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A
minstrel there is, and he a durable man
Of
seventy-five, but eighteen when he first began
A
tenable life of music and poetry,
Candor,
determination, and autonomy.
Full
conscious was he of music’s prose,
And
therefore did he call out to those,
By
voice and fiddle, who would hear,
And
would answer to the clarion clear.
In
New England and beyond
Feet
move, hands join, hearts dance to his song.
A Canterbury
(New Hampshire) Tale
Like
Geoffrey Chaucer, I have a pilgrimage to recount, though mine was to
a barn dance rather than a shrine. Even so, devotees of Dudley Laufman,
fiddler and traditional dance caller and Jacqueline Laufman, who together
make up Two Fiddles, reminded me of the Knight, the Wife, and
the Merchant of Chaucer’s tales. The Laufmans, soon to celebrate 20
years as a twosome joined at the fiddle, invited me to a kitchen “junket”
at Wind in the Timothy, their home.
I
arrived at the Laufmans’ in the tiny hamlet of Canterbury, New Hampshire,
shortly before a whirlwind of varied types blew in. There was a father
with two young daughters; both fiddle students of Jacqueline, 51. The
girls came to play alongside the Laufmans and an assemblage of instruments
that included 7 fiddles, a flute, banjo, guitar, hammered dulcimer
and mandolin. This was the girls’ first time playing in the Two Fiddles
“orchestra,” their dad said. They did remarkably well.
A
young couple, perhaps more accustomed to mosh pits and crowd surfing,
was eager to do-sa-do and swing each other into a happy delirium. Tall,
short, young, old, Hispanic, Indian, fat and skinny: merriment barred
no holds for the participants this night. In all, forty-two people
attended, the number swelling as the evening progressed.
We
congregated in the dance room and Dudley, dressed casually in slacks
and a dark sweater, got right to business. “We need dancers on the
floor,” he said. Five or six people sauntered to the center, but it
wasn’t enough and he let us know with a growl that brooked no dilly
dallying. I enlisted along with several others and the revelry began.
In
the official phraseology of an encyclopedia, what we did might be called
“traditional American folk dance,” but among laid-back rural folk,
it was just a good old barn dance.
“The broad
term that was used, until fairly recently, was ‘square dancing.’” Dudley
says. “Then the contra dance came along and the people who were doing
it didn’t like the word “square,” so they started calling it contra dancing.”
“Fairly
recently,” would be the early 70s, when a young, hip, yet rootless crowd
began to take an interest in the homespun, natural elements of folk dance.
Barefoot and inspired, they attended Dudley’s junkets, looking for a
sense of community and re-identification with the “basics” of life. To
them, square represented the older generation; the enemy “Establishment.”
In reality, square dancing and contra dancing are two different things.
The square
dance has four couples who begin and end the dance in the formation of
a square, with each pair making up a side. They move through a succession
of steps as instructed by the caller (in our case, Dudley). In a contra
dance, several couples form two parallel lines and move through a sequence
of steps, progressing down the line. Even so, both dance types share
many moves, such as swings, promenades and dos-a-dos.
I danced
with a nameless partner through seven pieces while feet stomped, fiddle
bows jutted, and smiles were passed around. In the small dance room,
we moved like bees in a teeming hive, minding the steps as Dudley called
them out. His voice was as lyrical as his playing and, when I took a
break and watched him, I saw an artist absorbed in his gift.
Dudley
doesn’t think of himself too loftily, though. When asked about his reputation
as a champion of the resurgence of traditional folk dance, he shies away
from heroic descriptions.
“A lot
of people say I’m the one that revived contra dancing, but I just happened
to be ‘Johnny-on-the-spot.’ If it hadn’t been me, it would have been
someone else.”
Jacqueline
disagrees: “I don’t think that’s necessarily true. He had something about
him: charisma and drive; a love of the music and a love of the dance
and those things uplifted people to carry it on. He also invited other
musicians to sit in. He kept the door open and didn’t shut it.” The door
has been open for 58 years.
Dudley
began calling dances in 1948, learning under Ralph Page, a star caller
at the time. He eventually taught himself to play the harmonica, accordion,
and fiddle. Eventually, Dudley accumulated his own following and surpassed
his mentor.
“When I
first started, Ralph was doing quite well; using live music and traveling.
As his popularity declined, he fell back on using records. He said it
was easier, that ‘Records didn’t get drunk.’” Dudley’s own ensuing popularity
rebooted Page’s for a time. “Ralph’s popularity went up again once I
came on the scene because I was using live music and talking a lot about
him.”
Dudley
is quick to pay homage to Page. Others are quick to do the same to him.
In 2001, he was awarded the New Hampshire Governor’s Folk Heritage Award,
thanks in part to a rousing endorsement by David Millstone, a contra
dance caller from Lebanon and producer of two contra dance documentaries: Paid
to Eat Ice Cream and What’s Not to Like? In his letter of
recommendation, Millstone described Dudley as “the single individual
most responsible for the resurgence of contra dance,” and “one of a rare
breed, a contemporary dancing master, an authority on dancing.” So much
for being a “Johnny-on-the-spot.”
So here
I was, dancing on the floor and warming myself at the woodstove of a
duo that will doubtless live on a hundred years from now in the annals
of New England’s cultural history. Neither shows any sign of slowing. Two
Fiddles continues to play and call reels, circles, contras, and squares
at gigs aplenty. They have recorded several CDs of traditional music
and calling and Dudley has written four books of poetry, some of which
Jacqueline has illustrated. While Dudley works with the occasional caller
apprentice, Jacqueline teaches fiddle “by ear.” She recalls one of her
first students, now a young adult, who went on to start his own group
and opened, one year, for the main band at the Highland Games at Loon
Mountain.
“He also
apprenticed with Dudley at calling the dances. After college, he won
a fellowship to study the effects of digital percussion on traditional
music and is now traveling around Europe doing just that.” Jacqueline
quickly adds that Dudley is, in effect, the root cause of this outcome.
One hopes, however, that she realizes this: without her as a strong,
nourishing branch, this young man’s “fruit” might not be flourishing
today.
I had worked
up a sweat in the dance room and, when Dudley called a break, I went
into the kitchen and mingled with the other pilgrims. Some were friendly,
some were reserved. All were breathless in a way not physical. I, myself,
felt the elation of a liberated spirit. We had danced, jostled, held
the hands of strangers, and moved to the rhythms of a temporary kinship.
The feeling transcended the reality of today’s altered society, taking
me briefly to a simpler place and time. When I said “Thank you” to Dudley
and Jacqueline Laufman afterward, that’s what it was for.
You can
learn more about the Laufman’s, their music, and upcoming Two Fiddle
events by logging onto www.laufman.org.
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