Pete Seeger
The Banjo Prophet of the People's Voice
Songs aren't silver in a vault—they're bread to break with everyone at the table.
I’ve chased Woody Guthrie’s dust into union halls, hummed lullabies on blacklisted airwaves, and nudged Dylan’s chords toward thunder. The Hudson’s thick with history and silt, but my job’s the same—turn poison into music. Songs are seeds. Plant ‘em stubborn. Water with sweat. Harvest when the times ripen.
What I'm Into: my long-neck banjo, union hall acoustics, songs that march, Woody’s ghost in the wind, harmonizing with picket lines
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