Flimsy Whimsy: Folk

There are those who truly listen to music, and then there’s me. I listen because radios exist, but I never intentionally listen.

I’ve never deciphered why they call folk music that. What folk is it for? Isn’t all music folk music? Isn’t country music written and played for country folk? Isn’t rock music put together for rock people? Some obscure indescribable word that fits that equally not definable category of any music that isn’t something else? You get what I mean, maybe?

It’s not that I don’t appreciate folk music. I think I do. This is proven out by the occasional occurrence when Jane, a co-worker, puts the radio on. She listens to music and also knows stuff about it. I hear something that induces a gentle wave down my spine and I ask, “What kind of music is that?” I do this two or three times a month. I’m an elderly man and my memory is failing me. But I still have ego. Time hasn’t faded that.

Then she replies all too knowledgeably, “Folk music.”

“Oh,” I reply, with the tone that implies that I understand completely. But when Jane looks back with that odd expression of hers, I know my faked tone wasn’t close. Not even as good as my phony French accent. She uses her powerful woman’s intuition and facial expression reading skills to tell I didn’t get it, so she explains it.

“Folk music is pretty eclectic,” she says.

Not wishing to be rude, I say, “Yes, it is.” I have no clue what eclectic means.

“Eclectic means diverse,” she says.

So I just change the flow to attempted humor which I think I’m better at than music. “So it’s that hippy yuppy artsy fartsy feelgood half bluesy twangy cultural stuff with a beat?”

She smiles. “You got it! Except for the twangy.”

Pleased, I saunter away. I turn and she’s still shaking her head.