For me, the term “bluegrass music” nestles comfortably in the same mental area code as “genuine imitation,” “military intelligence,” and indeed “military music.” The plucking, the twanging—the adjective for which I reach is rebarbative. It has been for many years a reliable rule that wherever you may find a banjo, you will not find me. Having just looked up the matter, I can confirm that, no, there are no sonatas for banjo by Beethoven, nor by Bach or Mozart. The great banjo-based opera has yet to be written. There is no Jeopardy! category entitled “beloved banjoists.” If you aren’t in a 1930s getaway car, or sitting on a porch in Mississippi, the object simply lacks utility. Once, as an unsuspecting fifteen-year-old partial to the absurdist musings of the comic Steve Martin, I purchased his album The Steve Martin Brothers only to discover that the entire second side consisted of banjo music, and though it proved impossible to throw away half of an LP record, I still want half of my $7.98 back.

So when this month I seated myself for a performance of Martin’s new bluegrass musical Bright Star (at the Cort Theatre) I had one eye trained on the stage, the other on the exit. Which Martin would present himself for my attention this time—the brilliant comedian or the hillbilly manqué?

It has been for many years a reliable rule