Astonished was I. No, make that surprised beyond belief when I saw what Judith Zweiman and Paul Lubniewski posted on Facebook. It was an old club announcement from City Folk Nights at the The Sun Mountain Café promoting the schedule of performers presented way back, one week in the ’80s. According to the message, I was sharing a night with Lillie Palmer and David Canter. What was it got me so bewitched, bothered and bewildered? I gazed at the poster, the show dates, and the names of the various musicians. Something did not seem right. Then it hit me. Yes, it took a moment, but I realized the cyber double take was due to my eyes focusing on the spelling of my name. It didn’t seem to scan properly. You see; my name was actually spelled … correctly!

Good golly, they got one right! And this is no spelling bee Es (Es – the symbol for the element “Einsteinium” and spelling bee for all those bright kids with contestant numbers on their shirts, who get beat up when they return to their schools with their spelling bee numbers still attached to their shirts). How petty you must think. I tried to chill, but it all came back. How few times have I encountered my name spelled right over the years. Let it go dude. Here, I saw my name spelled correctly as D-e-i-t-z not D-i-e-t-z! That’s me! My name, as spelled as on my birth certificate. The Sun Mountain Café was showing me something I had grown not to expect.

Some impish poster boaster must have thought she was spelling my moniker incorrectly, intentionally, and goofed – by getting it right. I admit I am not great at spelling. I surround myself with spelling dictionaries and electronic dictionaries, not trusting my memory, Bill Gates’ Word spell checker, nor my typing skills. So I understand. But, rarely do I encounter “Deitz” spelled the proper way, except on my checkbook. I don’t expect strangers to get it right, especially with me pronouncing my name in a way that implies the wrong spelling. It is always fun to hear the customer service rep come to a screeching (silent) halt at the “D” of my last name. Then proceed with caution into “Diets,” “Ditz”, “Dhights,” and perhaps Diaz. Sometimes, feeling charitable, I will complete the name – taking pity, or wanting to move the process along.

I will save R-o-d-g-e-r for another essay. Although as Roger Alan Deitz, I must give my parents props for coming up with the initials “RAD” long before the term was, well, rad, or in vogue. (If my name were to appear in Vogue, it would probably be misspelled).

Since this vintage Sun Mountain Café poster was now being shared on a FB page, it led to the topic of other fond musical reminiscences. Reflections about Greenwich Village and the era when The Coop and Fast Folk artists were headliners, and The Fast Folk Musical Magazine (and recordings) set a standard and an outlet for singer-songwriters with their new music while providing some tracks for traditional singers and slightly used music. Village artists were once again being signed by major recording companies, and annual Fast Folk shows produced yearly at The Bottom Line. The shows were well attended.

We Facebook friends somehow got on the subject of the unique monthly Speakeasy calendars. One was then posted as a graphic example. It brought back more fond memories. I decided to check out the only Speakeasy calendar I saved, one heralding the first booking I got at the club on MacDougal Street. The calendars were works of art, visually musical in their own right, penned with humor and commentary and displaying a distinctive look. I regret not saving them all in a journal to preserve for posterity the array of artists, friends, and shows of note. I would love to publish them in folio form as a way to share them. Especially now that, not only is the club and era past, so too have passed an army of those good buddies and notable performers, fewer folks with whom to share this facebook conversation. All of those notable artists past, present and future therein, some more obscure, others eminently recognizable.

Next, I unfolded my own black and white Speakeasy schedule which I had tucked away in a box along with love letters and other keepsakes. Sure enough, there I was – or should I say, there was the announcement of that auspicious occasion, that glorious debut, when first I played the Speakeasy, opening for Gamble Rogers. Of course, my name was misspelled. But, thank you Rod MacDonald for the booking. Rod recently observed, “I remember your gig. You took out the accordion and (Erik) Frandsen (actor, performer, open-mike guru and master calendar scribe) kept yelling for ‘Lady of Spain.’ We were a high class bunch there on MacD Street.’” Indeed we were Rod.

Given the topic at hand, (that topic now being my altered ego and altered name), I asked Rod about his performance contract. I recalled a clause therein penalizing folks for misspelling his name. Was it true? Rod MacDonald reminded me, “I did briefly have a clause that said if my name was misspelled, I didn’t have to go on. I never used it. In contracts now I request ‘Please spell artist name correctly in publicity! It is not Ron, Ray, Rob, or McDonald.’ That seems more effective, most of the time they get it right!” Wow … most of the time? I wonder what that’s like!

Roger @ the NJFF. photo by Bob Yahn

After laying out flat, that old monthly from the Speakeasy, I discerned, in fact, performing that night was someone named “Roger Dietz,” he was opening for Gamble Rogers. What pride! That’s misspelled me. Gamble played two shows each of two nights. I did the Sunday performances, while the late lamented Richard Meyer opened for Rogers on Saturday. I saved the admission ticket from that evening, now framed with a small photo of Gamble Rogers and yours truly, performing in a humor workshop at The Philadelphia Folk Festival. I was wearing my own, official Boy Scouts of America Scout Camp Provisional Area Leader shirt, resplendent with my chaplain’s patch, in which I co-emceed that evening’s main stage concert with Gene Shay that night. (See photo on previous “RagTag” posting).

