". . . it takes a lot of work to make these seemingly spontaneous events happen!"

Well, I dunno. Elmar Lanczos wasn't a singer, but he was a folk music enthusiast, he had a humongous collection of folk records, he owned a house near the University District, and he lived alone (until he got married some years later). A couple of us (who just happened to have our guitars with us, just in case) would run into each other at the Pizza Haven or the Blue Moon Tavern, and someone would phone Elmar and say, "How about a hoot tonight. Your place."   Elmar would say, "You bring the beer. I'll call a few people." Then we'd also call a few people and say, "Hoot. Elmar's. As soon as you can get there."

Within less than forty-five minutes there would be a dozen, maybe two dozen people sitting around on the sofa, chairs, and cross-legged on the carpet in Elmar's living room, tuning up their guitars, banjos, nose-flutes, whatever. Someone would sing a song. Then someone else would sing. Then someone else. Then the first person would sing again. Then someone would start a song with a good chorus. Then somebody new would sing.

But not everyone sang. Those who did sing might have come alone, or brought a buddy, or a girl friend, or a husband, some of whom sang and some just wanted to listen and enjoy. But anyone was free to lift his or her voice in song, if so moved.

And so on. No one person dominated. Nobody acted as referee or master-of-ceremonies. Common courtesy and mutual respect ruled. If a "Sergeant-at-Arms" was needed (say, in the case of someone who heard about it, didn't give a damn about folk music but was just looking for a party, and then only if he got drunk, rowdy, and disruptive), that would be the host, with whatever other muscle that the situation might call for. But that sort of thing happened rarely, if ever.

If someone who had never sung before hauled off and sang (even if badly), it was generally hailed as a major debut, complete with encouraging comments. Sometimes such folks moved quickly into the ranks of the stronger singers.

No song books or song sheets in sight.

And thus it went.

These days. Bob Nelson phones. He says, "Sunday afternoon. My place. Come around 2:00. Judy and I have a big pot of chili. Bring whatever else you want to eat or drink." So Barbara and I arrive around two-ish. Stewart and Betty are already there, Mike Nelson (no relation to Bob) arrives shortly thereafter, followed by John Weiss and Jerry Middaugh. Moose and Sally arrive, and Casey and Molly even, driving all the way up from Olympia. Beth West arrives, and Nancy Quensé shortly afterwards. She's brought her new hurdy-gurdy (that'll send Bob's cats up the nearest tree!). A couple of Bob's neighbors also drop in. After we chow down, the guitarum and banji and such come out, there is the popping, as beer bottle caps come off (I don't recall anyone ever getting splashed at these fests), and the tuning up ritual takes place ("Give me your D."). When done, someone hauls off and sings the first song. Then someone else sings. Then someone sings a sea chantey (good chorus, everyone joins in). Then someone else sings. Love songs, ballads (accompanied and unaccompanied), sea songs, lullabyes, nonsense songs. Dick and Gela Gibbons manage to make it after all. Dick recites his latest poem. Then someone else sings. . . .

And so it goes, just like we did it forty, fifty years ago. The only difference is that now we are geezers. But some of Bob's and my former guitar pupils are there also, playing and singing, and sometimes Beth's daughter, Lizzie (who is taking violin lessons) plays the fiddle.

When we sing at these song fests, are these "performances?" Well . . . yes and no.

A lot of work? Usually just a telephone call. Then it happens.

Don Firth

P. S. By the way. Community? Camaraderie? Friendship? These things are there. They just happen. If you have to struggle to bring them about, then something's wrong.