I don't believe in fate or destiny, but sometimes one is gently wafted down a path by mysterious forces.

In my youth, music was always a problem. My father was committed to classical, which I hated. The schools taught that we should like classical music, too.

(A Long Aside: The tale of Zombie-Bach)

The kids liked pop music, which I found pretty dull, too.

Luckily I had some cousins who played guitars and banjoes, and it was fun to visit them, listen, sing along, and check through their records. Folk Music! Yes!

Unfortunately Folkiness was very uncool and by the time I got to High School, Jazz (Dave Brubeck etc.) was the hip thing to like. I tried. I wore dark suits and narrow ties and stared intently, silently and seriously at the hifi when the music was playing. I wasn't enjoying it, but I felt that the fault lay within me.

One Christmas I decided to improve myself and asked Santa for a Jazz LP; one by the Chico Hamilton quintet.

On Christmas morn I ripped open a large square package and found... ...Frank Hamilton Sings Folk Songs!

My father had been looking in the wrong section of the record store, and had only remembered the name Hamilton. (To him, if it wasn't classical, it was all equally junk.)   I mentioned his error and he replied "You asked for Hamilton. Hamilton's Hamilton!"

Ah, well. I put on Frank Hamilton, and enjoyed it much more than I would have enjoyed Chico. And I understood the message from the gods. I was to abandon coolness. From thence forth I have been folky and uncool. Which is cool.

Thanks, Frank.