This week’s story is “The Ice Giants,” recorded by Franz Xaver von Schönwerth. This cold snap is really something else, man, I’m telling you. Cailleach Beara ever tightens her icy grip on the long-shadowed land. I ventured out for a bit of social severance in the midst of this icy nonsense, but I didn’t stay out for long. The Old Hag plastered the forest in rimy sheets of cellophane; no surface was spared for miles. Walking down the Old Valley Trail, I saw hoof marks made before the ice was laid—along with depressions near the unsteady sections adjacent to the fallen trees. The frozen concavities marked where the deer lost their footing and collapsed on the ice. I’m not even half as graceful as any woodland animal, so if they were slipping and sliding on the ice, how much chance did I have to stay upright? It turns out I had none at all. I didn’t so much slip and fall as I had the world violently wrenched away from me on more than a handful of occasions. I slammed onto the ice, cutting up my hand and doing a number on my legs. There was just nothing for it, I couldn’t get any handle on the ice without crampons. So, I slid down the hillsides with no way to steer my descent, the palm part of my gloves cut to ribbons. I did spend some time at the inlet and enjoyed the isolation and the company of birds, but I didn’t stay long. On my way back, I had to use branches to smash the ice just enough to give my feet somewhere to be while I chipped away at making stairs out of the valley. It was just far too dangerous to stay out there. Sometimes, warm blankets and fireside activities are not just the most but the only sensible thing. Sitting at home is when I noticed it, though. A missing half. I wondered if I might be able to show it to you, too. When we’re snowed in like this, my wife and I will often watch a movie or a TV show. (Currently, we’re rewatching Northern Exposure.) We’ll also read or listen to a podcast. My daughter’s best friend is in a dance group, and she’s often talking about joining. My wife suggested maybe we get her piano lessons, too, like she had done. Okay then. Let’s start with those piano lessons and dance group. Despite the difference in activity, they’re run pretty much the same. The kids practice the sheet music or the choreography to such a level that they can then put on a recital. At that recital, they play their music or dance their dances in the way their teacher taught them, with parents looking on from the gymnasium wall, or the folded chairs provided by the venue. That’s it, that’s what we think “music lessons” are. That’s what “learning dance” is. Except it isn’t always. When kids learn music, they could learn to read sheet music and play “hot cross buns” by rote, or they could hang out with grandpa and his banjo. Grandpa might give ‘em some spoons or a sack of marbles and say, “alright, boys and girls, follow me.” First they learn the beat, then simple rhythms, then in a few months, maybe they’ll take on a string instrument themselves. When they do, they learn an entirely different musical ethos than that of piano recitals. They learn that songs need their interpretation, their voice, and their unique way of laying down the melody. They learn that it’s not only alright but expected to participate in the lyrics, not just regurgitate them. That part of the etiquette of playing a song is to tell people it was grandpa who first taught it to you. As for dance, you can join a dance group, sure, and learn specific choreography to compete against other groups at competitions. Or you could hit up the Friday night dance in town and learn to improvise with a partner. Practice getting your steps in sync with the band—because of course there’s a live band—and so when they change it up, you’re ready to follow them and the caller. There are no competitions there, only communities whose only goal is participation, social inclusion and a knee-slappin’ good time. It’s an ethos that we’ve lost in lieu of something else. For lack of better terminology, let’s call it a “folk” versus “commercial” approach to art and expression. As a rough litmus, here’s how I see them in contrast: Folk is mutable. Commercial is fixed. Folk music, storytelling and dance are different with each performance. Folk variation is expected and valued. Nothing commercial ever changes; in fact, it’s not supposed to. There’s one true correct version, and repetition and consistency are the expectation. Folk is learned in the moment, from person to person. Commercial is learned asynchronously through products. You learn one by hanging out and following grandpa on his banjo. You learn the other by songbooks and taking quizzes on music theory. Folk is participatory. Commercial is presentational. You’re supposed to get up and dance at a town dance. You’re supposed to stay quiet, sit along the edges of the gymnasium and record your kids on your phone at a dance competition. Folk serves a social function. Commercial serves consumption. Folk dances, stories and songs exist to bring people together in the moment. Movies, books and albums are treated by artists, publishers and consumers as scalable commodities. Folk is process-driven. Commercial is product-driven. A successful folk song has everyone participating. A successful commercial song goes viral and sells copies. It’s at this point that I should make it clear that I’m not judging commercial art. These two have helped each other throughout the past several centuries, and thank goodness for that. It’s precisely because of the recorded nature of books that many oral traditions have even survived. And I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you that I don’t like novels, movies or Pink Floyd. This isn’t some high horse thing. There is an issue, though, in how lopsided these two have become. Going back to my family’s stay-at-home activities, how many of those are folk versus commercial endeavors? How many are yours? And look, there are no easy answers to difficult problems. But I do think it’s more than coincidence that adult loneliness, isolation and depression have gone up as town dances, family music-making and oral storytelling have all gone down in participation. This loss is felt on Substack, too. I’ve seen a number of writers lament the fact that their list isn’t scaling, that monetization isn’t going the way they were hoping and that the platform doesn’t incentivize certain genres. Those are indeed frustrating, and the stats the platform pushes in front of us only encourage those kinds of reactions. But there is that other side of things, isn’t there? Just because it’s not on your dashboard doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I hit a pretty heavy depression nearing the end of my master’s program. I saw academia or literary presses as my only way forward with it. So, naturally I thought I was frustrated with the masses for turning their backs on poetry. But of course, that wasn’t truly the case. More accurately, poetry enjoyed a brief era of commercial relevance—to its detriment. Financial incentives bring stakeholders, after all, and stakeholders, committees. But poetry and storytelling are very old things. Older than books old. Older than alphabets old. Most of their history lies outside the concept of everything we take for granted. The kids would call this a hot take, so prepare yourself, but I believe it’s to the health of poetry and storytelling that they are scarce among the land of the commercial. It’s good they don’t scale. All the better, so that their communal rewards may continue unexploited. 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