Niles at Eliot

Undoubtedly the hundreds of nicely dressed young men and women who jammed the Eliot House dining hall Wednesday night went to hear a session of sweet balladeering. What they heard was one of America's most authentic ethnic characters perform in a manner that was more interesting historically than musically.

John Jacob Niles entered and retired from the hall to the din of a reverent ovation, and that made him happy. For Niles was obviously pleased to be at Harvard, to "step temporarily out of retirement," to "peer into the bright, charming, and eager faces" that surrounded him, and relive once again the ballads and love songs that have been his life.

As soon as Niles began to sing, the audience visibly trembled. For few had known what to expect from Niles. Authentic he may be, fascinating he is, but a singer he really is not. His is a voice that is not a voice in the musical sense of the word. His singing is not a flow of melody, but a strange string of sounds that are sometimes shrill, sometimes whining, sometimes rasping, like the sound of a cello bow scratching an unwilling string, but most often pitched in a vibrant falsetto of unworldly intensity. It is not the sort of voice that one instantly enjoys. It most definitely has to grow on the listener.

This growth took place most rapidly among the girls, especially those with very long hair. By the time Niles had finished his first offering, his strange magnetism had begun to work, and a look around the audience showed several faces, mostly feminine, already lost in wonderment. As the hours grew later these first faithful were joined by many more, joined mystically together in the trance that is essential to the artistic success of any folk song concert.

Niles cast his spell as much with his introductions and manner as with his singing. There is a bit of Barnum in him; no, a big hunk of Barnum. Woven in with this is a strain of the hillbilly preacher. And over these basic characteristics floats the unmistakable, delightful smell of ham.

Another unique feature about a Niles concert is the collection of dulcimers he uses to accompany himself. The dulcimer is a luke-like instrument that comes in a variety of shapes. It is played by stroking the strings, which are tuned to a set tonality. The instrument is almost as integral a part of Niles' singing as his unusual voice. But like his voice, it is of debatable concert value. There is very little one can do with a dulcimer besides stroke it. It is too clumsy for intricate patterns and lacks strength and richness for much emotional expression. Even in the comparatively intimate surroundings of Eliot's dining room, many were unable to hear it, and those who did found that it could do little more than set the mood.

Most of his songs had a story to tell, and Niles seemed more interested in telling the tale than in the singing. Often crouching over his dulcimers like a worried physician or a mother singing to her baby, something striking them with bravado, he was a compelling figure. At some points he was consumed with ecstasy; at others he cried out in agony. Sometimes he looked like a harmless, forgotten old man, and then, a minute later, his eyes would glint and he would look like an imp, or a fiend.

A high point in the evening was his presentation of three original songs he had rarely sung before. Of these the most impressive was the mournful, haunting maiden's lament, "Unused I am to Lovers." The melody was a beautiful but unlikely combination of classical Italian influence and backwoods "hollars." I found myself wishing someone like Joan Baez would sing it so its true beauty could emerge.

By the time the evening was spent the gentle, diminutive old man had captured the heart of most of the audience, but not, I think, with his singing. Rather it was his songs, both original and collected, that were his strength, and it is by the quality of these songs that he will be remembered.