First of all, I just want to express how much I appreciate Max and those who assist him for the existence of Mudcat.

I would hardly say that I am addicted to Mudcat, but I have found it a resource far easier to use than most web sites I've encountered. Apart from the trolls and complainers, I've found this forum a highly positive one. There is enough expertise out there to be able to either answer one's questions on any number of subjects (particularly music) or point one in the right direction, and were that not enough in itself, I've become reacquainted with old friends I haven't seen for years, and I've met on-line several people in my own area that, although I have not yet met in person, I am looking forward to doing so in the near future. Cult? Hardly.

In one of his/her/its posts, ADC seems to be complaining that Max is being dictatorial and that Mudcat is not a democracy. Very astute there, ADC. But this particular snivel fails to pass muster. First, the legendary Iron Fist of Max I read so much about is hardly ever in evidence. He lets people pretty much go their own way—not at all like some web sites I've visited. Second, whoever said that Mudcat is supposed to be a democracy?

And try to give this some kind of historical perspective:—

The first coffeehouse in Seattle opened in 1958. A second one opened in 1959. Then others followed. But until then, places where one could hear folk music, or sing folk music (except by oneself) were few and far between. And when the coffeehouses did open, there were far more singers than their were singing jobs. If you wanted to sing, then—where?

Beginning in the early Fifties and going on into the Sixties, we had a lot of "hoots." Some of these were concert-like public performances. But the vast majority of them were not. Folk singers and folk music enthusiasts would gather in somebody's private home. People sang for each other, swapped songs, swapped information ("how do you do that guitar lick you just did?" or "what chords do you use on…..?"), and generally sang up a storm. Many neophytes tried out their first songs at these affairs, many singers had a chance to hone their skills before other people, and now and then a well-know performer (Pete Seeger, Guy Carawan, Barbara Dane, Jesse Fuller, Bob Gibson, Dick Rosmini, and others) would be there, swapping songs with the rest of us. Out in the kitchen there might be a joke-telling session, a political discussion, or just general BS. For several years running, not a weekend would pass without a hoot at Elmar's, Shirley's, Dick and Bev's, Ruthie's, or at "Fort Clark" or "Fort Bush." Some of the people who hosted them were musicians; many were not. They liked folk music, liked the people, and liked a party.

If anybody got rowdy or disruptive (extremely rare occurrence), the host might step in and put things back in order, but for the most part, the host just let the hoot do its natural thing. And no one complained that the host was being "dictatorial." After all, you were a guest (whether you had a name or not) in the host's home. And certainly no one was rude, crude and ungrateful enough to complain that they didn't like the décor, or to bitch that the host hadn't yet completed a remodeling project he or she was working on—or question the host's motives when he or she said, "Hey, I'm a little strapped this week, so could we make this one B.Y.O.B?"

Were it not for these folks making their homes available to us, musically, things would have been pretty damned bleak. There would have been have been far less music than there was—far less. And there would have been far fewer singers than there eventually were. The seeds for the folk music revival had been planted by collectors such as Carl Sandburg, John and Alan Lomax, and a few others, and by early singers like Burl Ives, Susan Reed, and Richard Dyer-Bennet, but it was the "hoots" and the gatherings and songfests like them that provided the great underground river that watered these seeds and really allowed the folk revival to grow.

Had it not been for hoots and the people who threw their homes open for them, I'm not sure what we would have done on a weekend evening. Put the guitar back in its case and gone bowling, I guess. To my mind, these folks are the Salt of the Earth.

Can anybody see any parallels here?

By the way, ADC . . . what have you done lately?

Don Firth