Ellen Harper - Always a Song

Copyright 2021 by Ellen Harper.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Harper, Ellen, author. | Barry, Sam, author. | Harper, Ben, 1969

writer of foreword.

Title: Always a song : singers, songwriters, sinners, and saints : my story

of the folk music revival / Ellen Harper with Sam Barry ; foreword by

Ben Harper.

Description: [1st.] | San Francisco : Chronicle Prism, 2021. |

Identifiers: LCCN 2020034418 | ISBN 9781452184241 (hardcover) | ISBN

9781797201603 (paperback) | ISBN 9781797201580 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Harper, Ellen. | Folk singers--United States--Biography. |

Folk Music Center (Claremont, Calif.)

Classification: LCC ML420.H1616 A3 2021 | DDC 782.42162130092 [B]--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020034418

Design by Brooke Johnson. Typesetting by Maureen Forys,
Happenstance Type-O-Rama. Typeset in Baskerville Pro, Acre, Omnibus,
and Benguiat Caslon. Cover design by Sara Schneider.

Some names in this book have been changed to ensure privacy and confidentiality.

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For Judy Ritchie, who has been a friend, confidant,
and kindred spirit through husbands, kids, grandkids,
dogs, cats, jobs, and fifty years of sharing books

My moms life has been as deep and vast as the many names and roles she has carried: daughter, sister, mother, friend, wife, mother-in-law, grandmother, Chase, Harper, Verdries, Ms., Mrs., Dr., teacher, musician, and my personal favorite, Ma.

Mas rules were tough and not always appreciated, but looking back, I recognize how difficult it must have been to be a single mother raising three Black, nappy-headed boys on a shoestring budget in a white town. Sometimes this meant pancakes for breakfast and for dinner. Our pants received knee patches and our sneakers got Shoe Goo. Our family stood out in the neighborhood; even as children my brothers, Joel and Peter, and I knew we were different. We felt it. Ma always found a way to protect us from semi-concealed vitriol, to lead the way for three half-Black, half-Jewish boys to take our unique heritage and transform it into uncompromising strength, clarity, and fortitude. In other words, my mom took no shit from anyone ever. Full stop.

My mother always spoke truth to power. In sixth grade I was excited to embark on my graduation field trip. The whole class was in line, ready to get on the bus, when the school librarian and principal pulled me out of line and informed me that, because of an overdue book, I would not be allowed to go on the trip.

I was crushed. However, being the product of political dissidents proved to have an upside. This injustice would not stand. I insisted that they call my mom immediately. Within what felt like one minute my mother was in the face of the school librarian, the principal, and every teacher, staff member, parent, and janitor within earshot. Ma demanded to see the librarys checkout ledger, firmly stating that if she found one white kid in my class with an overdue book who wasnt also getting pulled from the field trip, she would immediately call the ACLU. I went on the field trip.

Our home was on Eleventh Street but I grew up in the Folk Music Center. I learned to crawl on the ugly yellow carpet my grandfather chose to brighten up what used to be a hardware store, and learned to walk by tentatively holding on to the guitars on the guitar wall, inching my way one hesitant step at a time from guitar to guitar. Very soon I walked, then ran, along the path of guitars, strumming each one as I zoomed past and backing up to catch the ones I missed. I was never told no, or stop, or dont touch. The Folk Music Center was where my brothers and I went after school, where we played and squabbled, snacked, and grew up. The Folk Music Center was Mom. It was my grandfather Charles. It was my grandmother Dot. It was family.

My grandmother taught guitar (and banjo, dulcimer, and autoharp) at the music center in the evenings, and when I was a young teen I helped her set up chairs and a chalkboard and watched the front of the store while she taught. Rather than doing homework Id sneak a thumb brush or two in along with the group of guitar students. Not eagerly, though, because the music my mother and grandmother were playing wasnt what my peers and I were listening to.

After I graduated high school, I went to work for my grandfather in the repair shop and studied guitar repair with Jack Willock in Glendale. My world was guitars and guitar players, and it was impossible for me not to pick up every guitar I encountered and test it out. The Folk Music Center was my real education. It was where I heard Clabe Hangans gospel-rich baritone, John Harrelsons blues, David Lindleys exquisite slide guitar, and Frizz Fullers eccentric lyrics. I was hooked. The first shows I played were at Cal Poly, Nicks Caff Trevi, the Starvation Caf, the Claremont Folk Festival, and the Grove House.

Even as the gigs rolled in, I tried to keep up with the ever-growing demands of instrument repair/restoration and helping my grandma Dot behind the register. To this day I love repairing and restoring guitars, and there was a moment in my early twenties where it could have gone either wayluthier or musician. That was when my grandfather Charles, my central male role model and father figure, walked into the workshop and said, It looks to me like youre spending more time playing the instruments than repairing them.

My grandpa had an inherent distrust of big cities, big-city thinking, big egos, and big business, especially in the music business. His interactions with professional musicians were often cantankerous. As a lifelong advocate of working-class folks, Grandpa Charles grew impatient with entitled musicians haggling with him over the price of an instrument. My grandpa and grandma were not about fame. But if you were a musician who loved music and played for family, friends, and community, they supported you.

I had a gig booked with Pat Brayers Starvation Caf concert series in San Bernardino, having just come off of the road touring as a member of Taj Mahals International Rhythm Band. By this time I had built a significant local following, and the place was packed. My grandmother Dot loved live music and I often accompanied her to concerts featuring the likes of Allen Ginsberg, Sweet Honey in the Rock, and Pete and Peggy and Mike on their Seeger Family tour. And Grandma Dot never, ever missed a show of mine. Even after I had made it, she would show up at my gigs with a quart of orange juice to be sure I was getting my vitamin C!

To my surprise, on this particular night, she arrived with my grandpa in tow, who never attended shows. The remarkable thing about my grandparents and the Folk Music Center they started is that every day, at any moment, someone might walk in, pull an instrument off the wall, and give them the best private show. My grandpa wasnt interested in concert performances, but on this night there he was, hard of hearing, and deeply concerned about losing his ace guitar repair grandson to the evil empire that was the music industry.