Whenever this new world of ours gets me down, whenever the violence of the economy or the scandal on the box makes me feel that it’s all running out of control, I close my eyes and listen to a bit of folk music.
There’s nothing in this world more reassuring, more likely to soothe the anxiety from my brow.
Because, let’s face it, the murder rate in folk music puts New York and Cape Town to shame. I estimate it at one every four songs, with the rest consisting mostly of adultery, betrayal, kidnapping by the little people, shipwreck and, above all, early death. The life expectancy of a character in a traditional folk song can’t be much more than 16 years.
After half an hour of this, I’m infinitely cheered, and ready to face anything.
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