September 17, 2001

 mfinley.com   
"My showdown with Peter Ostroushko"

By Friday I had pretty much decided to quit this column. Too many contentious exchanges with friends, and too many ugly exchanges with strangers. If the old saying "The first casualty of war is truth" is true, the second casualty may be trust. For all the "unity" we have achieved, I can’t remember when there has been more spanking. Of one another, for veering from the party line of war.

I was ready to put the column on a shelf in the closet, for retrieval when the horror dies down, and people are interested in little stories again.

But I forgot about the folk festival. For almost four years I have been associated with a little nonprofit outfit called Minnesota Folk Festival, helping them put on shows. They put on exquisite shows of authentic music, which I have tried, and mainly failed, to get people to sample.

I have organized silent auctions, helped with fund drives, stacked chairs -- the little things one does with a nonprofit. Last winter I got to feeling unappreciated, after I laid out some major Kinko's cash for programs that in all the hubbub of the event were never taken out of the box. I had some harsh words with Deborah Martin, the leader of the group, and stepped away for a spell.

So it came upon me suddenly last week that another year had passed, and another festival was opening. Deborah called and asked if I would help judge the annual songwriter contest, based on an essay I wrote last month about songwriters. I said sure.

Tuesday the terrorists bombed the World Trade Center and Pentagon. The festival curtain was scheduled to go up four days later. It seemed like hard luck was dogging us. The act of terror was threatening to undo airlines, stock exchanges, and security worldwide. Who cared what happened to our little gaggle of mandolins and guitars?

It was bad. We couldn’t afford to cancel, but neither could we expect much in the way of a crowd, even though the two-day event at Saint Paul's Mounds Park was free. Already, three performers, one of them a headliner, had to cancel because they could not fly out of Boston, New York, and San Francisco. When the rain started Sunday afternoon, it was just another sign that the Almighty was having a little fun with us.

But you know, the rain stopped after an hour, and the 1000 or so people who found us and listened a while found some relief from the week's sorrow.

Now let me tell you my story. My job was to be one of three judges for the songwriting contest. The other two judges, Bob and Karl, are fixtures on the local scene and they know good from not good. The methodology was simple -- jot down values on a chart for each of the 28 singer-songwriters in the contest, tally up totals and choose a winner. We didn’t have to be folkie Pauline Kaels, just add a few simple numbers.

The performers were really good, and without tipping our hands, we judges shared enough vibes through the contest to imagine that choosing a winner would be a snap. But when we counted all the votes, we discovered a mathematical anomaly. In listing each judges's top four performers, there was no duplication. We all liked, very much, twelve different performers.

I was hot for Tim Gadban, who did some incisive, poetic blues work, and Dan Rumsey, who sang two haunting songs about childhood and lost opportunities -- I'm a sucker for the sad stuff. Bob wanted a Michigan songwriter named Lucy Webster to win -- he put her way above the others. Karl liked Doug Becken and Gary Burt. And there were a dozen performers, just a point or two below, that we all liked, but didn’t give the tip-top mark to.

But we had no way to get to any of these people, based on our voting.

We solved the problem by going back into the math, and totaling all our scores for all the performers. When we did that, we realized that the split was a good thing. It meant we had lots of good performers, and that our tastes were not monolithic.

I wrote a short report to the audience, which the emcee was to deliver that night, following multi-instrumentalist Peter Ostroushko's set. All the artists would be on hand to hear who won, and the audience would be big, because Ostroushko is a marvelous performer, an ace not just at mandolin, but guitar and fiddle as well. He plays everything from bluegrass to folk-blues to Celtic to Ukrainian songs. He is a frequent guest on Prairie Home Companion. I've seen him several times over the past 30 years, and always enjoyed him.

However, when Ostroushko read the name of the contest winner (Duluthian Bill Isles), he commented that he thought my letter was "a copout."  The audience laughed, uncertain what the remark was about. 

I tried not to take it personally, indeed I took offense on behalf of the other two judges. Didn’t we sit in the rain for two days, straining to hear every syllable? But that was no good -- it was my note that Ostroushko panned.

So it was stupid and pointless -- I'm not sure what Peter meant,§ but it still seemed gratuitous, and my skin is eggshell-thin after my adventures in e-mail all week. I stewed about it, then stalked off to confront Peter. He was being interviewed by a videographer, and pleasantly answering questions about the importance of folk music, etc.

I stepped forward -- it might not have been too imposing, as I had a sick poodle with a red sweater on a leash -- and introduced myself, and shook Peter's hand.

"Peter, I'm a long-time fan, but I'm also one of the judges for the contest, and I think your put-down on stage was mean and hurtful."

OK, the Marlboro Man I wasn't. Peter just rolled his eyes, in pain I think, not just at being accosted by a crank, but probably the pain of realizing he had screwed up. At least that is my hope. We parted unhappily but amicably, and my heartbeat began to settle back into the three-digit realm.

But I want to cite another thing Peter said, while on stage, between songs, what he calls his "love rap."

"You know, I gotta be honest. The last thing I wanted to do this weekend was come to a folk festival. And when I saw on the schedule that I was to participate in a workshop on humor in music, my heart sank even more.

"But when I got here, and began talking to people again, and playing, I felt this tremendous sense of relief. This is just exactly the right thing to be doing. I hope you all are feeling better, too."

mfinley.com 
_{COPYRIGHT (c) 2001
by MICHAEL FINLEY}

Comments on the site