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Maybe I'm Wrong And I've Always Been That Way

The last couple days for me have been a lot like an episode of Scrubs, except with less Zach Braff and more exposed shin bone.

I spent Thursday and Friday shadowing a surgical team at a hospital in London, where my sister's lovely generous doctor friend had so kindly volunteered to let me get in her way while she tried to save people's lives. Getting work experience is of course an essential part of the process of trying to get into medical school, but for me it was particularly important. I needed to make sure I was doing the right thing.

You see, I've been so intent on becoming a physician I was worried that maybe I'd been swept up in the romance of it all, with the idea that every day starts with a fresh set of scrubs and ends with a patient making a miraculous recovery after thirty seconds of CPR and a young handsome doctor saying, Dammit, I am not losing this one!

I was worried that despite the mile long queue of weary medical residents and SHOs who have warned me to get out while I still can, despite the $120k+ education fees I can expect to spend a good chunk of my life paying off, despite not being able to even think about making a salary for the next six years, despite having to leave all my friends in the UK and start all over again in a country I haven't properly lived in since I was 11, despite all this, I am still as enthusiastic about becoming a physician as I was on that sunny July day back in 2009 when I realised there was nothing else in the world I could imagine myself doing.

In reality, I've wanted to be a doctor since I was little (though the career path did have healthy competition with 'astronaut' between around 1997 to 1999) but poor science grades gradually chipped away at that dream until it seemed like nothing more than a silly idea. When my GCSE results came back sometime before my 17th birthday and I realised I was not the mediocre student I had always suspected I'd been, that little doctor seed that had been frosted over by a blizzard of Bs and Cs for so many years suddenly broke through. Despite this, I was so keen to get to university and so reluctant to spend another year getting the science prerequisites required to get me to medical school, I ended up settling for a Politics and Sociology degree in the UK.

The past three years have been fantastic, but only because the last two have them have been spent knowing the pure unstoppable fact that when I graduate I will be pursuing an MD in the United States. Okay, sure, so I have to do a post-baccalaureate premedical degree first, and that will take up to two years and around 30k to finish, but the important thing is, I'm getting there.

So when I got to the hospital on Thursday morning (I was so nervous I arrived an hour early and had to sit in the staff room awkwardly watching SkyNews with a bunch of exhausted doctors who did not want to have to make small chat with a clueless pre-med student after a 12-hour night shift) I knew that everything was on the line. My little medical dream seed had matured into a sturdy sapling, but I was waiting for the gale forces of reality to come and blow me off my feet again.

So I waited.

I waited through my first round on the ITU ward, dealing with patients who everyone knew were most likely headed for the morgue.

I waited through my first surgery, a knee replacement that involved a lot more chiseling, grinding and power tools than I had ever expected in a hospital.

I waited through my first cardiac arrest, when the resuscitation team fought and won against an elderly heart that stubbornly refused to keep beating.

I waited and I waited, peeking through my fingers and holding my breath for the moment when I would say, Oh, right, yeah, that's why I would make a terrible doctor, that's why everyone says it's not nearly as a good career as it used to be, that's why I should just give up right now.

It was only when I dumped my blood-stained scrubs on Friday evening and left through the revolving doors of the hospital that I suddenly realised nothing at all in the past 48 hours had made me any less determined to be a doctor. Finally I could relax my shoulders, untense my worried mind and think, Right then, let's get on with it. I came away unburdened by my fears of failure and instead weighted down with a hundred-and-one more reasons why I have to succeed.

Okay, sure, I've only seen the clean, daytime tip of an otherwise frightening, exhausting and mind-numbing iceberg, sure I've only seen one hospital, and not even one in the country in which I intend to practise. But I've seen enough to know that the roots of my dream to one day (still a long, long way away) become a doctor have gripped me so tightly that if I don't drop everything I am doing right now and pursue this time-consuming, money-draining, life-changing goal, I will have let down the six-year old self that envisaged it in the first place.

When I got back to Bristol at 10 o'clock at night, I walked through the frosty streets to an empty house and sat in our basement living room, drinking beer and eating pasta. One of my housemates texted me and asked if I wanted to come round to a little party a few doors down the street. It was 2 degrees outside and I'd just picked up on three clinical inaccuracies in an episode of Scrubs I was watching.

I told him I'd see him in the morning.

In other news, I've been zeroing in on a lot of amazing folk lately, and can't even quite remember where I found this week's track. I wish I could tell you more about Nathaniel Raitliff, but I'm thinking all you really need to know is that he must have been reading the part of my secret diary where I wrote how much I love vocal harmonies. He must also have read the footnotes on including wonderful lyrics and the margin where I'd scribbled how much I like powerful chest-baring choruses. Either that or he's just one of the amazing new artists that contemporary folk has been churning out lately.

I'm going to start locking up my secret diary.

Progressive Folkism

Not all music genres were created equal.

When I walk into university everyday it's impossible for me to ignore the flyers taped to post boxes and telephone poles advertising all sorts of artists I've never even heard of before. I can hardly open my email inbox without being inundated by an avalanche of Facebook invitations to events hosted by MC Shamtastic or the Croydon Dub Masters. Many an evening have I walked away from the DJ booth in shame after being told that no, sorry, they don't take requests for Paul Simon at Lizard Lounge.

We live in a prejudiced world.

Long gone is that golden era when 'folk' and 'club' were two words that frequently appeared in the same sentence. How I wish I could experience those salad days, when I wouldn't have to panic when asked, so what kind of music do you like?

But there is hope. The few hundred visitors I get on this site every week all stand testament to the stalwart remains of folk fandom. The emails I get from readers suggesting new tunes and bands I haven't heard about fill me with unparalleled joy for the future of our encroached genre. We're still here, I whisper to my tear-stained reflection, And, dammit, we're going to stay.

And so to my humble comrades of the Good Music Resistance, to my fellow folk freedom fighters, I implore you to carry on resisting, to spread the good word of Folk. Slowly, we can persuade the non-believers, inch by dulcet inch we will retune their chart-deafened ears to the strumming of acoustic guitars and the chorus of three-part harmonies.

To aid you in your quest of conversion, I gift you with an excerpt from The Little Folk Book: Quotations from Folkmaster Luke. Spread yourselves throughout the countryside and speaketh my Word to those who will listen, for within folk lies the answer to many of life's deepest quandries.

The Little Folk Book: Quotations from Folkmaster Luke
Chapter 7--Coming Out the Folk Closet
There comes a time in every person's life when he or she must come to terms with what he or she truly is inside, a time when those feelings that have been bottled up for so long must finally be faced head on and properly understood. Usually people encounter signs that make them realise once and for all that they do truly like folk. You might have experienced these signs too. Perhaps you heard Mumford & Sons on the stereo at Old Navy and it made you feel...funny. Perhaps your friend put some Johnny Flynn on while you were hanging out and you felt an incredible loneliness when the track ended.

