I'm sure there's something I disagree with in SS's last, but so far I'm struggling to find it. I'll let you know.

I might add to my last sentence thus:

...so maybe in this respect I might even applaud the most average singer-songwriter (or singer of traditional songs) and might even, at a stretch, uphold the virtues of GEFF - and run a mile when confronted with the sort of slick professional virtuosity which in any context usually has me running out the door. This is why, as a rule, I avoid sessions, though once again every rule must have its exception; my favourite Folk Club right now is half session, half singaround and in both respects it's the bollocks. I think this why the piping of Seamus Ennis thrills like an intravenous injection of stupidly hard drugs, but that of (say) Davy Spillane barely registers as a saline drip.

Here's an earlier anecdote for those who might have missed it.

In the good old days in England Sam Smith's pubs carried music licenses and sold cheap (though barely drinkable) bitter such as Old Brewery, which at one Durham public house could be had for a quid a pint, thus making it very popular with musicians. Thursdays was the Folk Club; Tuesdays the Trad Jazz, and Mondays was the Irish Session, the players of which took themselves Very Seriously Indeed, and rightly so in terms of the impeccable standard of their playing which existed in direct correlation to the utter tedium it inspired in the casual listener, such as myself.

Said public house was also the scene of many an hearty outrage; one night, for example, I was in there when a fight broke out in the bar between several inebriated men of the same family after a funeral. It was a Tuesday, and the Dixieland Jazzers played on as the chairs flew, and the men brawled, and the locals stood there as if nothing was happening. A lovely summer night it was as I recall, the sun shining, the doors open, and everything at peace with the world; a peace barely disturbed by the proceedings in the bar.

Anyhoo. One Monday night in the autumn of 1999 after an arduous coach journey from London I popped in for a pint (those who say to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive have never travelled by National Express). The Session Musicians were through in the club room, playing their particular brand of music with fierce concentration and earnestness - a music which filtered through to the bar as a mildly irritating ambience: difficult to ignore, but not really loud enough to engage your attention, especially when one was in there on one's own, enjoying a solitary pint of OB with a half-ounce of Golden Virginia (Job papers & Swan Vesta matches) and a copy of Heart of Darkness (if only to get a literary measure of Apocalypse Now). Into the bar comes an old lady in her slippers, hair-net and dressing gown. In the absence of the barmaid, she helps herself to a large glass of Grouse from the appropriate optic. Taking a sip, she savours the poison, pondering all the while the nature of the entertainment taking place through in the club room, where our Session friends are playing with such indefatigable gusto they might well get through the whole of O'Neill's before closing time. Then a look of realisation dawns on her wrinkled face as it all becomes clear; something at least approaching a smile plays about her lips as she turns to me (there is, alas, no one else in the bar) and utters the immortal words:
"Eh, that's that Riverdance music isn't it?"
"It most certainly is," I reply, happy for the first time since parting from my girlfriend (now wife) at Worth Abbey some ten hours earlier.