I love Arlo Guthrie. That his storytelling makes me not feel the pain in my leg. That his son, Abe, is in his band. That the band looked fresh and happy, even during their last performance of their 2-year tour. That he can tell the story of the first time he saw his wife as if it had just happened yesterday instead of 1964. That he says of Ledbelly: “If it made noise, Ledbelly could play it.” That he says of himself: “I am a man who loves words but sometimes, you just don’t need ’em,” just before he did some sort of amazing thing on his guitar. That his hair is still long, and now white. That he’s self-deprecating and funny.
That when Pete Seeger (age 95, who died in January, I think) said to him last November before their gig at Carnegie Hall, “Arlo, I can’t play like I used to. I can’t sing like I used to,” Arlo said, “Pete, look at our audience. They can’t hear like they used to.”
Where would we be without our artists?