However you discovered that you like folk, the first thing you must understand is, there's nothing wrong with you. Many people throughout the world feel exactly the same way as you and it's perfectly normal.

Of course, life for the folk-initiated isn't always easy. At some point you're going to want to tell your friends and family, and if you don't handle it perfectly there could be dire consequences.

Luckily, the Generous and Exulted Folkmaster Luke and the National Party for the Advancement of Wonderous Acoustica have compiled a list of advice for what you should do when you finally decide to come out of the folk closet.

#1 Don't always tell people you like folk music, it might confuse them
A difficult question for any folk fan is, so what music are you into? Tread carefully, comrades. There are several ways to answer this question. Firstly, judge the questioner. Does she seem cool to you? What is her body language telling you? Is she genuinely interested in what you are going to say or is she only making awkward small talk while you both wait desperately for your mutual friend to come back into the conversation?

Act accordingly. If you don't think she will respond well, shrug off the question. Here are some handy phrases for you to employ:
- Oh, you know, I like everything, mostly acoustic stuff really.
- Well, I'm not really that into music, I just like simple stuff.
- Hmmm, do you know that guy Jack Johnson? Yeah, he's pretty good, I'm into him right now.

Of course, there is the chance that your questioner would be receptive to a truthful answer. Don't be afraid to humbly offer 'folk music...?' as a response. If she smiles, lifts up her sleeve and reveals a tattoo of a heart with the words JOSH RITTER etched inside, it could be the start of a beautiful relationship.

#2 No one likes pretentiousfolk
Some people like to spread the good word of folk and that's fine. The problem is, there will inevitably be those who don't want to hear about your enlightened sense of existence. I know, I know, what's the point in knowing about the greatest genre of music in the world if you're closest friends can't? Believe it or not, though, some people do not wish to hear about your slightly unorthodox taste in music. Some people are not big enough fans of music in general to be impressed that you think Devendra Banhart is too mainstream for the freak-folk outfit or London neo-folk got left behind with Alas I Cannot Swim. Some people don't like sitting next to the guy at parties who spends forty-five minutes individually explaining the pseudo-biblical references in each of 'The Trapeze Swinger's eight separate verses.

There was a time when this guy at parties was me, but as I became less of the Guy At Parties and more of the Guy at Home By Himself On A Friday Night Wikipedia'ing The American Civil War, I realised that subtlety, modesty and calm were the best attributes to have when listening to friends talk about how Jason Mraz is the best acoustic artist of our generation. Just grit your teeth, smile and hum along with your friends to 'I'm Yours'.

#3 Learn to play guitar
Do you know what is even cooler than writing folk music? Converting pop music into folk music. It's like aural alchemy. Most pop songs are based on three or four chords. If you can figure out these three or four chords, learn how to do a nice little fingerpick with your right hand, and slow everything down, you can turn everything into a folk song! These are the tunes that people want to sing along to at parties. These are the tunes that will make people realise they love folk without even realising it. If you don't believe me, ask William Fitzsimmons:



I hope I've been able to return to you lonely folkies out there some of the hope you bestow upon me every time you visit Shut The Folk Up. Honestly, folk is making a resurgence. These days you can hear good folk in places other than just phone adverts and Gossip Girl. Mumford & Sons are just as likely to be featured on a hip trendy website like this as they are on your mainstream radio station, and I think that is a sign of the times.

This week's reward for your tireless persistency in folk promotion is, in the opinion of myself and Papa Burns, one of the most beautiful pieces of folk music ever written. Judee Sill was probably the most unassuming heroin addict you have ever seen, and her untimely death at 35 appears all the more catastrophic when you hear what a genius she was at her craft. In the copy of her song 'The Kiss' below, I've chosen to leave in the brief intro in which she tries to explain to a live audience the hidden meanings behind the track. She seems to get lost in her own thoughts as she speaks, though, as if the true story behind the lyrics has escaped even her, the person who conceived it. What kills me the most is when she quietly, but with undeniable authenticity, tells the audience that she hopes they'll like her song, before launching into it. I feel this way every time I try to introduce folk to one of my friends, lining up something on iTunes that's been haunting me for weeks, sitting them in my chair and throwing it all into a click of the mouse.

I let the folk do the rest.

Three Things I Learned Yesterday

1) No matter how long you watch the Discovery Channel for, when you get back to your computer your dissertation will not have written itself

2) Sometimes the best music is the kind that's recommended to you by your best friends*

3) If you're too busy watching TV working and getting med school experience to write a full post, three bullet points will suffice


*For proof, listen to Augie March below (thanks, Kev).

When I Finally Grow Up (Part 1)

I've got rather messy career aspirations. For a good part of my life I've been having an internal struggle over what I want to do with myself. This is pretty normal of course, most people have no idea what their futures will be until they stumble into them sometime around their twenties. Usually, people know that they want to be in business, or in media, or in fashion. For me though, I knew there were only two specific ways I could turn out: as a doctor or a writer.

I come from a family of writers. My sister is a travel writer, got a 1:1 in English from University College London and gets flown around the world to give speeches on various aspects of the written word. Mama Burns is also a writer, following Papa Burns' job from continent to continent and editing various magazines and newsletters along the way, writing her own column in New England and now gradually breaking into the journalistic world on the West Coast. Papa Burns co-wrote a book once, Brother Tom studied English at university and the Twin is doing the same now.

You could say it's kind of in my blood.

Of course, we're all attracted to the romance of journalism. I remember reading Hunter S. Thompson's The Rum Diaries and assuming that all journalists must live debauched lifestyles on tropical islands with beautiful women and unlimited supplies of white rum. I also got lost in the idea of becoming a foreign correspondent, jetting off to Iran and Burma and Chile on the BBC payroll, whipping up a furor in the international press with my dry witticisms and then returning to a good night's sleep at one of my many bohemian loft apartments dotted around the globe.

It was under these pretences that I pursued a degree in Politics and Sociology at university in England. As a first year undergraduate it was hard to penetrate the student journalism scene (it's not what you know...) but I was soon embroiled in it after someone in my halls of residence drove a brand new Mini across the quadrangle and up and down the stairs. I'd signed up to be my 'hall reporter' in hopes of being assigned a decent story, and though they didn't want a lowly first year to write this particular front-page article, they would be happy for me to take some photographs of the wasted car and give a statement.

How exciting! I relayed to my friends in a cafe on the day the newspaper came out, That's me! I took that photo! I gave that quote about that stupid idiot driving the Mini! Unfortunately, a boy in the cafe overheard, came up to me and told me that I should probably not quote things that I didn't know anything about, and it later turned out that this boy was the stupid idiot who had been driving the Mini. Oops.

