Quick Q and A with Christine Lavin, Part 2
 by Kathy S-B  ·  12 February 2007

What kind of music did you listen to as a teenager?

I grew up in Westchester County, at an all-boys military school where my dad taught. I was born in 1952, so FM radio was way cool and innovative during the early-mid 60s. I listened to WNEW, heard Judy Collins, Linda Ronstadt, Dave Van Ronk, Bob Dylan — as soon as I heard that music, it spoke to me, right to my heart. I knew I loved what I heard. I had no idea if I could do that — but I knew I loved it.

How did you find your way to the acoustic music scene?

I learned how to play guitar by watching lessons broadcast on PBS when I was 12 years old — the TV teacher was Laura Weber. Turns out Nanci Griffith also learned from her, as did Neil of “Aztec Two-Step.” You people who support PBS have no idea the good you are doing sometimes (or bad — if you don’t like my music you only have yourself to blame — ha ha). Anyway, years go by … the pages of the calendar flip …

I was waitressing at the Caffe Lena in 1975–76, when Dave Van Ronk came through and Lena asked me to play him a song. I did, and he said ‘you should come to New York.’ Coincidentally, earlier that same night Don McLean’s manager heard me sing (I shared the bill with another one of his artists). He gave me his card and said ‘you should learn how to play guitar better. When you do, come to New York and I will help you.’ So when Van Ronk said “come to New York” I said “I will! When I learn how to play guitar better!” He said, “I’m a teacher. I’ll teach you.” That was it for me. Two weeks later I was living on East 3rd street, between A & B, a street still ruled to this day by the Hell’s Angels. My bed was a door with a piece of foam rubber on it. I worked as a temp full time for six years, but was so happy because I was taking guitar lessons from Dave Van Ronk.

Tell us a little about your friendship with Dave van Ronk. You’ve done much to keep his music and legend alive and I want to applaud you for that. Do you have any particularly vivid memories of him? Any stories about him that you’ve been dying to tell the folk music world?

Dave was a brilliant, complicated man. He was self-educated since he dropped out of high school. He was left handed and played right handed guitar (like me, so that helped to make him a great teacher for someone like me — he said ‘your left hand will also be better than many guitarists, but your right hand will be way worse than most, too’). Although I learned many of his guitar arrangements, they never checked into the permanent part of my brain. For a tribute concert to him a couple years ago I relearned “Somebody Else, Not Me.” I practiced it diligently every day for three months, and then when the big event came, I was pretty bad. I’m not saying that because I’m looking for reassurance, “No, you were fine!” No, I wasn’t. There were two shows. After the first show one of the other performers took me aside and said, “For the late show, don’t put the DI into your guitar — use the house mike. It’s a lot more forgiving in these situations.” I wish I could remember who said that to me — it shows how supportive the folk community is. Other performers might have enjoyed me making a fool out of myself, but someone saw a way for me to salvage the situation — having the DI in the guitar amplified every hesitation, every mistake. Just making that switch for the late show took some pressure off, so I played it better. I learned a lot from Dave, but sadly for me, I am not a good enough guitarist to do his arrangements in front of an audience. His charts are difficult. If you hear someone playing one of his arrangements, and sounding decent at it, then you know you are in the presence of a really superb musician.

Dave told me once that although he was part of various groups (Hudson Dusters, for one) that he learned over time that he was best solo. He used to say, “Even in kindergarten they would send notes home to my mother that ‘Dave does not play well with others.’” For a while he had me open a LOT of shows for him — it was great experience and exposure for me — but one day he said, “That’s it, you’re on your own. We are not a duo.” At first I was upset, thinking I had done something to offend him, but he was just pushing me out of the nest for my own good. Allan Pepper, who owned The Bottom Line in NYC, never booked the same opener with the same headliner more than once — that was a rule of his. Always mix it up (and a smart thing to do business-wise). I LOVED watching Dave do his show. I’ll never forget one night at “The Salt” in Newport, RI — Dave played “Mack The Knife” (in my opinion his version is the best ever recorded) — he so totally nailed it that night I jumped out of my seat to clap and scream for him. Unfortunately, I was sitting with the owner (I forget his name) who had invited me to sit with him after my set (an honor). I had just ordered a drink, and when I jumped up I knocked an entire gin & tonic into the owner’s lap. I was mortified. I’m sure the owner wasn’t happy. But I couldn’t help myself. Dave was a magnificent performer.

Your shows give so much joy to your audiences. Do you see yourself continuing on ten-twenty years on? (We hope so!) Or do you see yourself doing something else making a career move that would startle the folk world. (Hey, I’m looking for a hot scoop!)

I am selling my New York apartment and moving up to the Finger Lakes region of New York State. I still plan to keep performing, but in the back of my mind I would love to own a knitting shop that has live music. Has anyone done that? Now that I know how to run an umbrella swift …

We did a few group concerts for “One Meat Ball” with a dessert buffet during intermission (it was like a feeding frenzy that night … I wonder if it was because FRENCH TOAST BREAD PUDDING was on the menu). As I get older I’m looking for ways to incorporate more than just music into performances. Now that someone invented light-up knitting needles I love to see knitters knitting during my shows. People have asked me, “Aren’t you offended that people are actually KNITTING while you are onstage?” Heavens no, I tell them. Hey, if I didn’t have to play guitar, I’d be knitting, too.

Although I go through very typical off-stage bouts of self-doubt and anxiety (hey, another good hurricane name would be “Anxieteeny”), when I’m onstage I always feel so at home, I know this is where I should be for now. I’m not saying this to suck up, but I have to tell you — it’s the best people in town who come out to these shows — the smartest, funniest, most politically hip and active citizens. One time I was playing in Ogunquit, Maine. There was a really old couple at the show — someone in the audience had run into them on the beach earlier that day. They were celebrating their 55th wedding anniversary, had written their names in the sand, and when this person met them they were drawing a big heart around their names, using their canes. When this person them, they thought, “these people should come to the concert tonight,” so they started talking to them, and sure enough, they showed up.

They were so cute — at the time (this was before I was a knitter) I was doing sparkle manicures for anyone who wanted one before the show (I know — a nutty idea, but it was fun til there were too many complaints about the fumes). Anyway, when I did this old lady’s nails I told her, “Oh, by the way, you’re not allowed to wash dishes for two weeks or your hands will explode.” Then I put the polish on her husband’s nails (a good sport) and I said to him, “Oh, by the way, you MUST wash dishes for two weeks or your hands will explode.” He leaned in to me and said, “I smell a con-SPIRACY.” Pronounced it like that, and whenever I smell a con-SPIRACY, that’s how I pronounce it, too.

I sometimes feel like “The Cat In The Hat” — blowing through town, mixing things up, moving on. The idea of the cookbook/CD came about when I was handing out recipes at my shows so that the next morning you could have this great breakfast, talk about the show last night, and keep the good juju going. My sister Mary met her husband at my show — if nothing else ever happens for me, that makes it all worthwhile.