatre company Indian Ink and has also worked with Tami Neilson and the Auckland Philharmonic Orchestra. Most recently Ward has been the banjo composer and arranger, as well as Benedict's Cumberbatch's tutor and hand double, on Jane Campion's award-winning film The Power Of The Dog.
My parents tell me I had good ear for a tune from an early age. When I'd listen to jingles on the radio and sing them back, they thought, "we better get this boy some lessons". My first instrument was the piano and when I was at primary school I was taught by a lovely woman called Mrs Repton. She was missing a couple of fingers on her left hand, so she wore prosthetic fingers and they would clack on the keys when she played.
There was always music in our house. Dad was a very good singer who sung in choirs. Music was in his soul, for sure. We'd be in shops and he'd be whistling his favourite opera song or humming something from Gilbert and Sullivan which, as a child, I found very embarrassing, but thinking back now, I love it.
I took piano lessons for several years but playing music other people had written eventually lost its shine. It was nice to learn a little etude, but I wanted to create music, to understand how it was put together rather than just perform pieces to a decent standard, so when I was about 13, I dropped piano and started teaching myself guitar. I still loved piano, but I was listening to things like Hendrix and Pink Floyd, because that's what I found exciting.
Dad organised classical guitar lessons for me, but I was also making up my own songs and in my later teens I became obsessed with jazz. I still didn't think I was going to be a musician – we certainly didn't know any - but when I left school, music was the only thing I had a passion for. I decided to audition for Wellington's Conservatorium of Music jazz course. First, though, I took a year out, as I was relatively new to jazz. I moved from Whanganui to Wellington where I practised for around five hours a day for a whole year before I auditioned.
Once out of jazz school, I was subject to the fickle nature of trying to make a living out of music. There were definitely periods when I wondered, 'what am I doing this for?' But whenever I'd be on the verge of giving up, some great opportunity would pull me back in and I'd think it was wonderful again, and I'd say, 'I can't quit music'. That's happened a few times over the 20 or so years since I graduated.
To begin with, my focus was quite narrow. I just wanted to play jazz and I hustled really hard to play all the gigs I could. I was in trios and quartets and bands, not necessarily with great financial success but definitely lots of creative satisfaction. Being a single guy in my 20s meant I didn't need a lot to survive, and I wasn't picky either. One Christmas I got a gig walking around Kirkcaldies, the department store, playing the banjo with a bunch of musicians I'd never played with before. But the context didn't matter, so long as you're locked in with those other musicians, and you create good energy, it doesn't matter where you are or how many people are watching, if the music is happening, it's a success.
When I was buying one of my first banjos in Alistair's Music in Wellington, Catriona who sold it to me almost gave me a disclaimer. She told me to watch out for the banjo, because it can get under your skin and take over your life. I had a bit of chuckle, but that's what happened. The banjo crept up on me, and it now holds an incredibly special place in my heart.
I didn't have any formal banjo training, so I started playing in a pretty idiosyncratic way. Then I realised I owed it to the instrument to learn a more traditional style, like clawhammer, from the roots of American folk and blues music. I'd watch black and white films of guys like Roscoe Holcomb, this great old Kentucky clawhammer player. I'd watch his hands, and try to figure out what he was doing. It helped that I already had a solid grasp of music, so I could translate that on to an instrument that felt like a cousin of the guitar.
Spontaneously creating something with other musicians, and by extension creating that with an audience, it does something strange and wonderful to the mind and the heart. During the lockdowns, I didn't play gigs for months, and it was truly miraculous finally getting to play with other musicians, because when music is happening, there is no other thing like it.
To keep things ticking over, I've always taught. Teaching also helps keep the music alive when you're in between shows, so that you're still learning and communicating music. I've taught some people for many years, and when you play music with someone over a long period, a friendship evolves and that's really satisfying. Teaching was also very useful for Power of the Dog. Even though I had a very famous student, once I took the famous-ness out of the equation it wasn't strange to teach Benedict how to play banjo.
It was a bit daunting initially, when I was first flown down to the South Island to meet Benedict, Kirsten Dunst and Jane Campion so they could suss me out. When I met them, they were having a bit of a break from shooting. This meant it was less formal, away from all the apparatus of a film production. When we found we had a common creative language, I relaxed a little bit. I was also very fortunate to have this project turn up, when so many things to do with live performance were in limbo.
To begin with, it wasn't clear how involved I would be. I sent them through a banjo arrangement I'd made, and because they felt it had so much heart, and character, they reeled me in to do everything banjo, from teaching Benedict, to composing and arranging quite a big musical piece for one of the film's key scenes. Being on set I had a unique relationship, hanging out with the big star, but in a very relaxed way. I was a bit of an oddity among the multitude of film crew all doing their jobs. I didn't have to be so aware of the hierarchies, and I'd be hanging with Benedict in his trailer between scenes, playing some banjo, or having a bit of a yarn.
Coming back to filming after the initial lockdown, everyone was understandably paranoid about Covid. One day they were using smoke machines, and I had a little tickle in my throat. I was almost going blue in the face trying to not cough while they were rolling. I'd taken myself off to some far corner to cough, and the health and safety guy cornered me and asked, 'what's up with you?'. 'It's just asthma', I told him, but that was awkward.
Another time, between scenes, I was tuning the banjo and a whole tuning peg just popped out, which rendered the banjo unplayable. Luckily I'd made friends with an art department guy and he pulled out the most miraculous glue I've ever seen. Somehow we managed to set this peg back into the banjo with just enough time to tune up without anyone of note noticing that I'd destroyed the antique hero banjo that had been sourced to fit the era. That was tense, but once it was fixed I started breathing again.
Creating new work, composing and collaborating can be so satisfying. I also really love the live aspect of gigs and theatre shows, or even busking, because regardless of the context, you're sending out this energy. You're trying to capture people and hold them in a bubble of attention. There is something so special about inviting people into a space and taking them on a journey. When you get an audience of a few hundred people and they're completely immersed in the thing you're creating, and you're holding their attention, it feeds those people and it feeds you as well.
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