I learned to be a little more discrete in my journalistic ventures but remained just as enthusiastic. I hounded friends for stories and constantly scanned the news for mentions of my university. While chasing one particularly controversial story I was assigned to, I was given a phone number for a staff member at the uni and I called him up. After some particularly cautious (boring) responses, I decided to drop the tact and rile him up to get some more interesting quotes for the paper. We ended the conversation with him more or less slamming the phone on the receiver, and as I smugly Googled the man's name to find out his role at the uni, I realised that I had just been provoking and teasing the chancellor's right-hand man. Second oops.

By the end of the paper's run, I had managed to squeeze into the elite circle within the student newspaper, a place where few first-year students manage to go, and had earned the title of Senior Reporter along the way. It was only during the paper's final edition that it dawned on me what a little shit I had become. I ran around the university, antagonising people, eagerly searching for the most gruesome stories about students getting beat up and mugged and attacked. I looked for controversy and institutional unease. I was always the first to hear the latest gossip, and there was a certain thrill in being the one who got to dispense it on the front page, but it was always a short-lived high. I decided I wouldn't work on the paper the following year, that I would stand up for my morals, the morals that I had been decimating all those months simply for the sake of my silly title as Senior Reporter.

Then of course I was offered the role of Deputy News Editor and my morals went back out the window.

To be fair, I did my best to change my ways. I standardised the paper's writing: no more first person narratives (shudder), contractions (shudder) or whacky alliterations (SHUDDER). I gave more control to new reporters. In the end, I let the Editor steer the ship while I just sat in the background, scrubbing the barnacles off the hull. Unfortunately, the ship--for me at least--was sinking, and while I enjoyed polishing other people's rough articles and seeing my own work occasionally grace the front page, I knew that this would be the last paper I would write for. Journalism wasn't for me.

Luckily, STFU isn't a newspaper and so there's no reason why I can't post you a song that I think you'll all like. I picked this up a few days ago. If you are starting to feel the grind of Winter life, think of 'Sounds Like Hallelujah' from Seattle's The Head and the Heart as a big old overcoat that'll keep you toasty, if not for a full day then at least for the few minutes it'll be playing on your iTunes.

Let It All Out

I'm sure there must be some way we can increase the number of hours in a day.

Let's do the maths. Say we wanted a couple extra hours more than the 24 we have already. Simple. It's done. This would make the average week 182 hours long, 14 hours longer than the measly 168 we've grown accustomed too. This it turn would mean 780 hours in a month (up from 720) and 9360 hours in the year.

Right, okay so like an eager British politician we'd have to do cut something out of the budget to make up for the deficit (you're really only supposed to have 8640 hours in a year). Something would have to go. How about February? Any bits left over I'd just add on to June.

In doing so I would go a long way in eliminating two of the biggest issues I've been having problems with lately: time and climate. (I might also eliminate your birthday too, though, if you happen to be born in February, so perhaps not the best plan.)

I'm back at university now and have made it to the dreaded final year when the working world begins to flash its big ugly headlights in your rear view mirror. My housemates spend their free time answering weirdly revealing questions about themselves for graduate intern schemes (my favourite so far for a friend applying for a position at an oil and natural gas company: "Firm X prides itself on safety in the workplace. Describe a change you have made in life to ensure that you are safer." I can't imagine how telling an HR Manager that you look both ways when crossing the street or make sure the lights are switched off before changing a bulb will make you that much more attractive an applicant, but apparently if they take the effort to hire you they don't want to see you perish in a nasty stapler-related incident at the office) while yours truly works long unpaid hours at night shelters, charity shops and hospital wards to try to make myself that much more attractive to medical school admissions officers.

Add in the increased work load of 3rd year, plus needing to somehow find the time to feed, clothe and bathe myself and you start to get the picture. I've always thought the worst thing about being super busy is not having the time to read books. There's a pile of untouched novels I was given at Christmas beckoning me from the bookshelf, but so far this term I seem to be limited only to journal articles with 'feminist thought' in the title. It's getting hard to stay enthusiastic.

Everything is made that much trickier by the fact that England IS SO INCONCEIVABLY COLD. My room in the house I share with four friends is an old front room with a big bay window. Lovely, you might say, and indeed it would be if it's glass wasn't two-hundred years old and two micro-millimetres thick. I wake up in the morning and instinctively reach for my bedside table for a pair of gloves (this makes putting my contact lenses in later a little tricky) before retreating under the covers to psyche myself up for the perilous journey to the shower that awaits. Then in one swift movement I explode out of bed, grab a towel as I accelerate out the door and shoot up the staircase. The worst site in the world to see at this point is a closed bathroom door indicating occupancy and a freezing retreat back to my bedroom but usually my crazed thumping up the stairs warns the others that an icicle-laden housemate is approaching.

The shower itself is another issue. You see, among the fun little idiosyncrasies of our house is that if you have the shower too hot, the internet turns off. It's something to do with plugged up pipes messing up the electricity which affects the router, and the end result is a tepid shower. The front and back sides of my body have to take turns facing the reluctant stream of lukewarm water, which means that any given time 50% of my body has the opportunity to develop frostbite.

The next part in the process is of course the worst part, when you are dripping wet but need to complete that final journey back to your room. Ususally I black out at this point and wake up sprawled beneath my covers, my hair damp and my glasses foggy. Meanwhile, the boiler sits quietly gathering dust in the corner of one of my housemate's bedrooms.

Oh dear, only three weeks in England and I'm already complaining like a Brit. There are, of course, a number of ways to deal with the issues of climate and time. My two favourite happen to be whisky and music. Though the former is not such a feasible solution at any time before 3 in the afternoon, music is accessible 26 hours a day, 182 hours a week.

When your pining for the warmer climates of your home town, what else can you do except listen to the music that always makes you the most homesick. I actually have a playlist called 'Homesick Music' on iTunes (or alternatively, Hey! My Door Was Shut For a Reason! ...No, I'm Not CRYING! Music) and the undefeatable Josh Ritter always figures numerous times on this list.

So this is for all you kids living away from home, even it's been a while since it was somebody else's job to pay your heating bills.




'Another New World' comes from Josh's latest album So Runs The World Away. If you listen closely to the lyrics you'll hear the gorgeously crafted tale of a sea captain trying to find a passage around the ice of the poles. In classic Josh Ritter fashion, the song seems to have layers upon layers upon layers of meaning, but Annabel Lee, the name of the sea captain's ship, actually comes from a poem by Edgar Allen Poe. What really kills me in this song is the story, which you really should sit and pick apart by listening to the lyrics as the music flows around you.

I Saw a Shadow Touch a Shadow's Hand

Sociologist Manuel Castells talks about how as humanity gets increasingly computerised and networked, anyone without a laptop and a broadband connection is simply cut off from the rest of the world as it steadily ticks on without them. Certainly for the last few weeks this is pretty much exactly how I've been feeling.

