As I was trying to figure out my place in the world at the tender age of fourteen, I found myself starved for music beyond what was spoon-fed to teenagers on Top 20 radio stations. I wasn’t interested in teen heartthrobs or angry heavy metal bands. I wanted something real – something raw. I wanted something that wasn’t funded by record executives. Though I wasn’t quite ready for jazz and was still a decade away from discovering classical composers, I was just the right age for folk music.
Folk music speaks of the human condition in ways popular music cannot. It speaks of common people and their struggles. It’s emotional. It’s political. It sparks change. Folk music isn’t always easy to listen to, but that is what made it all the more appealing to me. It challenged me when I needed to be challenged.
I discovered Woody Guthrie and his songs of social justice. This led me to the music of Ani DiFranco and her songs of racism, sexism, sexual abuse, homophobia, reproductive rights, poverty, and war. This was not music to be taken lightly.
Of course, not all folk music must weigh heavily on the collective consciousness. Folk music can be as much about personal struggle as a societal struggle. And sometimes it is the combination of the two that makes the genre so powerful. I discovered Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell and Bruce Cockburn. A few years ago, I discovered Craig Cardiff.
Along the way, I discovered a sub-genre of Canadian folk music that spoke of a national identity. Among others, Stan Rogers was inspired by the country’s history and wrote songs about the daily lives of working people. He wrote about explorers and privateers, and about the struggles of fishers and farmers.
Folk music doesn’t generally draw large crowds, and this makes for a far more personal (and inspiring) experience for the audience. I can’t fathom why any true music lover would pay hundreds of dollars to sit in the nosebleed seats at the back of large stadiums and watch performers on video screens as they lip-synch and gyrate on stage.
A couple weeks ago, I had the pleasure of attending a Séan McCann concert at Kimberley’s Centre 64. After co-founding the Newfoundland-based band Great Big Sea, McCann spent over twenty years touring with what was affectionately known as the best party band in Canada. The band shot to international fame, sold millions of albums, had countless hit songs, and toured around the world. But this was not a healthy environment for an alcoholic. McCann used drinking as a way to mute memories of childhood abuse, but finally had enough of hiding. He’s now been sober for seven years, and with five solo albums has painted an intimate portrait of a man coming to terms with his demons.
More than ever before, McCann is writing songs that reveal his vulnerability but also his strength to persevere and his love for life. Rather than reaching for the bottle, he picks up his guitar and finds solace in making music. His personal story and emotionally charged songs encourage others to find peace in times of turmoil.
There’s a place for popular music, as there’s a place for all genres, but I continue to listen to folk music because of the stories that I connect with. Folk music isn’t about a catchy beat or salacious fashion or private jets. Folk music is about picking up a pen and a guitar and healing the world one song at a time.