A bit of fine tuning.
One of the things we noticed when talking to singers about singing in their communities was the discrimination that was made between those who "had a few old songs" and those who were regarded as singers and had some degree of status as such.
A bit difficult with Walter Pardon because his was largely a family tradition with a few neighbours thrown in who would be associated with them through work on the local farm, but even in this situation Walter's uncle, Billy Gee, stood out as 'the' singer.
Down the Norfolk coast, in Sam Larner's village of Winterton, there were once a lot of singers, but the few remaining ones talked of Jimmy Sutton (around the beginning of the 20th century) as being 'the' singer of the village.
In Harry Cox's village several people referred to Harry's brother as being an important singer.
This area of the West of Ireland was rich in singers, but Tom Lenihan stood out as 'the' singer.
Among the Travellers, plenty of them had songs, but there were people pointed out to us specifically as singers, in particular, Bill Cassidy and Mary Delaney. Mary in particular was regarded as one of 'the' singers because of the fact that she was blind from birth, which restricted her acitivities and singing was regarded as one of her main roles in the family and the community.
With the Travellers, the recognition of certain people as singers spread into the settled community and was once an important link between the two groups.
This is a eye-witness description we recorded of a Travelling family stopping on the outskirts of a village some time in the thirties.
The speaker was Mikeen McCarthy, the son of a well-known singer-storyteller who was a tinsmith in County Kerry.
Jim Carroll

"We'd be all tucked into bed but we wouldn't be asleep, we'd be peeping out through keyholes and listening out through the side of the canvas, we'd be stuck everywhere, and he'd (his father, Michael snr.) know it.
And the fire'd go on. One of the lads 'd come up for the light of a cigarette or something, he'd be already after topping the cigarette, 'twas just an excuse, "Could I have a light out of the fire Mick" they'd say to my father.
Sure, my father'd know, he'd know what he'd be up to of course and he'd say, "'Tisn't for the light of a fire you came up at all now, 'tisn't for the light of a cigarette you came up for now" and he'd start to laugh.   
And bejay, another feller'd come and he'd say it again, "bejay, before I know where I am there'd be ten of you there".   
And bejay, the word wouldn't be out of his mouth and they would be coming up along, coming up along, and the next thing one feller'd shout to the other, "can't you go down and bring up a gual (armful) of turf", and before you'd know where you are there'd be a roaring fire, 'twould band a wheel for you. Oh, there could be twenty, maybe more, maybe thirty, it depends, maybe there could be more than that again. There'd be some round the fire in a ring, there might be another twenty standing on the road. There wouldn't be any traffic at that time on the by-roads in Ireland, d'you know. They'd be all standing out along the road then.
So 'tis there you'd hear the stories then and the songs, all night, maybe till one o'clock in the morning. And the kettle... the tea'd go on then, there'd be a round of tea and.... That's the way it'd go on.
We were off ceilidhing then, they'd invite him off to a house; he'd always bring one or two of us with him. Same thing'd go on at the house then, that's where he learned all those great stories and great songs from, I suppose, ceilidhing from house to house, different counties, different stories, different songs."