The Northwest Files

How to Make Music

I spent Tuesday through Friday a couple of weeks ago at a retreat called the Americana Song Academy at an isolated retreat called Caldera, up above Sisters, a small town about 15 miles west of us here in Central Oregon. The camp sits aside Blue Lake, way out in the woods in the Cascade Mountains. No cell service, very little Wi-Fi.

This probably was just as well. There was nothing upon which to focus except music. That, after all, is why we all were there.

The schedule kept us busy from breakfast until 11 pm or so. Every morning started off with breakfast, then a group sing. This really set the tone – for not just that day, but for the whole experience. Everyone there was an accomplished musician (well, except for me), and the leaders of the sings were especially talented. All three mornings, the experience was so moving that it was hard to find someone who didn’t have tears of joy and comfort. I wanted to hug everyone I could see. Evenings consisted of open-mic sessions in which students presented their work.

The emphasis was on learning. Song camp offered a plethora of workshops, with time for two each morning, two each afternoon, with the added prospect of mentoring sessions. All of the above were conducted by a selection of the artists scheduled to perform at the Sisters Folk Festival, which took place immediately following song camp.

This was precisely where I ran into trouble.

I had not realized that the whole point of this thing was writing songs, as there isn’t a lot of promotion for this camp, and not a lot of advance information. I’d thought, hoped, it was tuned toward general folk musicianship. It wasn’t.

I didn’t go there to write a song, but that’s what we were expected to do. As a matter of self-defense, I roughed out a silly little talking blues because I was obliged to come up with something. I mean, that counts as a song, doesn’t it?

This was where I ran into trouble. The emphasis, especially from the women instructors, was to dig into your sensitive, vulnerable side. Well, that ain’t me. Maybe you know the stuff I like – hobos, rakes and ramblers, miner- ‘49ers, bad actors like Wild Bill Jones. None of these performers had that territory staked out, but a duo called Pharis and Jason Romeo came closest.

The cool thing was that when you attend song camp, you get to know these artists. They are amazing people, impressive people. You’re in their classes and you’re eating three meals a day with them.

Here are some names: Martyn Joseph, here for song camp and the folk festival from Wales. He is easily the most powerful solo performer I’ve ever seen. Sensitive, interesting, angry as hell, gets huge, monstrous tone out of his Louden guitar. Took a workshop from him. It was by far the best of the bunch. If you can find it, listen to his song, Here Come the Young.

Also: John Smith. He’s a pixie-like gray-haired and -bearded gnome from Wisconsin, fabulous writer with a wonderful voice; if you can find it, listen to his song, Medicine.

Also: Keith Greeninger, from Santa Cruz, Calif., who writes killer protest songs.

Also: Pharis and Jason Romero, from Horsefly, British Columbia. They reminded me of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings but better, and they did wonderful stuff that was exactly the kind of folk music I was dying to see. I took a mentoring session from Jason, one fine banjoist. He showed me some things I should have known. Yes, of course I brought a banjo along. A guitar, too.

This camp was far more political than I ever could have imagined. Everybody – I mean everybody – hated our country’s current political situation. That was the subtext of the experience. If they weren’t talking about the music, they were talking politics. I mean instructors and students (all 160 of us) alike.

Sadly, it had to end. The end came with an emotional closing ceremony. After the morning sing on Friday, we all clustered in a circle in the forest around John Smith, who sang a moving little song. Again, tears everywhere, so great was the affirmation.

It was affirmational for the instructors too, many of them said, and even more-so the folk festival that followed. Gas in their tanks, they said.

At the end of the ceremony, everyone was invited to remove a stone from a pile of river stones that had been built in the center of our circle. Take your stone home, we were told, put it in your guitar case as a memento of the experience. I have mine right here.

This was not cheap to do, but what an incredible experience. Probably I will do it again. I’m determined to have two songs, at least, to take with me next year. That’s important because song camp offers at least three open-mic nights and afternoons, and that’s where you’re supposed to present your work. If you go do this and come away with nothing, what’s the point?

I went there hoping to return with my tank filled with enthusiasm for music. I don’t know if that worked. I think time will tell. But was a hell of an experience. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around that much art and music. The Central Oregon Mastersingers, a choral ensemble with which I sing, seems dry and academic by comparison. It is interesting in its own way and very challenging, but nowhere near as much fun as song camp.