I live on the west coasts of two different countries, splitting up my time between Bristol, England (where I study) and San Diego, California (where my parents live). Every summer I have to make the paradigm-shifting, Earth-shaking, jet lag-inducing transfer between these two countries and the process seems to knock me out for weeks. It takes a long time for me to acclimatise myself to student life: this morning I sat at the kitchen table till noon waiting for breakfast to appear in front of me. You forget how wonderful mums are until there's eight thousand miles of ocean separating you from freshly ironed boxer shorts and bottomless cups of tea.

This time round, though, the shock of overflowing laundry bags was cushioned by a week of touring round the country with Papa Burns and the twin. We started near London and wormed our way up the M24, dropping in on relatives as we went and leaving them flustered and bewildered by our empty beds the next morning.

We finally reached St Andrews in Scotland, the fuzzy ginger hat of England, where I had to go through the heartrending process of parting with my twin sister, the person who has known me since my humble zygote days. Tears aside, St Andrews is a gorgeous town and certainly worth the visit. It's basically where golf was invented and Papa Burns took us out to the Jigger Inn, the original pub built to service the course. Here the Luke Burns Food Awards saw some new winners, as I graced the burger I had for dinner a gold star in my Best Burger (In a Restaurant) category, while the sticky toffee pudding that followed received a nomination for Best Pudding (Non-Chocolate Variety)—but ultimately lost out to a lemon meringue pie Mama Burns made back in July '08.

Leaving St Andrews, with the car lacking a passenger and a couple suitcases we made a good pace south, where I had to do a handstand in front of the Angel of the North. She was pretty much begging me to.

Note: If you can see your bellybutton from 100 feet, it's probably time to start dieting

Now, my dad is originally from the north of England. For those reading this in America, you should probably know that regional contrasts are just as marked in the UK as they are in the States. The south has classically been labeled the 'posh' side of England, whereas the north has always prided itself on its abundance of coal mines, steel factories and trade unions. The time had finally come for me to acquaint myself with my northern roots.

I did everything I could to immerse myself in Yorkshire culture. I went to watch Rotherham, my father's hometown with a team my dad has supported since the days footballs were still made out of leather, wolfing down vinegary chips and moaning with genuine northern exasperation at the nil-nil result. I discovered a whole slew of second cousins I had previously only ever seen in Christmas cards and photo albums, and was awed by their politeness as they lined up to thank my father for the sweets he had brought them (“Thank you, Ooncle Patch-rick!”). I chuckled conspiratorially with my Uncle Fred as we carried our overflowing plates away from the meat buffet of a local pub carvery, and then groaned quietly as I struggled to fit my stomach back into the rental car for the drive home. We also visited my German grandmother who lives in a home very close by and took a tour of the streets and fields my father played in as a boy.

It was this final part of my three days up north that really shook me. As we wandered around Rotherham, Papa Burns slowly brought me back in time. Starting with his elementary school, we traced a line downtown that culminated somewhere in the mid-19^th century, outside a row of terraced houses that belonged to my great-great-great-grand-something. On this corner stood a sweet shop he ran and behind it, a cobbled square that I recognised from a black and white photograph taken nearly two centuries ago that hangs above my father's desk.

A few minutes down the road stood a large brick building plastered with signs for DISCOUNT CARPETS—CHEAP CHEAP CHEAP! Papa Burns and I pulled back a rusting fence and stumbled into a graveyard next door blanketed by overgrown vegetation and beer cans. We had to be quick, we weren't supposed to be there and the owner of the carpet store was apparently not a very nice chap. My father had just enough time to point out a crumbling chapel where his grandparents had married so many years before. The owner of the carpet store was looking to tear down the property, he told me, was trying to build a block of flats in its place, didn't care about the graves or the chapel. Papa Burns' efforts to preserve the area had been ineffectual, the neighbourhood was too rough to warrant a restoration grant and few people seemed that bothered to fight for it.

Suddenly a quiet voice called from around the corner, “You're not supposed to be in here.” From the other side of the building emerged three tiny children. We were caught in a surreal moment, my father and I engulfed in the sadness of this crumbling building, trying to escape before we were seen and now suddenly being interrogated by a group of six year-olds brandishing sticks. After we explained the plight of the chapel at trembling twig-point, the little gang disarmed and enthusiastically promised to start a war on the chapel's behalf. After seeing we got back to our car safely, they sped off to find bombs and missiles in the park across the street. Within this tableaux of young children and old buildings, of the overcast Rotherham sky my father spent his formative years beneath, of that same big man walking away from a town that was becoming less and less familiar, I felt I understood a little better the stolid, impassive qualities so often associated with people from the North.

On the drive home Papa Burns gestured at the long beams of light peaking round the corners of Rotherham's greying buildings. He mentioned how the light in Rotherham had a certain slow, dreamy quality he has never seen anywhere else in the world. It was good to know that not everything was changing.

When I finally got to Bristol and said goodbye to Papa Burns, who had been my traveling companion for two weeks, I was struck by an unbelievable sadness. Just like I do every time I miss my dad, I hurried inside and put on some Paul Simon records.

If you're in the mood for some good old-fashioned feeling-sorry-for-yourself then you can't really go wrong with a bit of Paul Simon. My older sister remarked to me how great it is to discover an overlooked but entirely incredible song by musicians who have been around for forty years, whose repertoire you thought you knew off by heart. She sent me Simon & Garfunkel's 'Bleaker Street' a week ago, and it's been on repeat ever since.

Heads up!

Sorry for leaving you folkless for the past two weeks, but I've been traveling throughout this big crazy country and haven't had a chance to get my thoughts in order. While I was away I fell in love with New York and turned 21, two momentous events that you'll be forced to read about shortly.

In the meantime, my lovely sister and her lovely husband have teamed up to help turn STFU into a much more pleasant experience for you intrepid folk explorers. This means that I'll finally be able to transmit my musical discoveries through your laptop speakers without reducing myself to tears as I try to get my website to cooperate with HTML, as well as several other big changes

I'll be leaving California in a week's time too, which means that with the above site renovations, this little folk corner of the internet is probably going to remain in the shadows for a while longer. Please bear with me though: we'll be back on track soon, and better than ever. Nothing can stop the spread of good music, not even five-and-a-half thousand miles of plane journey and eight hours of jet lag.

Just don't expect anything pretty.

Tough Folk

Women have come a long way in fighting an unfair system. They have spent the last hundred years revolutionising the gender roles expected of them by society, an inspiring feat that makes us smile at Don Draper's weekly antics. I think I speak for everyone when I say that we are happy to see the end of an era of strict, unyielding gender roles, we're happy that we live in a world where it's no longer rare to see a woman standing up in court or in a labcoat at a hospital.

Nevertheless it's common knowledge that every man secretly wants to be a cowboy.

