Mar 5, 2018:

I missed this lecture. Since I can’t comment on what I didn’t experience, I’ll fill this space with random but hopefully relevant thoughts. Miller’s Segregating Sound could be the source for a semester’s worth of instruction all by itself. I used to have a positive opinion of folklorists until reading of the Lomaxes. If you have a preconceived notion and set out to find evidence for it, that’s not science; it’s advocacy. Before Miller’s book, my concept of folklorists was formed by the Foxfire book series spotlighting Appalachian heritage. Now I question those works as well. It’s healthy to question.

Of course, Miller could be full of it, too. This I doubt, however. One of my favorite passages was (can’t remember the chapter) when he framed folk music as being an occupation. One performer was quoted as saying bad times do not automatically bequeath one with the ability to play the blues. Blues are a talent. It’s hard work. Often inspired by a hard life.

Mar 7, 2018:

Boundaries. Suitable theme given the reading Segregating Sound, by Karl Hagstrom Miller. As stated in the lecture, boundaries either explicitly discourage crossing or implicitly invite it.

Boundaries only work when we’re aware of them. As a white grade-school kid listening to 45 rpm Motown singles (from jukebox castoffs, see previous blogs) in the attic, I had no clue I was crossing a border. It still doesn’t seem like I was transgressing to this day. Just like the people who listened to Eddie Lang’s guitar behind Bessie Smith’s vocals, the artists’ race didn’t matter to me. It’s all about the music.

Decades ago, in a land far away: One of my supervisors, Staff Sergeant “Nasty” Smith, told me about buying a Little River Band album, and being shocked to find the band members were all white (SSgt Smith was not white, by the way). Boundaries. I could see he was deeply conflicted as to whether to keep it or not. Maybe I shouldn’t share that. Sorry, Nasty.

Nationalism. I’d have to argue that contractual nationalism is what I feel. I’m highly suspect of anyone playing the romanticism angle, and as for race, we’re all of them. E Pluribus Unum.