Conrad's idea of "the folk experience" is rather like one of the shadows on the wall of Plato's Cave:   vague and ill-defined and revealing little about its true nature (if any). It's a shadow within his own mind that bears little resemblance to anything in the real world.

There is a great variety of activities and circumstances that one could consider a "folk experience." But this is after the fact. Those "folk" who actually participated in these activities never thought of them in these terms. A young mother singing a lullaby to a restless baby probably doesn't say to herself with great awe and wonder, "My goodness, I'm having a folk experience! Nor does the crew member on a four-masted schooner who is hauling on a line to raise the sails with a bunch of other men—and singing a chantey in order to establish a rhythm so they're all pulling at the same time instead of working against each other doesn't suddenly stop amd think, "Well, shiver me timbers! We're all havin' us a 'folk experience!'" Nor the logger sitting by the fire in the bunkhouse with his mates after a long day's work and singing "Come all ye's" for entertainment think, "This is a 'folk experience!'" Nor, for that matter, does the young milkmaid playing a bit of "slap and tickle" with her shepherd swain out behind the barn as he sings a courting song think, "My goodness! I'm have a 'folk experience!'"

Nor, do I believe, a bunch of the guys sitting in a pub, all singing "Come landlord, fill the flowing bowl" or "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall" as they swill down pints all suddenly stop, look at each other in amaze, and say—in chorus, "We're having us a folk experience!!"

Except, perhaps, Conrad, as his eyes cross and he starts to slide under the table.

No. It's obvious by now that he merely wants to find some sort of excuse or social sanction for simply getting hammered, sloshed, shit-faced, tanked, blitzed, bombed, wrecked, three sheets to the wind, drunk, loose, tipsy, trashed, jagged up, canned, smashed, fucked-up, intoxicated, inebriated, annihilated, laced, legless, and pukingly paralytic.

The guy's nothing more than an obnoxious drunk, and he's trying to make the fact not only socially acceptable, but somehow admirable!

Sorry. No sale!

Here's a question that might be worth contemplating:

I wonder what Conrad is hiding from?

Don Firth