Deep down we all want hairy chests and cool scars. We want to open bottles with out teeth and fix cars and build fires. We all want to be Bear Grylls. Knowing how to use Photoshop or set up a firewall is probably far more practical in this day and age, but we don't care. Every man at some point in his life will wonder if he looks good in leather boots.

Most men will be able to suppress these feelings on a day-to-day basis. If you ever see a grown man assembling IKEA furniture with anything more advanced than an Allen key or eating baked beans straight out of the tin he's probably just temporarily alleviating his call of the wild. If you want to make him happy, just leave him be and later in the evening remark upon what broad shoulders he has.

Sometimes, however, the call of the wild proves too strong for even the most rugged of modern yuppies. A couple of weeks ago, some sort of cosmic alignment left my father and me itching for something manly to do. Soon it became unbearable and he would go on feverish manhunts for broken lightbulbs to replace or I would suddenly have to run out to the garden and do pushups for half an hour. Finally, we knew there was no other choice. There was only one thing left that we could do. We would have to go camping.

I've probably spent less than one percent of a percentage of my life inside a tent. Growing up in Singapore meant that casual trips to tiny islands dotted around the Indian Ocean were not uncommon, so sleepless nights in stuffy polyester prisons are not quite alien to me. However, I've never done it enough for it to become a hobby. Let's just say my relationship with camping has never extended beyond a few one night stands, and I wasn't planning on letting things get any more serious.

Nevertheless, Papa Burns and I know both knew that the time had come for me to make that important rite of passage into manli-hood, and a few days later we were driving East along the 78 toward the Cuyamaca Mountains in a Jeep full of tent equipment, man-sized sleeping bags and cans of chilli. The testosterone was palpable.

It was an incredible trip. We hiked and watched hawks and climbed rocks and played guitar under a star-soaked sky. I'm pretty sure I can grow a moustache now. We drove home exhausted and dirty but our masculinity gauges were firmly pointed to Full. This picture pretty much sums up the whole trip.

This was a few minutes after I punched a cougar in the face.

One of the most important things about road trips of course is the music you choose to act as your soundtrack, and so it's finally time to sneak in some folk-related tidbit to this otherwise folk-devoid post. As I created the iTunes playlist for what would turn out to be three separate discs of road-tripping tunes, Papa Burns leaned over my shoulder and suggested songs for the journey. When he asked me to add something by Arcade Fire, a band he'd heard a lot about but not a lot of, my clicking and dragging became especially enthusiastic.

So, in honour of Arcade Fire's new album The Suburbs (which I haven't had a chance to get hold of yet but hear is amazing) and of the hugely masculine trip undertaken by myself and Papa Burns last week, I have chosen Arcade Fire's My Body is a Cage as this week's thumping tune.

Just a quick warning. The song builds up to a fantastic organ crescendo near the end, and if you're in your macho mood, make sure that before you listen you take the time to put down that knife you're picking buffalo out of your teeth with. Even cowboys have accidents.

My Body Is A Cage

I Wanted To Call This Post 'Girl Power' But I Thought I Might Lose Manpoints (And Trust Me, I Don't Have Many Left To Lose)

My older sister Holly is in town for a few days and, being the West Coast party animals that we are, one of the first places we thought we'd head on her first summery day in San Diego is the local library. Granted, she had a presentation to do for work and I had a guilty conscience I needed to assuage by pretending to write my dissertation, so we didn't technically want to be there. Nevertheless, we settled down into one of the library's private conference rooms to a couple hours of good honest work.

Things were going well, the elbow grease was flowing, noses were firmly on grindstones and several hours of concentration had yielded a hundred words of my dissertation and a new high score on computer solitaire. We'd had the room booked till 3 pm and as the sun began to dip I glanced at my watch and noticed we still had around five minutes to go.

Suddenly the door burst open, spewing forth a tiny man with an armful of books and a receding hairline. The former he slammed onto the table and with as much confrontational finesse as can be conjured by a sweaty 5'1'' man informed us that we would need to leave the room which, according to the clipboard posted outside the door, was now his.

I reacted in the same way that I'm fairly sure 99% of self-assured and articulate people would in this situation: I did some seriously pointed sighing as I packed away my laptop and half-heartedly mumbled something about maybe asking nicely next time. I knew as I dramatically glanced at my watch and back at the little man tapping his foot in the corner of the room that I would come up with a killer comeback moments after leaving the room, I knew I would hate myself for not fighting for those final five minutes which were, after all, ours. Still, we all have stories like that, when that part of the brain responsible for witty retorts and pacifying arguments falters in the moment we most need it.

Except, it seems, for my older sister Holly.

The damp intruder must have realised he had been a little less than polite upon entry, because he began to awkwardly joke how if he hadn't kicked us out the library staff would have rudely done so too.

Holly turned away from the half-finished project she'd spent the entire morning working on and suddenly focused all of her attention on the man. She flashed him a warm smile and spoke in her sweetest, most innocuous, most English voice. “They couldn't have been much ruder than you.”

The man laughed as though she'd cracked a joke, then suddenly took the time to realise what she was saying.

As he aggressively and awkwardly tried to explain why he hadn't just politely knocked on the door and informed us that our time was up in the first place, Holly serenely packed up her things and answered him in the most calm and smiling manner I've ever seen. Whatever he said couldn't unnerve her and he just ended up looking like a massive jerk.

Finally, as we were backing up out of the conference room and he realised Holly was a lady he couldn't quite bully into submission like he might have done in the past, he smugly leaned back in his chair, pointed to the time—which had of course been ticking steadily onwards after his invasion of our room—and said, “Well, you know what, now it is 3 o'clock.” And then, with a one-handed, flick-away wave and a smug little smile that I know is making you brim with the same level of anger that writing this is re-conjuring up in me, said, “Buh-bye.”

Holly, though, unflustered, simply turned from the open door and smiling as though she'd just stumbled upon an incredible revelation said, “Wow. You are a douche-bag.”

While moments later the ever-charismatic Library Jerk would chase Holly outside and—kind of paradoxically—scream, “Welcome to America! Go home!” in the middle of a library full of silent strangers, Holly managed to maintain her cool throughout the whole exchange and deliver that simple but well-timed blow at the end. You really have to respect a lady who can do that.

Meanwhile, I stood lamely by her side. I was thinking about raising a middle finger but I'm pretty sure that would have undone all of Holly's hard work.

You may be wondering how I am going to jam this square peg of a story into the round hole that is a blog about folk music but actually, it really works. For me, there is always some folk to fit my mood. Heartbreak is an easy one (Bon Iver's Skinny Love immediately springs to mind), we proved last week that upbeat summer folk does exist (Good Old War's Coney Island always makes me want to run through someone's sprinkler) and if you just feel like chilling out then you're in fantastic company (have you ever heard this song?!). In the same way Holly knew exactly what to say to that guy in the library, folk music knows exactly what to tell you when you want to hear it.