It sure got attention! I received a nasty letter of warning from an official of the Scouts. He spelled my name incorrectly – so I think my chaplain’s patch will not be summarily ripped from my sleeve by a committee of rabbis. I decline to quote from that nasty letter – something about not wearing (desecrating) the uniform for emceeing a folk event. Also – I was not in proper attire, wearing blue jeans without a pocket knife, not sporting the official scout neckerchief, all items the letter noted, on sale at scout outfitters everywhere.

I now quote from the admission ticket issued from the Speakeasy for the night I was paired with Rogers: “FEB 17,1985, GAMBLE ROGERS, ROGERS DIETZ, SPEAKEASY, 107 MACDOUGAL ST., NEW YORK, NY, $5.00 SUN EVE 8:30PM SHOW AND 10:30 PM SHOW.”

It was the feared double misspelling. Double word and triple points score! They got me coming and going. For all I know, A&R folks from Columbia Records were in the audience that night, dazzled by my ribald humor, bellowing accordion, and euphonic banjo songs, but, alas, they were unable to sign me when they could not locate “Rogers Dietz.” Stories are told in the offices of Sony-Legacy about the one that got away. You know, the next Bob Dylan, the one wearing a 120 Bass accordion, a Boy Scout uniform, knee socks and garters. (Hey, it’s The Village! Lots of guys wear garters!)

And, since I mentioned The Philadelphia Folk Festival, most of the times since the early 1980s, they got my name right in the contract, the program book or on the smiling banjo poster. I said – most of the time. And I was ever so proud to see my name listed along side artists I had come to know and love. So, imagine my delight when, for the 25th anniversary festival, my name was misspelled on the smiling banjo poster. No big deal, right? Well, wrong in fact. That was the year the festival product promotions folks printed that very banjo poster on thousands of souvenir T-shirts. Red ones, green ones, blue ones; shirts of every color, shirts of every size. Large, Larger, Largest, even more Largest. And wee ones for the kiddies. One name misspelled and documented for posterity. There for all to see, appearing and printed incorrectly on every last one of those thousands of shirts, as “Roger Dietz.”

I would encounter folks walking by, wearing one of the T-shirts, or fans asking me to sign next to my name. (I usually edited the spelling glitch). To this day, I still see them, and have a couple in my drawer, just in case I need a reminder. At least for the 50th anniversary T-shirts, I caught a major break. My name was omitted, due to a late booking. (So, be careful what you gripe about). I know they’ll get it right for the 75th Roger Deitz, memorial let’s finally get the name spelled correctly folk festival and ritualistic banjo burning. I already reserved my weekend “passes.” I saved ten per cent for booking early. You know, like you do at funeral parlors, for pre-interment bookings.

The truth is – it is a free for all, one uncle fearing the spelling Deitz might look “too Jewish” to his employers – spelled it Dietz, as did/do a few other relatives. Of course, I believe the actual family name is Bernstein – forged passports in Russia, Germany, and presented at Ellis Island made the name change a necessity. Thanks to those Russian and German forgers. I owe them my life. But maybe, Smith or Jones would have been better choices?

Only recently, I saw my name misspelled online beneath the title of my latest Folk Alliance International newsletter/magazine submission. They have re-issued a number of my “vintage” Fast Folk articles. This month they published one by Roger Dietz. He’s good too. When I went to the founding meeting in Malibu in 1989, I arrived as Roger Deitz, and have paid dues in that name ever since. Well, the name is spelled correctly on the membership card – but not, alas on the printed cyber page. Oh, what’s in a name, a rogue by any other name would spell as sweet.

Even two friends at Sing Out!, years ago, managing editor Rich Kerstetter and art director Ed Courier (who did the illustrations for my columns and book), worked overtime to please me, pouring over a layout of a feature article I wrote about John McEuen. They touched up and retouched and could not wait to show me the finished product … which in publication had one small problem, it omitted my name from under the title. (Mark Moss reminds me – my name DID appear at the end of the article. And so it did.) Rich and Ed were mortified. But they had found a way NOT to misspell my name. As I note on my website; on national television, that same John McEuen of The Dirt Band, while recounting a story of our meeting, took another tack, as he mentioned me on Nashville Now, not by name, but, as “The guy from the magazine.” Give me a good misspelling anytime.

So, recently, I’m writing an email to Janis Ian. I look down at the text, and realize – I have typed “Janice.” Mortified, I started to sweat. I’m certain she’s never seen THAT before. I’m blaming a kidney stone, having a bad spell you know. So, as we cut away, with the sound of a Klondike barroom piano tickling our ears, I apologize to Janis, and offer one of my favorite quotable quotes. I wish for you success as you pan for life’s gold, and your name etched correctly in stone, when the time comes. This from the author of The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses …

“I have no doubt at all the Devil grins,
As seas of ink I spatter,
Ye gods, forgive my ‘literary’ sins –
The other kind don’t matter.”
— Robert W. Service