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They look out from the cover, impossibly young, the woman slim and lithe, the men bearded, and with hair! It was lifetimes ago, well after its first release, that I bought the vinyl LP, the second of theirs, the first being In Concert a two-disc album recorded live at a succession of concerts. I sat by first one and then the other speaker of my old console stereo, boosting the bass, then the treble, to separate the parts of their harmonies, playing the tracks over and over again till I could sing all three parts. All I needed was someone to sing the melody and I could weave between the other two parts, filling in, stitching the rich background of the pictures the lyrics and melodies conjured. I reached adulthood, or late adolescence, social awareness, at the time of crusading folksingers. And these three more than any others were my beacon in a time of strife, in a time of tearing away from the fundamentalist evangelistic Christian southern legacy I'd been expected to accept without a murmur.
My parents hated them. Hated their music, hated the way they talked, the way they looked, with those suspicious Yankee beards and the woman's straight bleached hair. And she wasn't even pretty, with those strong, impassioned features. They couldn't hear the melodies for loathing and fearing the singers, and the messages of the songs.
I loved them. The only live popular music performance I've ever attended, I was excited beyond breathing. Halfway to the venue, my voice went. I, who knew the harmony parts to all their songs, who wanted nothing more than to stand in my nosebleed seat and sing along with them in real time, was mute. I sat enthralled, mouthing words, learning new ones, caught by the impelling rhythms, the urgent lyrics, the delicate interweaving of voices. And then laughing, laughing at the wit, the gentle humor, the wry digs at audience and themselves. And crying at the sad fates of those in ancient ballads, and finally on my feet with the rest of the audience, swept up in anthems for our time, compelling, urgent, real. My voice returned by the time I reached home, but it wasn't till much later I realized what had happened, and was glad for it. Silence had let me listen harder, hear more. It was good.
Now decades later they appear on every PBS fundraiser, the men bald, fringed with grizzled curls, the woman's strong features lost in a sea of fat. But the voices are no less strong, no less urgent, no less subtle for the years between. And their message is still one of responsibility, compassion, action. And I am still compelled, once more lifted to feel I can, I must, engage as I may in the battle against despoilers, pillagers, careless and profligate spenders of my children's heritage as well as their own.
It took me until the first rehearsal session of The Folksmen in A Mighty Wind to realize Chris Guest was parodying Peter Yarrow with a skillful and somewhat loving touch. From his terrier-on-steroids tenor to the grizzled hair fringing a bald skull, it was Peter to the life.
Long may they wave.
My parents hated them. Hated their music, hated the way they talked, the way they looked, with those suspicious Yankee beards and the woman's straight bleached hair. And she wasn't even pretty, with those strong, impassioned features. They couldn't hear the melodies for loathing and fearing the singers, and the messages of the songs.
I loved them. The only live popular music performance I've ever attended, I was excited beyond breathing. Halfway to the venue, my voice went. I, who knew the harmony parts to all their songs, who wanted nothing more than to stand in my nosebleed seat and sing along with them in real time, was mute. I sat enthralled, mouthing words, learning new ones, caught by the impelling rhythms, the urgent lyrics, the delicate interweaving of voices. And then laughing, laughing at the wit, the gentle humor, the wry digs at audience and themselves. And crying at the sad fates of those in ancient ballads, and finally on my feet with the rest of the audience, swept up in anthems for our time, compelling, urgent, real. My voice returned by the time I reached home, but it wasn't till much later I realized what had happened, and was glad for it. Silence had let me listen harder, hear more. It was good.
Now decades later they appear on every PBS fundraiser, the men bald, fringed with grizzled curls, the woman's strong features lost in a sea of fat. But the voices are no less strong, no less urgent, no less subtle for the years between. And their message is still one of responsibility, compassion, action. And I am still compelled, once more lifted to feel I can, I must, engage as I may in the battle against despoilers, pillagers, careless and profligate spenders of my children's heritage as well as their own.
It took me until the first rehearsal session of The Folksmen in A Mighty Wind to realize Chris Guest was parodying Peter Yarrow with a skillful and somewhat loving touch. From his terrier-on-steroids tenor to the grizzled hair fringing a bald skull, it was Peter to the life.
Long may they wave.
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The movie was so spot on in the characterizations. As I say, it made me sad.