Because right now I feel a little nostalgic and a little anxious about the future (and also a little nauseous because I just ate like five cupcakes) this week's song is going to be 'Karen' from The National's album Alligator. Man, you need to read these lyrics (which are not entirely applicable to my life at the moment, before you draw any worrying conclusions).

I'll just take a second now to thank everyone who's been reading my blog since I started a few months ago. I'm having a lot of fun getting lost in this folkological wilderness with you guys and I really hope you are too. I'm also loving your stories and contributions. Nows your chance to share them with me again. Tell me what mood you are in right now and what song best satisfies it so I can be prepared next time I feel the same. Also, if you have any awesome comebacks that you or a friend has fired at unknown douche-bags, you know you have a duty to share them with the rest of the Internet. Post below.

Holly flies back up to San Francisco tomorrow, and, just like I feel every time one of my immediate family members has to go somewhere too far for me to keep an eye on them, I'm nervous to see her go.

Something tells me, though, that she can handle herself just fine.

Karen - The National.mp3

If for some reason that doesn't work, try the box below.

The Great Big Folkin' Soundtrack To Your Summer

So here it is, your Great Big Folkin' Soundtrack. Thank you all so much for the emails and comments I received that helped make this project such a fantastically communal effort, you guys really put the volk in folk. I especially liked hearing tunes and bands I'd never listened to before. Apologies to those whose music didn't make it to STFU, there was way more folky summer music than I ever could have realised. We'll definitely have to turn these playlists into a seasonal thing, I'd be really interested to see how much Halloween folk we could rustle up together.

I don't know about you but August is always the saddest part of summer for me and it'll be even sadder this year because soon I'll be leaving the beaches and palm trees and tanned American girls of Southern California for the rain and lecture halls and piles of laundry that I have to do myself in Bristol.

In the meantime, let's cheer ourselves up with The Great Big Folkin' Soundtrack To Your Summer. I was getting a little tired of, you know, not being able to understand how ANYTHING WORKS on the internet, and so have opted just to make a simple little box that you guys can dip into and download the tunes from. You can stream the music by clicking on each song title, or you can download each tune individually to listen to later lying on your ass in front of the TV at the gym, by hovering over the song title, clicking on the the little blue box that appears on the right and selecting 'download'.

Now hurry up and get listening, we only have a few more weeks to stress ourselves out with trying our best not to take the summer for granted.

Enjoy.

A Few Honest Words - Ben Sollee
Becoming a Jackal - Villagers
Bullet - Scarlett Johansson / Steel Train
Good Music - Juzzie
Good Old War - Coney Island
Home - Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes
Me and Jiggs - Josh Ritter
The Unwritable Girl - Gregory Alan Isakov
Vienna - Matt Costa
Wagon Wheel - Old Crow Medicine Show
Yellow Brick Road - Angus & Julia Stone
Zorbing - Stornoway

Things To Shout At The Sky

Summer doesn't get more summery than when you're in California.

Okay, yeah, so fine, this isn't always the case. I know my San Francisco readers are probably right now flipping a thermal-gloved middle finger at the above sentence and even those down here in San Diego are probably not all jumping to agree. Despite what you may have heard, Southern California does not have the best climate in the world, it isn't always sunny and, despite what Snoop Dog and Katie Perry may tell you, sometimes it's not warm enough to only wear bikinis and cut-off jeans. Unfortunately even in the summer San Diegans sometimes have to find alternatives beyond just eating tacos and daydreaming in Balboa Park.

Nevertheless, that generic ideal summer you have stored in your head of a sunny carefree day spent beside a pool is not too difficult to come by in California. Sometimes in the darkest depths of British November it is this image alone that keeps me from ripping off my fifteen jumpers and eight pairs of sweatpants, breaking free from my snowbound house and running naked into the welcoming arms of hypothermia. It doesn't matter that once July rolls round and I'm back in California I have to gently guide my mother back into the house after she's spent a good chunk of the day waving an angry fist and cursing at the disappointingly overcast sky. The most important part about The Perfect Summer is waiting for it to come. I've always found that the feeling of warm sunshine on my chest and chlorinated water at my toes is so much more visceral when I shut my eyes in a damp lecture hall in Bristol than when I'm actually lying by the pool in California.

So how do we make up for this disproportion? How do we keep ourselves from being disappointed by the beaches that are never quite as secluded and iced beverages never quite as
alcoholic as we had imagined them to be? Do not fret my friends. The answer, like so many things in life, lies in music.

We all love a good soundtrack, that set of songs that have been carefully selected to accompany a movie, crescendoing here, pianomissimoing there, bringing emotion and colour to a silent stage. Of course this leads us to ask, why shouldn't we add soundtracks to our lives?

Think about one of your favourite songs (it doesn't have to be folk; don't worry, we don't judge at STFU), that song that's been played so many times in your head that it's become grooved and smooth and warped with age. These songs drag nets behind them that scoop up and attach themselves to memories, memories of the first time you heard them, of the people you love who you've shared them with, of the things you did while listening to them. These songs get tangled up with thoughts and places and smells and feelings until they've adopted a totally new, multi-dimensional meaning in your head, a collage of sensations that you could quite never explain to anyone else.

Let's take control of this informational synesthesia. Add a soundtrack to your summer that will not only paint the unfinished parts of your perfect sunny day, but will leave you with a aural cue that will take you back there on some generic Tuesday in February.

If you're a folk purist this may be a little tricky. The twin sister had asked me to charge her iPod before her roadtrip last week to Florida and, never one to pass up the chance to force my musical tastes on others, I decided to surreptitiously sneak on a little playlist of all the pretentious and trendy music I had painstakingly discovered lately. The problem is, folk doesn't have a great track record of upbeat, summery songs. With a history grounded in political protest, disgruntled cowboys and heartbreak, folk has never quite been conducive to a relaxing afternoon on the beach. Maybe something to do with the Cold Weather Theory?

Nevertheless, the endless flexibility of folk means that there are plenty of tunes that go great with sunshine, though you might have to search a little bit to find them. Here is your chance to help build Shut The Folk Up's Great Big Folkin' Soundtrack To Your Summer. We're in August now, but of course it's not too late. The sun is still shining and there are plenty of burgers and hot dogs to be eaten. Plus, my Australian readers haven't even started their summer yet, though they're probably too busy riding kangaroos around Aussie Rules Football pitches to realise. Or, you know, whatever it is that Australians do in the winter.

Shut The Folk Up's Great Big Folkin' Soundtrack To Your Summer will be a collaborative effort. Submit the folk songs that you consider conducive to summertime, and next week I'll bundle them together for us all to download and collectively enjoy. Don't worry about MP3s. Just give me a title, a name and maybe a firm handshake and we'll be golden.