But let us back up a bit: One of my problems with this experience was the vulnerability stressed by several of the instructors. That’s a hard place for me to go. It’s hard to find the freedom and openness that allows such vulnerability.

I survived boarding school. Vulnerable people do not survive boarding school. Or, really, pretty much anything else. So it’s difficult to shrug off the shell that we form to make it through school and professional adulthood. So how is it that the morning sing always ended with my eyes wet?

The “song” I wrote, a true tale of something going on in our back yard in the form of a talkin’ blues like Woody Guthrie might have performed, is a result of that. Kind of an anti-song, at least in the vulnerability department. It is, I suppose, kind of a rebellion against what we were asked to do. I think now that that was a stupid mistake, but it was all I knew to do.

I’ll perform it at song camp next year, if I go.

No, wait. I’ll perform it next year at song camp.

-JFT

Relighting the Fires

Tomorrow is the beginning of an adventure. It’s the day I sign in for an intensive, three-day residential folk-music retreat called the Americana Song Academy.

I’m doing this because to my great despair, I seem to have fallen out of love with playing music. There was a time when I played every day. These days, rarely do I pick up an instrument. I badly miss it, but somehow, it’s just not calling my name.

But now I’ll have no choice but to play, thanks to this program up in the mountains near Suttle Lake, just outside of Sisters, Oregon. It consists of early-morning to late-night classes, lessons, jams, performances, and more. Laura thinks that this is just what I need, that the experience will help me snap out of these doldrums and find some musical joy. I hope she's right.

And if the ASA isn’t enough, Friday through Sunday, we attend the Sisters Folk Festival, the nonprofit that sponsors and organizes the Americana Song Academy. 

I told my old pal Mike last night of my frustration with this musical silence. It seems like my instruments sit here in their stands, untouched, silently mocking me. I told him that I feel as though I’ve fallen out of love with something wonderful. I badly want to fall back in love with it. 

Mike used to be my musical co-conspirator. We’ve played together, off and on, since college. But since Laura and I fled California three years ago, I haven’t found a like-minded person to pick and sing with. Maybe someone will turn up in this coming week of music, this trial by fire.

I’ve decided to take a couple of meaningful instruments – an open-back custom Bacon-style banjo left to me by my dear old pal Hal Wright, who would be impatient with me if he knew I’ve not been playing, and a Martin guitar that I’ve owned and played for 57 years.

Songs? I’ve picked out about a half-dozen of favorites that I’ve loved for at least 50 years, old folk tunes with legs. Also, these are tunes I know how to play, even if I don’t always remember all the lyrics – my memory seems not to be what it used to be. I’m not sure I’ll need songs, but I suspect that at some point, every participant will be called upon, or at least offered the opportunity, to present a song or two. I’m trying to be ready.

So we shall see. This music has been of huge importance to me. I’ve missed it. I’m hoping that these twinned experiences help to rekindle my musical fires.

-JFT

The Day the Music Died

A very interesting music video crossed my attention today. It’s a masterful performance of a wonderful tune. I'm sure that you know it. And most likely, if you’re anywhere near my age, you long ago decoded the meaning of the lyrics. Here it is. Please turn the sound up, go full screen. You won’t regret it, I think.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpvXPz9u4Zc

But here’s the deal: As I listen to Don McLean deliver this great performance of his most famous tune, and yes, that’s a very rare Martin D-35S that he’s playing, I can’t help but think that maybe, somehow, he’d found a way not only to mirror the past, but also to glimpse into the future, especially here:

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan's spell

And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

So please, take a moment to look and listen. You’ll enjoy this performance, I think. And I think that it might just make you think that McLean is a bit of a seer. It makes me think that. Because I’m very afraid that we in the U.S. are on the edge of seeing the music die.

-JFT

Musically

Who am I musically? And where? And does it matter? Been thinking about that lately.

I know where I am now, and I know more or less where I started. But what comes next?

(Please note, I am writing this highly introspective piece mostly for my own amusement. I promise, you will be bored to tears. So you might want to consider closing this file and returning to doing something that is actually useful, amusing and productive. If you elect to continue, don’t say you weren’t warned.)

The question I just posed is easy, the answer isn’t. My parents’ musical tastes, the stuff I heard around the house as a child, ran from longhair stuff like Prokiev’s Love of Three Oranges and Beethoven’s concerti to the Norman Luboff Choir’s cowboy songs to the Grand Ol’ Opry, complete with Bill Monroe, and later, Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs.

