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From the coffeehouses of Greenwich Village to the stage at Woodstock, folksingers were a powerful force shaping the culture and attitudes of the 1960s. Marrying music and politics, tradition and innovation, romance and righteousness, these were singular tunesmiths of the most literate and informed order – a coterie of chordal preachers who put a mirror to the political upheavals and spiritual awakenings of this halcyon era. Richie Havens, Peter, Paul & Mary, John Sebastian, Phil Ochs, Roger McGuinn, Melanie, Janis Ian, Leonard Cohen, Peter Tork and later arrivals, like The Roches and Suzanne Vega, all cut their teeth and catapulted to stardom from a handful of clubs in the narrow streets of NYC’s West Village.

The life and times of 19 of the most impactful artists who emerged from New York City’s folk scene are profiled in The Bleecker Street Tapes (Trouser Press), the latest from veteran music journalist Bruce Pollock. 

As stated in the introduction, Pollock was an eyewitness who became a chronicler of many of the most important names in folk in writings for outlets like The New York Post and Entertainment Weekly.  Pollock lived in four apartments in Greenwich Village from 1966 – 1975 and had been frequented clubs like the legendary Gaslight nightly since the early 1960s.

Pollock’s book is interesting because of the timing of the interviews. Most of the quotes in these profiles come from the mid ‘70s – mid ‘80s when the commercial fervor for folk was waning.  In many, it shows artists in reduced financial and professional circumstances stubbornly plugging away before modest cult audiences.  Many are pondering the failures of the Age of Aquarius and its idealism as American approaches the conservative swing to the Reagan era.

Pollock’s begins with Dave Von Ronk, the bearish man who ruled the roost at the Gaslight Café’s open mics, an early champion and inspiration for Dylan and many who came after. 

Von Ronk is captured heading to a scarcely attended club gig in 1982.  He reflects on his “few good earning years” and how he always seemed “on the brink” of something bigger. He tells how he passed up the opportunity to be the “Paul” in the folk mega group, Peter, Paul & Mary (that went to Noel Stookey, a Village comedian whose act ended with him imitating a toilet flushing!), and of his failed audition for Dylan’s manager-to-be Albert Grossman.  This was after a winter hitchhike to his club in Chicago, something borrowed for the Coen Brothers’ wonderful folk music film, Inside Llewelyn Davis.

In his interview with Phil Ochs, we learn that his decision to become a songwriter came while in jail for vagrancy in Florida.  Ochs’ political powered anthems were an outgrowth of his first desired career – journalism.  Phil was writing about Vietnam in 1962, way before any songwriter was penning war protest songs.  And, contrary to popular belief, he shares that he didn’t think less of his longtime rival Bob Dylan’s decision to stop writing about politics and social causes.  He also reveals, perhaps in jest, that his favorite cover of one of his songs was former beauty queen and anti-gay activist Anita Bryant’s of “Power & Glory.”

One of the more interesting profiles, one that truly captures the low-rent, pre-Gentrification splendor of the era, is that of Tuli Kupferberg of the infamous The Fugs.  Tuli was in his mid-40s and divorced when he teamed with writer Ed Sanders to marry rock music, poetry and racy lyrics in a group named after a Norman Mailer term for intercourse. Gentrification be damned, as Tuli relates renting a six-room apartment of Avenue D for $12 a month in 1965.  It was all about fun, poetry, revolutionary theatre and orgies.  “We weren’t worried about writing for the ages,” he declares.

Buffy St. Marie relates how her writing of classics like “Universal Soldier” was the product of “channeling words and music that come at once, like a radio station.”  The most romantic folk star of the Gaslight era, Eric Andersen, believes his songs survived because he didn’t get too political.  Don McLean tells of the impact of Pete Seeger on his work and personal life, namely his adventures as a part of the original crew of Seeger’s ecological boat, The Clearwater, in 1969.  Also, how his mega-hit, “American Pie,” ruined his career by branding him a “sellout” and how the fortunes from it bought him a Mercedes Benz and not a Chevy he would drive to the levy. Both Loudon Wainwright III and Leonard Cohen reveal they turned to songwriting because it was easier than writing novels.

Pollock calls folkie-turned-Monkee Peter Tork “a rock-n-roll Maynard G. Krebs.”  He captures Tork in 1981 when he had lost all his Monkees’ money but is content in his move back to the East Coast and playing gigs that provide him and his daughter with “three hots and a cot.”  His 1982 interview with Roger McGuinn provides a pocket history of folk and country rock, two genres birthed by his band, The Byrds.  McGuinn also reveals how he was the catalyst for Beatle George’s interest in both Ravi Shankar and Eastern Religion.

The most interesting and lengthiest profile is that of Lovin’ Spoonful singer/songwriter John Sebastian. 

Unlike anyone else here, aside from his early bandmate/friend Maria Muldaur, Sebastian was born and raised in Greenwich Village. He was raised on Bank Street in a family headed by a renowned classic harmonica virtuoso father who would have friends like Woody Guthrie and Burl Ives drop by.  Sebastian traces his woodshedding days, playing as a teenager with Lightnin’ Hopkins, doing sessions with Bob Dylan and Tom Rush, his time in the Even Dozen Jug Band before forming the Lovin’ Spoonful. Their lengthy residency at The Night Owl Café was the event that ushered in a bit of rock raucous to the high-minded acoustic scene.

Sebastian recounts the Spoonful’s run of huge hits and their eventually breakup in the wake of a drug bust, the fits and starts of his solo career and disillusionment with the business.  Sebastian would move to L.A. and live in a tent for two years before remarrying, having a son and moving into, then flipping, a couple of houses.  “I would make as much from real estate as songs in the early ‘70s,” he says.  Of course, there’s talk of his unscheduled performance at Woodstock, something done with a borrowed guitar and on a “triple acid trip,” and how it both helped and hurt his career.  Some other interesting bits – a cameo by the real-life Frank Serpico of movie fame who would revive drug O.D.s among the scene . There’s also discussion of the invitation to join Crosby, Stills & Nash as their drummer in the early days when they were getting their act together out at Sebastian’s place in Sag Harbor. 

Sebastian credits some of his longevity to seeing his dad hustle a career in the not so lucrative world of classical music.  “He wasn’t afraid to get his tux dirty,” quips Sebastian. Shortly before this 1982 interview, Sebastian would find himself back on top with a number one hit he wrote on order and almost forget. It was the theme to the TV series, “Welcome Back Kotter.”  For the past few decades, he’s been living a happy and unironic life in Woodstock. 

Pollock’s book concludes with a playlist featuring the works of 70 artists who influenced or emerged from Greenwich Village’s folk scene.