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A winner of 13 Grammy Awards for his musicianship and songwriting, Ron Block is an unlikely premier bluegrass guitarist and banjo player. He first was attracted to the art form as a teenager in California, but later brought his own style to Alison Krauss and Union Station, with whom he has been a member since 1991. But his place in the band as well as his sanity were threatened in the mid 1990s, when he lost faith in the talent on which he had built his identity. He reflected on that dark period for our interview, while also discussing his second solo album DoorWay, influenced as much by C.S. Lewis and George MacDonald as by Bill Monroe and Lester Flatt.

How did a kid who grew up in Los Angeles come to love bluegrass?

Ron Block I worked at my dad's rock 'n' roll music store. I had gotten an acoustic guitar in 1975 and played all the time, but then I picked up a banjo and just fell in love with it. I was thrilled with the sound of bluegrass. I also think it was a way to rebel. In the ultimate sense, it was God calling. If I had played rock 'n' roll, the path would have been much different than the one I've been on.

What has that path been like?

Block I grew up with a low sense of self-worth, and saw God as this distant, kind of stern figure. I was always trying to please him but felt I never measured up. One night as a teen, I was sitting in a car with a friend I was in a band with, and I remember him saying, "Ron, we're not saved by doing; we're saved by trusting God." That was a huge epiphany for me. I went home and it was as if I had a whole new Bible. I began to look at the Bible as promises rather than commands. I learned from Matthew 6 that God would take care of my needs if I put him first.

But my identity was still wrapped up in being a musician. My attitude was, "I'll work five times as hard and become great at this." This identity track continued to escalate through my teens and early twenties. When Alison [Krauss] and the guys asked me to join in 1991, my sense of worth reached an all-time high—they were very vocal with their praise. But when you're hooked into an identity source that's rooted in the world's system of performance-based acceptance, it's going to fluctuate, and your self-concept is going to flop up and down with it. That high feeling I had was just the top of the roller coaster; in a short time it started to head straight down to the rocky bottom where the track suddenly ended.

What happened then?

Block God started to deal with the false identities I'd created from childhood. Around 1992, I prayed a Tozer prayer: "Lord, work your will in my life no matter what the cost." God took that and ran.

One of God's ways to break me was through my high standards [and perfectionism] in the studio. It was always, "Let me play that part one more time … Oh, that note was a little flat, do it again." I began to believe I was no good and that I couldn't play or sing at all because I couldn't do it perfectly.

My perfectionism was kicking into high gear, and it was killing me. My perceptions and false beliefs—and through them my actions—were completely whacked out. As my sense of musical worth fell, I wasn't Mr. Nice Guy anymore; all kinds of bitterness and resentments started coming up. It's a tribute to how much the group loved me and loved the way I played that I'm still in the band.

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