My mom had high-toned ideas. I was 8 when she started me on violin lessons with Mr. Carl Gordon. I mean, really? I was a big clumsy kid with huge hands. I still have all the sheet music study materials tucked into a binder that has not been opened in more than 60 years. Fiddle never was going to be my instrument, but I persevered until age 14, at which time I was shipped off to boarding school. My life changed completely, and for lots of reasons.

At home, I had a small radio/record player in my bedroom. I was in love with the marches of John Phillip Sousa. Had a couple of records, played them over and over.

As time moved on, I listened to radio programs featuring everything from the Eastman Wind Ensemble and the Ray Conniff Orchestra to Ira Cook’s Top 40 show on KMPC radio, 710 on your AM dial. On that show, I heard everything from “Mr. Sandman,” by The Chordettes, to “Volare,” by Dean Martin, to “Black Denim Trousers and Motorcycle Boots,” by The Cheers, and so much more.

But tastes changed and, with luck, become more sharply focused. I discovered the tropical sounds of the Martin Denny Trio and the Arthur Lyman Group, both of which played music of what’s called the Tiki Culture – Polynesian music featuring piano, marimba, drums, bird calls. I still love that peaceful music and I still listen to it every once in a while.

That was a prelude to Harry Belafonte and his calypso music, which really got my attention. “Day-O, daylight come and I wan’ go home.” And so forth. Rhythmic, musical, and musically interesting. Then Belafonte’s Carnage Hall record with Miriam Makeba and the great and wonderful Odetta and her 12-string guitar. What a couple of talents, what a couple of voices! And to me, a kid growing up on a desert ranch, all of it unbelievably interesting and exotic.

Then off to boarding school in 1957. No more musical feast, no more Top 40. Once there, my dear friend, teacher and musical mentor Fred Lorenz converted me from fiddle to brass for spot in the concert band, and introduced me to choral music. The first time we sang Bach’s magnificent “Sleepers, Wake” from the chapel hymnal I was hooked.

In 1957, about the same time I went off to school, the Kingston Trio burst onto the scene. This band captured the energy and enthusiasm of all the material I’d been listening to, added banjo, guitar, bongo drums, Tiki and calypso, tossed in a wonderful dash of professionalism and choral harmonies. Again, I was hooked. I figured this bright collage of music was what I wanted to be involved in.

But then came college, where a professor told me I didn’t have what it took to be a music major. Probably he was right, probably he did me a favor, given the difficulty of earning a living in music. I’m sure that I’ve been much better off in journalism that I would have been in music.

Still, as time passed, I found Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, The Dillards, The Beatles, Gordon Lightfoot, Crosby Stills & Nash, Sam Bush, the Nashville Bluegrass Band, the Del McCoury Band, the Travelin’ McCourys, and so much more.

Add to that the ongoing presence of the music of Mozart, Haydn, Bach and Beethoven, which has been a constant through all of this. Also constant from the earliest days, a very nice guitar, a couple of banjos, and a mandolin, all of which I picked away at. Roots pushing toward the surface.

What a crazy confusion of types and styles. You’d think just one type or style would have stuck, would have asserted itself. But no.

Do you begin to understand why I’m confused, why musically I’m not sure who I am, or why?

What I do understand is that the really great music, music of almost any kind, gets my attention; but not enough of my attention to compel me to stick with any one thing.

Today, I rarely pick up a banjo, guitar or mandolin. After many years of singing semi-pro choral music in SoCal, there was a long fermata. That fermata, or pause, recently ended. I’m now singing with the Central Oregon Mastersingers and more or less enjoying that, though I do struggle a bit. That’s because that old professor was correct, I had no business studying music as a profession.

But Central Oregon is a gold mine of American folk music. It’s all around us. Laura wants me to go to a week-long music camp just prior to the Sisters Folk Festival, in September, in the hope that I can regain what little musical mojo I might have had. She thinks I should focus on just one instrument. We shall see. But probably she’s right. Usually she is.

But there’s this: I don’t have a lot of time left. I’m 75, I think my voice is starting to deteriorate, my hands are arthritic and stiff. Yet across the chasm of all those years, music still calls to me. I’m trying to figure out how best to answer. Seems like with all I’ve invested, it’s the least I can do.

