Hey, old dude:

A story:

Many years ago, when I was Director of the Stamford Museum in Connecticut, I started what I called a Potlatch with my dear friend Dallas Kline. I was running a folk concert series at the Museum, and Dallas was running one at a place called The Barn in Ridgefield. All of that was great, and each series had a loyal following. Still, it bothered me that folk music was being treated like something you pay money to come and listen to. I wanted to have a place where people could come and play, no matter what level of ability they were. I chose the name Potlatch because it's a Pacific Northwest Indian ceremony where the purpose is to see who gives the most. It never seemed to catch on in white society...

When we started out, there were people from rank beginners to professionals with albums to their credit. My desire was that everyone be encouraged and appreciated, whatever their ability. There was a tall, lanky man, Ben, who was one of the most loyal regulars. Ben looked about as close as you could get to being Abe Lincoln, and he had a Jimmy Stewart, "Aw, shucks, 'tweren't nothin'" personality. Ben played banjo. He only knew three chords in one key, as far as I could figure out. He didn't pick the banjo, he just strummed the chords with his thumb. Every song had the same rhythm. It was the only one he could play. He always played the same songs. His repertoire didn't appear to be any more than five or six.

As we went around the room, there'd be fancy finger-pickers on guitar, a kid who played hammered dulcimer who was still in high school and women with beautiful voices. And there was Ben. He'd lean back in his chair, close his eyes and when he sang, his whole body sang the song. Never mind that we'd heard it many times before, and it was always in the same languorous rhythm. It was new every time he played it.

More professional musicians would come to the Potlatch, trying to blow everyone away, looking as pleased as the cat who ate the canary after they'd finish their song. Afterward, they'd ask me for a booking. They didn't get it. Ben blew me away. The Potlatch wasn't about getting a booking, or looking better than everyone else. It was about giving the most.

Ben won.

Jerry

hmmm... I think there might be a chapter in here somewhere.