Folkie

Crazy Like Me?

Folkies were avid folk music junkies into alternative and bohemian lifestyles. We were not Hippies.

I’ve gathered together some of my memories. There are few stories of the great, except by reflection.

Just as in a grand opera the stage is flooded with people. Only a few are stars. But the rest of us also have our stories and those are the ones I choose to tell.

The Debating Society

When younger, I was not known for my snappy comebacks, sarcastic salutations, or pithy badinage. It wasn’t that I was boring; just inexperienced and lacked the experience needed to elevate me to the level of my peers.

The Crunchies

They were just a bit too crunchy for our liking. I think the term that would eventually get coined was “granola head.”

Sojourn

One of the things I discovered in college and grad school was that my past as a folksinger, road bum, and general neer do well was not universally appreciated by professors and peers who had “played by the rules” all their lives.

Blueser

When I emerged from the egg and arrived in Greenwich Village as a newly minted folksinger, the streets were filled with juvenile Joan Baez wannabees and their male kindred.

Globally

I am innocent. No, I was not there. I was nowhere close by and probably could not have afforded to get in if I had tried to be there. Yes, I was frequently at Newport for the Folk Festival, But that weekend I was not in Woodstock.

Kept Man

Kept man. Now there’s a descriptor that you wouldn’t generally associate with yours truly. Up until the seventies, I was rail thin. I also had what would be described today as an unruly shock of hair that resembled an anime hairdo. I got up in the morning and ran my fingers through it, and that was it. I was always hungry and either buried in a book or practicing guitar.

Well spent

Funny, isn’t it how you remember where you were at certain times. You recollect right down to the greasy calf D-ringed engineer boots on your feet, going clump, clump, clump on the stage. You can recall in great detail the set list taped to the top of the guitar and how you wished they’d killed all but the single spot you’d requested.

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