-JFT

 

Banjos, Whiskey and Strychnine

Mark Twain once opined that nothing infuses a person’s spirit like banjo music. He likened the effect of such music to the effects of whiskey mixed with strychnine. I agree with that, though never have I actually imbibed the latter concoction. Nevertheless, I’ve been a fan of banjos since I was a kid.

In about 1959, I had the great fortune to lay hold of a very fancy S.S. Stewart banjo, complete with extensive mother-of-pearl fretboard inlaying and beautiful heel carving. I jumped at it. As always, please click on the photos to see them fullsize.

Old Samuel S. Stewart ran a very busy banjo factory in Philadelphia. He built thousands of them, so popular were these instruments in the late 19^th Century. There were many models, low-end to high-end. The S.S. Stewart catalog, reprints of which still are available, suggests that mine is a Universal Favorite #3, which would have fit, I think, somewhere in the upper-mid range of Stewart’s total production. It was an instrument built for professional, and/or well-heeled, musicians.

It carries a low, four-digit serial number, so probably was built sometime around 1890. There are records for these instruments, but there seems to be gaps in the serial-number listings, so I can’t be sure about its exact age. But what I think is cool is that it is exactly, precisely, like the instrument displayed on the cover of the very first record album that the Kingston Trio released. I was a big fan of that band, so naturally I was thrilled with this fact.

Another thing I think is cool: I strongly suspect that this old banjo was in San Francisco in 1906, and that it somehow survived the earthquake and fire. I’ve written about this elsewhere in some detail, so no need to repeat all that.

Anyway, I found this musty old thing by advertising for a banjo, any banjo, in the Antelope Valley Ledger-Gazette. This would have been 1959. A man who lived in Lancaster, California, about 25 miles from the ranch upon which I was raised, called. He had a banjo he wanted to sell. Fifty bucks. I arranged to borrow my dad’s VW Beetle to go see it. It was this old Stewart. Somehow, I had saved up the loot – a whole lot of money for me in 1959 – and brought it home.

I’ve played the daylights out of the thing, through the second half of boarding school, and through college, and much more. But I made an awful mistake with the thing. Well, several awful mistakes.

One was replacing the original friction tuners, topped by vintage ivory buttons, with modern geared tuners. To do that, the holes for those tuners had to be enlarged. And I had the neck refinished. I was too young and stupid to recognize this instrument’s value as a survivor, as an antique.

The geared tuners worked fine, but they were just wrong. And that refinish job – the guy who did it sanded it so hard that he greatly diminished the crispness and complexity of the carving around the neck’s heel, a fairly common feature of expensive banjos in those days. And then he coated it with something like Varathane, something that dried very hard and very shiny. It looked like hell.

I’ve lived with this for years, feeling worse and worse as time passed about the damage done to this instrument. I mean, the thing is far from priceless, and while not really rare, isn’t common, either. But it means a lot to me and it deserves a better fate than the one that befell it.

So, a few months ago, I decided to repair the damage, as best I could. I looked around for a craftsman/artist who could not only restore the carving, but also remove the modern finish and replace it with the proper French polish – that’s the way great violins are finished, and the way in which this banjo neck originally was finished.

I found just the guy for the job. I pulled the neck off and shipped it to his shop in N. Carolina. This craftsman builds custom banjos for a living and so doesn’t have time for much repair work. But he agreed to not only take on the neck restoration, but also to supply new geared tuners that would fit the oversize holes in the peghead and for 5^th-string peg, and would look the part. Missives from him suggest that he is making progress, if slowly. I’m not about to rush him.

That’s partly because, now that the holidays are past us, I’ve been working to pull apart the pot. I’ve got it completely apart now, with the major parts – the pot itself and the tension ring, which holds the vellum head tight – polished as well as I can. Clearly, this has been done many times. I’ve done it several times myself. As a result, the nickel plating is starting to wear through to the bronze base. I wish it wasn’t so, really, but it least it has a nice patina. And at least it’s now clean and shining. It looks great. In fact, it looks wonderful.

For the 60 years (gasp!) I’ve owned this old instrument, it’s been missing a few of its original parts – mostly one bracket-shoe, and five of the original hooks and nuts, the hardware that helps clamp the tension hoop down. Someone, not me, lost the originals and replaced them with cheap generic parts. I find no source for vintage original S.S. Stewart pieces, but Stewart-McDonald, a well-known luthier’s supply shop, has replacements that will do pretty well, I think. So, I’ve ordered all that stuff. It will arrive here next week.

