How I met Pete Seeger – Part 1

post no. 2

Pete Seeger was one of America’s most important figures. His work is as important today as it has ever been. So it needs to be preserved and shared. I am one of thousands of people who got to know him personally. But I, unlike so many others who knew him, did not grow up listening to his music. I never sailed with him. I never chopped wood with him. I never cleaned the mulchrum with him. This would make me an unlikely spokesperson for his work. But the fact that I didn’t know much about him until I met him in 2003 and why I then became so enamored with his work speaks volumes about who Pete was, what he stood for, and why his message is so important. My stories about Pete Seeger are only a tiny sliver of the whole story. But they are worth telling and here I am to share them.

I had the incredible fortune of performing alongside Pete Seeger at festivals and concerts more than 50 times over the last ten years of his life.  I met him on October 12, 2003, and last performed with him on Nov 14, 2013.  How our relationship came to be is a long story.  And the story starts, perhaps surprisingly, on February 9, 1964.

My friend Austin asked me recently what was the earliest memory I have.  I do have a few memories that predate February 9, 1964.  But the memory of that day stands out as my first memory of major significance.

I was 4 years old.  We lived at 4 Alvin Place on a dead-end road in Montclair, New Jersey.  At the end of our road was the Erie Lackawanna train line, better known as “the train tracks.”  My siblings and I were under strict instructions not to play on or near the railroad tracks.  To me, the reason was a mystery.  Therefore, I made a point of getting as close as I could whenever Mom was not around to see.  I always had a knack for exploring mysterious stuff.  So, I had to know what was so special about the train tracks.  That, however, is another story for another day. 

But one part of that story is also part of this story.  The train was loud.  And powerful.  When a freight train came zipping by blowing its horn, you not only heard how loud it was, you also felt the fullness of it, the power, the low-end rumble.  You probably know what I mean, but it’s not easy to put into words.  You didn’t hear a thin, transient low frequency.  You heard and felt a big fat, full, powerful, omnipresent low-end rumble that coursed through the very fibers of your body.  It was exhilarating!

Behind our house was a three- or four-bay garage – more space than was needed by the two families that lived in our house.  So, Mr. Van Zandt, the landlord, rented out one of the bays to Richard Barth.  Richard was probably in his twenties.  He wore a leather jacket, had a tattoo on his forearm, and he worked on motorcycles and hotrods.  He was often covered with engine oil and smelt like gasoline and tobacco smoke.  My siblings and I were under strict instructions not to play with or near Richard Barth.  To me, the reason was a mystery.  Therefore, I made a point of getting as close as I could whenever Mom was not around to see.  What I remember most about Richard Barth is that he loved to rev the engines of his motorcycles and hotrods.  Sometimes I would sneak around a parked car and yell out to Richard, “Rev your engine.”  He was happy to oblige.  Like the rumble of the train, the revving of the engine could be felt throughout your body. 

I can hardly remember what it was like inside our house – where the different rooms were.  I was very young when we moved out. But I will never forget the deep fat full powerful sound of a freight train racing by at the end of the road, and the exciting bright almost-dangerous sound of Richard Barth’s revved up motorcycle coming from the garage.  I vaguely remember our kitchen.  But I distinctly remember where the television was.  And I will never forget what I saw on the television the night of February 9, 1964:  

John, Paul, Ringo, and George. 

Younger folk or people with a different cultural background than mine may not recognize these names.  But for my generation, and my background, I am referring to a transformative moment in the lives of millions of Americans.  I am talking about the Beatles.  February 9, 1964 was their first American appearance.  They played on the Ed Sullivan Show to 73 million live viewers.  That was about one out of every three Americans!  They played "All My Loving", "Till There Was You", "She Loves You", "I Saw Her Standing There" and "I Want to Hold Your Hand".

I remember standing in front of the television completely mesmerized.  I could not hear my mother yelling at me to stand to the side so my siblings could watch.  She had to get up from the couch and usher me aside.  My brain was not mature enough to formulate words to define what I was experiencing, but today I remember exactly what I was thinking:

Through the television set, at age four, I recognized that the big fat warm, deep and powerful, full sound of Paul’s bass sounded like that big fat monstrous freight train that I so dearly loved.  George’s guitar was a musical version of Richard Barth’s revved motorcycle.  These were two dangerous mysteries of my life personified.  And somehow my mom was okay with me being near them. 

The Beatles’ singing voices were unlike anything I had heard before.  Strangely different, yet endearing and lovable.  I saw four kids, kind of like me, except in adult bodies, and I realized for the first time that an adult can have child-like innocence, wonder, openness, unbridled joy, and good clean fun expressed in an intense, all-out, ferociously optimistic and uplifting way.

That one hour of television became not only a landmark turning point in American culture.  It became, for me, the first time I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I surely wasn’t consciously aware of this knowledge.  But the first seed was planted.  It was planted in my heart and deep within my consciousness.  That day, the universe began conspiring to align the circumstances and events of my life to lead me to where I am today. It formed a path that led right smack through the Beacon Sloop Club Pumpkin Festival on October 12, 2003, where I first met Pete Seeger.

of all the times the Beatles played the Ed Sullivan Show, February 9, 1964 - the first time - was the only time George wore a turtle neck. He was just getting over strep throat.