Not punk (but f— you if that matters).
I think my mother was secretly trying to indoctrinate me into post-beat, hepcat, civil-rights/anti-war/pro-union pinko-ism with Peter, Paul and Mary records before I could even sit up in my crib. Dad would not have approved (although he thought the music was groovy). Back in 1972-73, I used to listen to those records in the morning before I went to pre-school (even then, I hated “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Clearly I was not getting a proper education about toking up in my hippie Northern California pre-school). I can still even sing songs from Mary’s solo records off the top of my head.
I saw them in spring of 1981. They sang a song about a coal mine disaster that scared the shit out of me and I started playing guitar three weeks later. And dammit, she had such fabulous hair. P, P and M continued to play benefit concerts for organized labor well into the 1990s. I may miss her more than I miss Jim Carroll. “The Song is Love,” my friends.