As if there wasn’t enough on my mind, the big show drew nigh. I arrived at the festival’s motel hospitality suite that August of 1989, dropped off my instruments and went to my car for a backpack. Within minutes, Philadelphia Folk Festival booking committee members Fred Kaiser and Andrew Braunfeld, “playfully” hid my trusty C.F. Martin M-38 guitar and Vega Tubaphone banjo. Sort of a fraternity initiation by my good pals. Thanks guys. In a few hours I’d be joining Gene Shay as co-emcee at the main stage of the festival for the first of a dozen or so times. This was a coveted role, a job that carried the onus of a host of stuff, not the least of which was performing for 10,000 people. I was concerned … five hours playing air guitar might not be the entertainment extravaganza the patrons paid to endure. Fortunately, in time, my instruments reappeared. And a few hours later, in true show business tradition, the last act was introduced, the last note played, and all went well. I recall an after-show impression; a darn good time, so much music, then eerie and sad silence.

Although not making my debut as an emcee, the stakes had grown considerably. The job required snappy patter, levity, problem solving, and ignoring the madness unfolding behind me as I performed between the acts. The distractions included drums beat, and instruments tuned and mixed in different rhythms and keys than my songs. Listening to the next artist’s sound check in one ear, myself in the other Added to that, the slamming of stage sets, wires being strung and microphones tested, and, the shouting of clear and eloquent instructions at me such as; “Play the chorus again!” “No, wait, make that one more song!” “Hold it, stop now, we’re ready!” All as I tried to concentrate on my presentation, remaining focused while performing as a “tweener.” I think the job description included not soiling one’s undergarments, refraining from using the F-word (the other F-word), and not bringing humiliation on myself, my ancestors, or the booking committee.

One perk of this job included working with the stage crew and volunteers, everyone supportive, like Fred, Teresa (Pyott) and Andy, and Andy’s lovely wife, Babs. Sadly, ill for the last few years and recently passed. It was Babs’ job to work the communications table for the production committee. My lifeline, Babs handed me bios, program info, announcements, weather reports, and warnings of artist ego issues. I relied on Babs for minute-by-minute updates about lost and found children, guitar contests, and cars parked with headlights ablaze. She advised me on how much time to fill when an act was or was not there, or a tour bus got stuck in the mud. I became close to Andy, Babs, son Michael and daughter Lisa, staying with them when in Philly, invited often to their home. Which reminds me of one other prank.

Andy, an avid and knowledgeable guitar and banjo collector, made it clear he admired (no, coveted) my “vintage” M-38 guitar. It was a truly lovely instrument. Perhaps you’ve seen one in the hands of David Bromberg, Arlo Guthrie or Tom Paxton. Andrew, apparently thinking he would challenge my new-kid-on-the-block swagger, alerted festival security, sending out an APB for the “thief” who stole “his” (my) guitar. Andy described me, the hat and shirt I was wearing, and gave the folk police my badge number (supposedly also stolen). I was detected and detained. In folk jail, I ran through my opening songs, using my “hot” guitar. When Andy showed up to call off the dragnet, he escorted me to the backstage area. Me, dreaming of retribution.

With Babs’ permission, I named my M-38 “Babs,” and for the past 25 years, that’s what we all called the guitar. Babs the six-string sang worthy of its namesake, hopefully giving Andy pleasure, and pause to reflect – “Just why did he name his guitar Babs?” She and I would wink and smile about it. The day Babs passed, Andy called and we talked some. I told him I was holding Babs in my hands, (he said, “That would be difficult under the circumstances.”). I played a few notes, and held the guitar as we spoke. Then, I did something I never did before. Usually, when I changed the strings, they were off and on within a few minutes. But something made me just take the strings off – in silent tribute to my guitar’s namesake. A few days later, re-strung, the guitar’s action had, for the first time ever, risen, now much less playable. It remains a mystery to me. It may be some time, given repair costs, before the guitar is again played. The quiet guitar seems right for now. And there’s that former, life copies art, after-show impression; a darn good time, so much music, then eerie and sad silence.

from Sing Out! v.55#4 (Spring 2014)
© 2014 The Sing Out Corporation / Roger Deitz