In the meantime, I'll start you off with a few sunny tunes to keep your summer moving. If you're in San Francisco, make sure your remove your ear muffs first so you can hear them

Good Old War - Coney Island

Zorbing - Stornoway

A Few Honest Words - Ben Sollee

Becoming a Jackal - Villagers

Bullet - Scarlett Johansson / Steal Train

Homes - The Magnetic Zeroes

Coverup

A few months ago I stepped onto an open mic stage, guitar in hand, ready to perform for an enthusiastic room full of people. Some of the performers before me had already broken several of the cardinal rules of guitar etiquette and I was prepared to set the record straight that douchebaggery is an unnecessary prerequisite to playing the acoustic guitar.

As I plugged myself into the PA system and adjusted my microphone stand, I made eye contact with some recognisable faces in the audience. A group of friends had come down to watch me, and I knew it was important that I didn't disappoint. I'd been preparing a special song for the past few days to really catch everyone's attention, and as I swivelled on my bar stool to face the audience I anxiously flexed my fingers and sung the opening lyrics under my breath.

I reached for the microphone, and muttered a hello in the coolest voice I could muster. Instantly, a tidal wave of eyes descended on my little refuge in the corner of the room and everything went silent. It was show time. The audience was mine. If you've ever performed in public you'll know how immensely strange it is to instantly be in the unswerving focus of a room full of strangers. Suddenly everything you say is extremely important, everything you do is under microscopic scrutiny and any mistake you make will be instantly detected and ridiculed for the rest of the night.

I started slowly. "This is a cover..."

Nothing.

"...of an MGMT song..."

A few nods of approval, some smiles.

"..called Kids."

And suddenly the mood had changed. I'd made the right decision. An audience that had thus far had to sit through two halting renditions of Jason Mraz's I'm Yours and a really awkward a capella version of Billie Jean seemed to appreciate that I had gone out of my way to present them with something a little more unorthodox.

Now I had their attention, it was time to finish the job. It was time to throw out a witty, profound statement that confirmed my attempts to present myself as an interesting musician, it was time seal the deal and gain the respect of my peers and this bar full of strangers. I stood up, grabbed the microphone in my right hand and began to explain how some popular songs have a lyrical 'spark' in them, something special that makes them stand out from the rest of the chart-topping rubbish recycled every week. I explained how acoustic covers are such effective ways to reinterpret these songs, to strip them down to the bare minimum so that the lyrics can seize the limelight, so that the melody can emerge in its purest form, unladen by synthesizers or auto-tune. I paced the stage, arguing that this is why folk music is the most beautiful kind of music, that it's because it is the most unblemished form of talent, that when you cover a song with nothing more than a guitar and your own voice you are deconstructing it, that if you take away all the unnecessary baggage and the song still works, then you can get as close as you possibly can to the magic behind beautiful music.

At least, that's what I'd wanted to say. Instead in an awkward, half-audible voice, I mumbled:

"Covers...are songs...that other people have written."

I remember watching in slow-motion the look of beaming pride on the face of one my friends in the audience slowly transform into one that just seemed to say, I am going to make fun of you for this for at least six months. Everyone else in the audience just seemed confused. I guess my my theories on the purifiying quality of the acoustic guitar were a little too complex to be explained at that particular moment. I hurriedly played through my song, and when I came to the end, was very careful to keep my mouth shut during the light applause.

Hopefully, Internet, we can all take away something from this embarrassing little story. Everyone loves a good cover, but they don't always work. The best kind are the ones that transform the original song into something totally different, but something that still totally works, the kind that detect the 'soul' of the piece, and strip away all the extraneous junk that isn't really needed.

I know you have a favourite cover, a song that you heard someone else play once that made you jump up and spill your coffee everywhere and exclaim to your startled coworkers, "What! You can play this song like that?!" I really, really want to know about these cover songs, and you can do us all a favour and post your favourite in the comments below.

Until then, you'd better put down your hot coffee and warn your colleagues because I want to make you aware of one of my favourite covers. José González has taken a poppy, fun Kylie Minogue song, ripped away all the drum tracks and piano layers, fed it into that big hole in the front of his guitar and produced something so incredibly different to the original. In no way can anyone say it is better than Kylie Minogue's version, but you have to give credit to González for zeroing in on what made the song so great in the first place, and using that to make the song totally his own.

I don't know if anything I said so far made any sense, it's a pretty complicated point to get across in word form, not to mention under a spotlight in front of a hundred strangers in a crowded bar. However, if you take nothing else away from my post this week, at least I can rest assured that now you know,

"Covers...are songs...that other people have written."

Before you ask: yes, I do weddings.

Kylie Minogue -- Hand On Your Heart

José González -- Hand On Your Heart (cover)

Now You Might Actually Learn Something

So far, I've been claiming myself to be a bit of a folk expert.

I've written my posts with a certain authority, I've offered unasked-for advice on all matters acoustic, I've proffered tunes that I thought you'd like and given you no choice in the matter.

And you know what, that's more or less okay. I've been listening to folk for a long time:

I can barely remember 1992, perhaps because I spent so much of it listening to progressive alt-folk and experimenting with Class-A drugs

Nevertheless, it's time for me now to admit that I'm a bit of a phony. I'm not a true folkist.

Folk means a lot of things to a lot of different people. To the Irish, folk involves fiddles and sing-a-longs, to the Americans folk means hobos and cowboys. German folk requires leather trousers.

However, this all changed as these different strands of folk started to tangle and entwine somewhere in the middle of 1940s America. Early in the 20th century, archivists traveled across the United States on a mission to collect and preserve the music that had been passed down through various generations, from campfire to campfire, the music that had until then never been noted down, let alone exposed to a recording studio. This was the true 'voice of the people', and the pre-World War II Socialist movement latched onto it with the idea that folk music really could serve as a genuine force for social change. Men like Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie, who are now considered the great-grandfathers of folk, popularised what had until then been a rootless and organic genre. After them came further generations, including Bob Dylan and the whole American Folk Music Revival, and as folk evolved, Elvis, The Beatles, Nick Drake and, ultimately, bands like Oasis. See why it's so important for you to know your history?

If you have the time, I'd love for you to watch this video of Pete Seeger, one of those great-granddaddies of folk, who happens to still be fighting for the 'left' today (he performed at Obama's inauguration). Seeger got caught up in McCarthy's pursuit of un-American activites and, just when his career was hitting its peak, was unjustly denied the sponsorship and funding he required to keep performing. In the mid-sixties he managed to pull together enough resources to create a show called Rainbow Quest, where he basically just sat at a table drinking coffee and hanging out with people like Judy Collins and Johnny Cash. Watch the clip below where he's jamming away with Tom Paxton. I love how they casually tune up and start plucking, only half aware that the cameras are rolling.