When it does arrive, I’ll reassemble what basically now is a bucket of bolts, putting the new shiny parts in an area where a player is least likely to notice them. And when the neck arrives home, transformed into something authentic and beautiful, I’ll assemble the whole thing, string it up, and let this banjo ring.

I feel really happy about this. I think justice needs to be done to this fine old instrument, and I’m ashamed that I allowed it to be so badly damaged. In a way, this is a banjo picker’s penance.

When it’s all back together, I’ll play the hell out of it. Just like it was meant to be played. Because banjo music still does, after all these years, infuse my soul like whiskey laced with strychnine, just as Twain said it would.

-JFT

 

Music vs. Music

This past weekend marked the beginning of the Central Oregon Mastersingers’ choral season. This beginning was composed of a weekend-long retreat to begin preparations for our first concert, which is maybe six weeks away. 

As much as I love participating in great choral music, something I‘ve done since I was a teenager, I’m sitting this one out.

This weekend also marked the 2018 Sisters Folk Festival. The festival was composed of three days of folk, blues and bluegrass performed on 11 indoor and outdoor stages in Sisters, Oregon, about 15 miles from us. I flat adore folk music. If you know me at all, you know that.

Up close and personal with Claire Lynch, center, and her dynamic band.

I really hated being presented with this choice – folk festival or choral retreat.

I attend the choral retreat, my heart and mind are filled with the precise scholarship of majestically performed classical music. This sort of thing fills my heart and makes me happy not only to be alive, but to be upon stage with my choral colleagues where this beautiful music is being made.

I attend the Sisters Folk Festival, I feast with Laura and our friends Bob and Charlene on the peaceful, raucous acoustic music of Americana, the music of the people, the land, the country. The music of people living, dying, suffering, rejoicing, struggling, prevailing. The music of folks in this glorious, maddening, wonderful country. The music of guitars, banjos, mandolins, fiddles, voices, all in rhythm and harmony.

I love it dearly. I have loved it dearly since I was a child listening to my parents’ old Burl Ives records on a wind-up Victrola.

So yes, the Sisters Folk Festival. It couldn’t be anything else.

Our first year here, 2016, we were too late to buy tickets. They sell out early. Last year, the festival was last-minute cancelled. Tiny Sisters was blanketed with smoke from a near-by forest fire that was so thick that just seeing across one of the town’s streets was almost impossible. Health conditions were horrible.

So this year’s festival? Absolutely!

A small-venue recital by Erin Cole-Baker was peaceful and relaxing.

Stacked here downstairs are two guitars, four banjos, a mandolin and a bass. I play them all and have done so since I was a high-schooler.  Those days, folk music was where I lived. Girls, cars? sure, interesting but confounding. School? Hah! But oh, that dusty, gritty, poetic old music of the people!

I really regret missing out on this first of three concerts of the Mastersingers season - missing this retreat automatically means I am ineligible. But I will pick things up in time for our Christmas concert, and be ready, and in top voice, I hope, for our spring concert – ill-fitting tux, which I hate, and all.

Meanwhile, I will have memories of the acts we enjoyed this weekend. A couple of great dinners. Time with Laura and our pals. And yeah, I’ll also have the event T-shirt. Much better than any damned concert-dress tux. It’s a net gain.

Now, bring on that choral music. I’m ready!

-JFT

Let There Be Music, They Commanded!

I don’t play my banjo much anymore. I just don’t. Not sure why. But I find myself in a position which requires a concert. Which is strange, because usually, people are all to happy to not hear me play my banjo.

Well, actually, it will be a mini-concert. The items you see here, an ancient Martin guitar and an even older Vega longneck banjo, will be my co-conspirators.

This is all about co-conspirators. The foremost of those will be my pal of untold decades, Mike Kicenski, best musician I’ve ever seen. The others will be maybe a half-dozen boarding-school classmates who are gathering here for – well, just to hang out, chat, visit, hike, watch me grill volcano burgers, enjoy Central Oregon, and remember when we were young.

I’d be happy to leave it at that but two of the most persuasive of these – by name, Marilyn and Charlene, who demanded and received a mini-concert three years ago at a similar gathering – have instructed me that a concert is not just expected, but required. Listen, I was terrified of these two when we were kids. I still am.

Like my sweetie Laura, of whom I’m even more terrified, these are people one does not disappoint. So I’ve assembled a set list and even, like, rehearsed. A little. So yes, the music will ring out in spite of arthritic fingers and quavering voice. And yes, my pal Mike, who as a musician is light years better than me, will chime in. The wine will flow, feet will tap, we will have a ball. And we will miss those who because of distance or early passing, are unable to join us.

