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During the sixties, I was part of what people called the counterculture. No, not the hippies - they were from well-to-do families and could afford all the glitz, clothes, and designer drugs. I was a Folkie, not only a Folkie, I was a Folksinger. You know those dark holes-in-the-wall clubs with exotic coffee drinks and …
The Kingston Trio is responsible for my time in Greenwich Village, assorted dis-epitomable bistros around the States and Canada, numerous barrooms, and many parks and living rooms for sing-ins.
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.
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.
was preparing to take out the recycle bin when this "dead soldier" caught my eye. The bottle is an empty jug of spiced rum that powered my don't drink and then drive fruitcake. Momentarily I was transported to my early days. I took the cap off and began blowing an accompaniment to Washington at Valley Forge, a perennial favorite of 1960's jug bands.
It is pleasant to just for a moment, step back, and realize that some things have not yielded to either technology or years.
After a few days, Bob and Chris would sweep us out of the house if we hadn't already crisped our welcome by arguing too loud at four in the morning.
Listen, candy is sweet, but you can't make a steady diet of it.
Well, here it is. It took about an hour of digging around to locate. It's a list. A setlist. It contains a listing of the songs that I regularly performed when I composed the list. It's very late, probably around 1977.
My friends described the backside of Beacon Hill in the '60s as a working-class slum. Not at all an accurate description. Worn at the heels, seen better times, shabbily genteel; those were better descriptors.
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