Many years ago, decked out in yellow jeans, matching yellow leather tie, and convinced of my sartorial and general superiority, my twelve-year-old self headed to the Olympic stadium in Munich for my first live concert, the band Queen. A few sweaty hours later I was converted to the enduring love of my life: Music (preferably from inside the most intense depths of the pit, not seated and removed from the action). I have attended many hundreds of shows since that first one, often in hopes of having my dented faith in humanity restored, and almost as often finding something lovely to inspire me. Over the years my palate has grown more tolerant, and I am likelier to find a performance tolerable (though less likely to be impressed by it).

A few months ago I attended a shantie music festival at a sleepy New England town. Though that wouldn’t normally be my first choice (my taste usually tends to the more extreme and “high energy” end of the spectrum) I was delighted to find myself surrounded by the jokey and the romantically absurd, which is very much my taste.

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