-JFT

A Survivor

I love California, even though I no longer reside there. The mountains, the ocean, the deserts, the sunrises and sunsets – but most of all, the history.

As it happens, when I was teenager, I happened to stumble upon a tiny, inconsequential piece of that history, which I still have.

It is an S.S. Stewart 5-string banjo, a fancy model known as the Universal Favorite #3, built in about 1888. It is exactly like the instrument shown on the cover of the Kingston Trio’s first record album. I was a big fan, so I was thrilled to find this thing. I paid 50 bucks for it. It was 1959, I was 16 years old; $50 was big money.

But old Sam Stewart built his instruments in Philadelphia. So why is this particular instrument a piece of the history of the Golden State?

Somehow, this banjo made its way westward to San Francisco. It’s owner, one E.E. Curtsworth, apparently lived at 2420 Fillmore Street. At least he engraved that name and address on the banjo’s tension hoop, the steel ring that keeps the banjo’s velum head taut. Here’s a look at that.

Man, I was curious about that. So, we went looking for my banjo’s home address. We found that address attached to the shop of a custom jeweler, part of a much larger building. Here’s a look at the building. The shop is at the lower right.

Remember what happened in 1906, just after 5:00 the morning of April 18? An enormous earthquake shook hell out of the city. Much of what wasn’t damaged by the seismic event was burned in a succession of fires.

I think this building may have survived the earthquake and fire; a Fillmore Street history says Fillmore Street itself was largely undamaged. In fact, a period photo showing the corner of Fillmore and O’Farrell, about eight blocks north of the 2420 address, shows buildings still standing, though reinforced by framing.

But here’s the thing: A close look at the two buildings immediately to the north of 2420 shows that they are much smaller, three stories tall, and are of wooden construction. I think this one may be concrete. And 2420, along with the two to the south of it, is six stories tall and looks newer than the two to the north. Were all three of them destroyed in 1906 and rebuilt? Who knows?

Was my old banjo present in this building the morning that San Francisco went crazy? I don’t know. But its residency at that address makes it a tiny piece of California history.

When I was younger and even dumber than I now am, I sought to “improve” this wonderful old piece. I installed modern geared tuners and I had the neck refinished. It needed none of that work. I eventually replaced the modern tuners with period friction items, but there’s nothing I can do to undo the refinishing foolishness.

I own several other banjos – or, rather, I am their caretakers, for they are of such quality that eventually they will be passed on to younger players who will treasure them as much as I have and, I hope, play them much more skillfully.

They all are of vastly superior tone, playability and quality to this old Stewart. But they do not have the history that this Stewart has. For me, that makes it very special indeed.

I should mention that my old violin is of similar vintage and has a name and date engraved into its wood. But I don’t play it. If I did, the noise, the sheer racket, would be cringeworthy.

Not so with this banjo. It still sounds great and I still get great pleasure from playing it. It makes great music, music that is anchored in history. I scarcely can tell you how much that means to me.

-JFT

The Music of Lady Liberty

This killer image, Lady Liberty with her right fist raised and a fine old guitar in her left hand, hits me right where I live. But you knew that.

This is a detail from the poster for the 2017 Sisters Folk Festival, a festival that didn't happen. Of course we had tickets! It was called off, literally at the last second, because smoke from nearby forest fires made the air all around these parts unhealthy to breath. I drove over to Sisters, which is quite close to us, to purchase event T-shirts just because I could, and because I wanted to extend what support I could. The front of those shirts displays a version of this image.

I find myself surprisingly emotional every time I see this. In part, I think, that's because of the profound meaning of the Statue of Liberty, a meaning that is being insulted by the fools in the present administration. But also because the guitar shown in this painting echoes the shape and lines of Martin's famous 00 family of guitars, small jewels that are far more powerful than their size might indicate.

They were one of the mainstays of the 1960s folk movement and to this day are incredibly desirable. I'm very lucky. I have one. I bought it in the summer of 1962 and it has been with me ever since. I never will part with it. (Find the story of that guitar here:  http://jfthompson.typepad.com/californiafiles/2017/06/thumb-drive.html )

The folk movement, of course, was sounded on these guitars and existed in the music of Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, the Weavers, Leadbelly, the Kingston Trio, Joan Baez, Harry Belafonte, Peter, Paul and Mary, Josh White, and many more. It was the music of inclusion, of progressive politics. That such a guitar should show up in the clutches of Lady Liberty in this poster - it just has tremendous meaning for me. 