Now I understand that this kind of folk is not everyone's favourite kind of folk. It's simple folk, it's raw folk. It's fine if you don't like it as much as, say, Damien Rice, but still, give it a chance. This is folk at it's best, when it's not trying to impress, when it's just about hanging out with a friend and a couple of guitars, when it's all about that shivery feeling you get when you hear voices sing in perfect harmony, when you hear that one lyric you know is going to haunt you all the way home.

This week I've chosen to share a tune that was released in 1964, right in the middle of the American Folk Music Revival, but I reckon it could have been released yesterday for all its timelessness. Bob Dylan stood in the centre of a folk river and watched it part round him, and while many people booed and left the concert hall when he decided to go electric (Papa Burns famously included!), he changed the course of music history forever.

Nevertheless, this is a tune from a time when his guitars were still mostly made of wood and musicians were not instant douchebags. I don't know what folk will sound like fifty years from now, but I hope it's still a little bit like this.

Bob Dylan-One Too Many Mornings

On Second Thought, Just Learn the Trombone

UPDATE: fixed the second song! Note to self, must actually make sure blog functions before posting it to internet... Now go listen!

The acoustic guitar is an extremely delicate instrument.

I don't mean that it's delicate because it's only made of wood, that it's fragile. I don't mean that if you bash it around a bit too much it goes out of tune.

The acoustic guitar is delicate because it is so transformative. One second you're that quiet kid who's spent most of the party sitting on a couch by yourself, the next you're the most popular person in the room and you have most of the party singing along with your strumming.

We all know, though, that that's not all there is to it. We all know about That Guy.

That Guy who always turns off the iPod halfway through the second chorus of your favourite Journey song, brandishing an acoustic guitar and a posse of fawning girls.

That Guy who swears he's too shy and unprepared to play as he enthusiastically reaches his hand into his own pocketful of plectrums.

That Guy who tells you that he's been working on a song for a while that's so meaningful to him, before launching into a really-over-the-top rendition of Jason Mraz's I'm Yours.

That Guy is not Folk.

Not to fear, dear Internet, there's still hope for you budding guitarists yet. In the same way that not every person with an axe is a fireman, not every person with a guitar is a cringeworthy douche bag.

I have devised a way for you to always walk on the right side of the fine line between Embarrassing Schweff and Coolest Person in the Room. Like many things in life, all it takes is that you follow a simple set of guidelines. Allow me to introduce to you,

Luke's Ten Rules For Acoustic Guitar Etiquette
(or, How to Be Good Folk)

1. Obey timing. Compare the acoustic guitar to an after-dinner mint, or a plate of fine cheeses: it's really meant to be enjoyed at the end of a long and successful evening. No one goes to parties to listen to you play. They aren't there to sit awkardly and politely as you croon out your tunes. Instead, wait till everything's winding down, a few guests have left so only the cream of the crop remain and everyone's too drunk to notice if you're rubbish anyway. Let the iPod playlist wear itself out before you introduce a guitar to your enthusiastic audience.

2. Choose the right song. There's nothing more awkward than one person singing to a room full of mute faces. Unless you're with a small group of friends don't try anything that you've written, unless you're asked to and encouraged. Instead, find a tune with a chorus that everyone loves, so while you handle the verses and bathe in that solo glory, you've got a whole choir of backup every time the chorus surfaces. Also, try to avoid the stereotypes. Keep Jeff Buckley's version of Hallelujah in your repetoire, don't be afraid to churn out Wonderwall if your playlist is running dry, but try to find a tune that's going to surprise your listeners, as well as make them want to sing along.

3. Be modest. I don't mean, oh no, I couldn't possibly play, oh really? Honestly? Okay, well I guess I kind of am the best at the party modest. I mean, wait for someone to hand you a guitar. Make sure the mood is right. Don't demand the spotlight. Be confident, but most importantly make sure you...

4. Share. Play your song, get the applause, then pass the guitar along. If no one takes it then you obviously did a good enough job that more people want to hear you again. Even better, find more instruments and more musicians and start jamming. Everyone loves a good harmony, and everyone loves a good sing-a-long. Being a team player is being the anti-douche.

5. Make them want more. Put on a good show but don't act like you're enjoying it too much. Being folk is about being cool and mysterious. If you're not sure what this means, just watch the Prince of Folk himself Robbie-Z at the end of this clip:



He's basically saying, you know what, I'm Bob Dylan, I can play my guitar really high up on my body and nobody says anything, you can yell 'more!' all you want. I basically own you guys.

Be careful not to fall foul of Rule #3 though.

6. Be good. This should kind of be obvious before you take your turn on the guitar. Make sure you're well practised, or at least provide a proviso before you get up there, something like, Well, I've only been playing for a few months so... This is especially important if you decide to strut your stuff in the style of Bob Dylan as mentioned above, and end up being absolutely crap. If you do mess up, smile, offer a charmingly witty response, and keep playing. Don't stop and start over. You will only make people mad.

7. Keep your eyes open. Literally. Please don't close your eyes when you sing. Or I will find out from someone and come to your house and punch you in the head.

8. Don't dedicate songs. Unless you wrote the song, and it has some sort of meaning behind it, and making a dedication somehow ties in to an elaborate plan to propose to that person later on that evening, and it will make a really nice story to tell your grandkids. Otherwise, don't dedicate the song to anyone.

9. Respect the instrument. If you're using your own guitar, fine, go to Townshend on it when you've finished if you really want to. However, if you've borrowed this guitar from a very generous host then make sure he or she knows that you know what you're doing with it. Ask before you retune, politely request a capo and thank them when you're done.

10. Smile. Don't take yourself too seriously. Have fun and make sure your motives for whipping out the guitar are to do so. That's folk.

Oh my, all this talk of guitars is making me kind of sick of the instrument. How about we find some folk that's a little different this week?

Below is Ben Sollee (SOH-lee), a Kentuckian who makes music about politics, love and his young son, and leaves all the guitaring up to his various duet partners. Instead, Sollee opts for the cello, an instrument I find pretty hard not to fall in love with (I even played it for a few years in elementary school, bowing out gracefully at the peak of my career after a hugely successful rendition of Yellow Submarine with the Ox Ridge Junior Orchestra). Like so many frustrated musicians, Sollee has found a way to break free from the traditional parameters of his instrument and dramatically transform the sound that comes out of it.

I don't know if there is such thing as cello etiquette, but if there is, Sollee has definitely discovered it.

PS: You can download these links directly from the internet by right clicking on them and going to 'save link as'. I think everyone needs a little bit of cello bluegrass-folk in their iTunes and I hope you'll agree.

Prettiest Tree On The Mountain--Ben Sollee.mp3
Something, Somewhere, Sometime--Ben Sollee and Daniel Martin Moore