Music Writer Lectures on the Future of Folk Music

Is there anything to folk music worth lecturing about? When acclaimed music writer Scott Alarik stepped into the Commanders Mansion in Watertown last Friday night to deliver a talk on the subject, his hard-weather expression indicated that this man would never spend his time on anything not worth its weight.

Gayle Rich of Revels, a Cambridge-based theatre and culture organization, lauded Alarik's depth of knowledge of industry, music, and history. Revels sponsors monthly "salons" at the Mansion, and October's topic, "Folk Music in the 21st Century: The Road from Here", featured Alarik's theory and extensive knowledge.

Alarik, a thick-set man in his early fifties, entered with stern eyes and not a trace of a smile. The only signs of folk on him were the guitar he had strapped around his neck, and the chunk-heeled cowboy boots that clacked authoritatively on the floor as he took his place behind the podium. This man treats folk music and its connections to literature, history and society as a discipline of academic importance.

"Only Gayle Rich can get a bang out of sponsoring folk music," he said wryly, thanking the audience for having him. With the spirit of a true acoustic veteran, he went right into a folk song, interspersing his chord-wandering fingers with comments like, "People say folk music is stupid."

He played a song whose chorus was a string of nonsense words, then explained that the song had originated in Ireland. The "nonsense" was actually "Irish sung by people who don't speak Irish". It had been a song of bitter revolution in Ireland, but had made its way west during the American Revolution, where "people were having better times, so it took on a major key".

He explained that the majority of American folk songs, particularly those from the Revolutionary War, started in Ireland, mostly because the Irish came to America to fight on behalf of the patriots.

"So, you say we get to shoot British?" he imitated in a mock-brogue. "No, no, no need to explain, we'll be right over."

Even cowboy songs which American children learn in elementary school, along with stories about the pioneer days, were written by the Irish, who immigrated to America, fought in the Civil War, and then had nothing to do but move West for cattle-herding and railroad-constructing. They were joined by newly-freed African-Americans and Mexicans, and Alarik pointed out traces of Mexican lilt and African rhythm in some of the traditional cowboy songs. The meter of folk music, mostly determined by the rhythm of horse-hooves at a gallop, was fertilized by folk-life more than by imagination. Alarik's authority and knowledge was prevalent in synthesis as well as in the sheer number of facts, dates, and names he could pluck from memory like strings on the guitar.

Alarik, originally a singer-songwriter himself, has been writing about folk music since he moved to Boston in the early '80s. Within a few years, he was in charge of the folk beat for the Boston Globe. He has worked not only to gain recognition for individual singer-songwriters, but to keep the media's attention on the genre itself. His recently-published book, "Deep Community: Adventures in the Modern Folk Underground," is a celebration of a folk revival that began in the '80s with the emergence of what he calls "the Boston folk singer" -- someone not necessarily from Boston, but whose lyrics and demeanor convey the earnest sincerity and interest in connecting with the listener that Beantown's most famous folk legends have mastered.

What exactly is a folk song, Alarik asked. Without a default political cause like the Vietnam War (or, perhaps, without the passion to find one), modern folk singers are focusing more and more on connecting with the listener and Alarik repeatedly used Dar Williams as an example of a revivalist folk singer whose lyrics draw the listener in through common experience, and then use that common space to explore broader societal issues.

Indeed, the folk industry's interest in fans comes across in the attention radio stations pay to their listeners and folk singers pay to their list serves. While the MP3 is the bane of any pop singer's existence, folkies can download an MP3 from each other and then travel to the nearest coffeehouse that weekend to buy an autographed version of the album, right out of the travel bus. The folk singer attitude is, as Alarik says, "I'm not coming here to sing for you, I'm coming here to make music with you." This differs from the relationship between larger-than-life pop stars and their millions of adoring teeny-bopper listeners in that it attracts a following of all ages, even adolescents. Rather than depend on the music industry for their promotion, these singers work off pop music's decline.

When Alarik played a song, his otherwise stern expression would soften into whatever the song's speaker was feeling. He made eye contact with the audience, as if telling a story, and he invited the audience to sing along. The last song he sang was "Sweet Rose of Allendale". I knew it, I sang along, and already I felt a part of the Revels community.

The Revels Salon is presented by Revels, Inc., a non-profit cultural organization that promotes the appreciation of folk music, customs and rituals from around the world. The next salon, "Jean Ritchie: The Folk Music of Appalachia", will be held on Nov. 21 at the Commanders Mansion in Watertown. Tickets are $20 and include wine, light food, and entertainment. For more information, call 617-972-8300 or visit www.revels.org.