What has equal and ominous meaning is that I have no idea where we all will end up when this ugly episode finally is done. Neither, I'm sure, do the idiots and fools who pretend to "lead" us. 

About all I can hope is that Lady Liberty and the ideals for which she stands remain intact. And I hope that the wonderful music, the folk, bluegrass, and Americana that is played on the sort of instrument you see her handling, continues to make its positive, progressive, and non-violent contribution.

As for this year, why, yes, of course we have tickets to the 2018 Sisters Folk Festival! We're keeping our fingers crossed that we don't get smoked out, or burned out, again. And also that this horrid political nightmare soon comes to its conclusion. Please hurry, Mr, Mueller.

-JFT

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Kingston Trio!"

Back in the late 1950s, there was a boom in folk music. It was led by a band called the Kingston Trio. I liked this band a whole lot, attended many of its concerts, and was greatly influenced by the music it did, and by the polished way it did that music.

The band was contracted to do something like four record albums a year, and it toured more than 200 days a year. This was a very tough row to hoe.

The leader, one David Guard, the genius responsible for the band, for the songs, for the sound, apparently was not an easy man with whom to get along.

He was demanding. He wanted more practice, improved music literacy. The others wanted to drink beer and chase girls. And yeah, I've talked to them and that's what they told me. So after four years or so, what was a phenomenal success, big pay checks, the cover of Life Magazine and all, came crashing to the ground, leaving behind a phenomenal final album called Goin' Places, the folk equivalent of the Beatles' Abbey Road. And also, of all things, an absolutely stellar Christmas album. I still listen, with great joy, to both.

What happened was, in 1960 or so, a deficit showed up in the band's royalty accounting. Guard got pissed off, called it quits, and went off to Australia. Oops. He later said that the big lesson from doing this was, "Never give up your fan base." Today, anybody would have known that.

The remaining pair, along with their manager, bought Guard out of his interest in the band and hired a guy. Then another guy. Then another guy. Then another. Until the band no longer had any of its original members.

Yet something called "The Kingston Trio" still toured, offering what basically was a diluted tribute band controlled by one surviving member who held, and leased out, the rights to the name.

This went on for more than 40 years.

I completely lost interest. Yet as a fan, I tried to find a thread, and because of the work I did, was able to interview not just Guard, but also the succeeding band members. Not much satisfaction there, though I liked Guard a whole lot. The others, especially the guy who ended up owning the rights,  seemed to evidence great animosity toward the creator of the project. I found this unseemly, since Guard's original musical vision had made him a whole lot of money.

OK, fine. But to this day, I still love the music. A few years back, Laura and I attended a concert by this tribute band.

I was right the first time. Familiar tunes, sure. But the passion and energy, the compelling sound, was gone, no matter how hard they tried to convince the audience that they were authentic. Sorry, they just were not. You just cannot phone this sort of thing in.

Earlier this year, more than 50 years after the band's inception (Guard by now has long since left us), the surviving original member, the guy who owns the rights to the name, leased out those rights to a new bunch.

Apparently the guys who had been leasing the name, and touring and performing under that name, had no idea of what was happening until the new lessees of the name filed suit to force those guys to quit touring, to stop using the name.

This had to have been shocking. But it was long past time for a change. And change is what has happened. Once again there seems to be enthusiasm for the music and for the band's heritage.

One reason for this might be that this new Kingston Trio consists of the son of one of the original members, who apparently understands the weight the band's heritage demands that he carry. He plays the same tenor guitar, and the same conga drums, that his father did. The result is brilliant.

I had no idea all this was happening. Which is a shame, because this new, reconstituted band just came through here.

I had no idea. If I'd known, I would have attended. Just to hear them, just to see if this new bunch has truly recaptured the passion, the energy, the sound, of the original.

Researches on the Interwebs suggest that this new bunch has it figured out. They seem to play and sing with the enthusiasm that has been lacking for so long, with the verve that suggests they understand the heritage they carry.

I hope they circle back through here next year. Or sooner. If they can continue recapturing the sound, the enthusiasm of the original, I'll take my sweetie to one of their concerts. And I will love it. And as a discerning person, so will she.

-JFT