I have never claimed to be an academic and I find it difficult to attach myself to the word folklorist with its implication of having graduated from a course in, or related to, folklore. It is true that I have spent many years collecting, teaching, writing about and performing folklore, and I can only surmise that my history qualifies me to put 'folklorist' as a job description. I prefer to say I am a graduate of the Dingo University and the School of Hard Knocks. I left school with the Leaving Certificate but, being a complete nong in mathematics and science, I didn't matriculate and therefore was ineligible for university. I always thought of myself as a 'clever Dick' and would have liked to have undertaken higher education but, in retrospect, I now think it would have been my downfall; becoming an even stranger bird. I most probably would not have spent a lifetime chasing songs and folklore.

At a recent gathering of like-minded souls assembled by the National Library at the 2005 National Folk Festival I explained that I felt uncomfortable with the moniker of folklorist, and that I preferred folklore-recycling unit. I was joking but it made me think about titles and the development of folklore studies in Australia. One by one each of the panel explained how they came to folklore: some had been attracted by the music, some by a particular interest such as dance and some were academics. I was still scratching my head because I came to folklore for a number of reasons but primarily because of a desire to see what makes the average Australian tick. I was searching for the nuts and bolts of the Australian identity; I still am. There was also a political motivation and although I never joined a political party I continue to think of myself as a political animal of the left. Albeit a disillusioned one! One thing I know is that I am capable of undertaking several things at the one time, I have that sort of brain. After having had to work for a living for most of my life I now have the luxury of working on folklore full time. This for me is a joy and I still push my brain and body (both raddled) to chase several paths at once.

Folklore-recycling unit is not a very glamorous description but that's essentially how I feel about much of my work. I collect, I research and I try to put my findings into some acceptable form and then I reintroduce it back into the community. I do this through my books, writings, broadcasts, website and, for the sake of this essay, my performing.

I guess I am fortunate that I am able to hold a tune, tell a story or recite verse. The performance of traditional material has always fascinated me and I still find this the most enjoyable aspect of my work. I am not saying I have tickets on myself as a performer but I know I am more than capable of delivering a program that inspires and excites an audience. Having an extensive and unique repertoire has been the strongpoint of my performance side and, in truth, I feel like I am only now going into overdrive.

It is my repertoire that identifies me and allows me to relate to audiences. Many of the songs I sing are those I have collected or offer a personal point of reference. The same can be said for much of my recitations and yarns. If I had been blessed with a better voice maybe I would have had a less interesting repertoire? I say this in full knowledge that I set out to learn songs that would suit the limits of my voice and challenge my interests as a student of traditional music.

With this essay I am attempting to track the why's, how's, when's and where's of my performing persona.

I came from a singing family. My mother, the eldest of nine children, played the piano and her mother, Polly Phillips, played piano and sang music hall songs. My father, the eldest son of a family of eighteen surviving children, always sang in the shower. Both families were relatively poor and homemade entertainment played an important role in maintaining social life. My Irish side was the political side and, understandably, sang Irish songs however they were more of the Paddy McGinty's Goat variety, or so it seemed to me. My father knew a lot of songs that he had learnt in the Army during WW2 and some, I suspect, especially the political ditties, he had from his father, John Fahey. For several reasons, mainly geographical, I was closer to my mother's side, the Jewish side of the family. It didn't take long to realise they were singers because at every possible family gathering they would sing for hours. Nearly all the Phillips children played the piano and would squabble to see who would play next. They all sang too – mostly popular and comic songs from the early part of the twentieth century. One of the sons, Charlie, would do a great impersonation of Al Jolson and then Eddie Cantor whilst the younger brother, Clive, would play stride style piano recalling Fats Waller. Polly, the matriarch, played honky-tonk and would sing Sophie Tucker songs and music hall favourites and sentimental popular ballads that she had learnt as a child in London. My mother's eldest brother, Mossy, was an excellent ukulele player who had married into the Brandon family of Bondi, which introduced Sid Brandon. Sid was an exuberant pianist and had actually played for the silent movies in London. Whenever the Fahey's and the Phillip's got together the songs rolled out and there I was singing along like a bird.

Of course, such a story is not uncommon for families that grew up in the Great Depression and WW2, for these were the years of homemade entertainment and especially the singalong. I now look back on these evenings with a certain amount of nostalgia.

In the early 1970s I tape recorded my father singing some of the songs and parodies I had heard for so many years (usually in the shower). They were a mixed bag of political ditties about Billy Hughes and Jack Lang, some standard Irish songs like 'I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen' and 'Harrigan', music hall numbers and several British traditional songs including 'The Keys of Canterbury', 'An Old Man Came Courting Me' which he called 'His Old Grey Noddle Kept Shaking', 'Who Killed Cock Robin?' and some verses of the 'The Golden Vanity'. He also knew several army songs and a wonderful bawdy song called 'Whollop It Home' with a chorus that ended with 'put your belly close to mine and wriggle your bum'.

I am a product of the time in as much as I was born the year after the war, a post war baby rather than a baby boomer. Growing up in the fifties and early sixties I discovered folk music, well, what I was told was 'folk music'. When I left school I became a keen youth hosteller and bushwalker and, once again, came across folk music. I toyed with learning the guitar and the harmonica but never really made any headway. I was certainly learning songs but only to sing around the campfire, and usually in a terrified state of anxiety lest I hit a bum note. I kept going to folk clubs even after the 'folk boom' bubble had burst. These were formative years for I was already narrowing my interest to bush songs, even though they were rarely to be heard. I was fortunate I tumbled into the group who reverently carried the remains of the folk revival from the coffee shops to the hotels. This change of venue was important to the survival and revival of the music for it allowed a more 'adult' approach to the performance of the music. Mostly conducted in the upstairs lounge of old hotels these new folk clubs were modelled on the British clubs where people actually listened to the singer. I became part of the group organising the main Sydney club, The Elizabeth Hotel, – namely Mike and Carol Wilkinson, Mike Ball, Harvey Green, Derek Chetwyn and Mike Eves. These people, especially the Wilkinson's and Mike Ball, were extremely important to how I saw folk music. We talked about the songs, learnt songs together and took an active roll in organising the club. At the same time I started attending the weekly meetings of the Bush Music Club and, once again, I absorbed what I could. It was a balancing act for the BMC, especially its executive including John Meredith, were extremely antagonistic towards the British 'folk club organisers' who, they believed, were all 'right wingers' and 'had no interest in real Australian music.' This was also the time of the A L Lloyd debate with the BMC, particularly Meredith, dismissing Lloyd's place as a singer and especially as an interpreter of bush song. (That debate continues to this day).

I had started to sing a little but would no more have called myself a 'singer' than fly to the moon. I guess I had read every book about Australian folk music – apart from Hugh Anderson, Ron Edwards, John Manifold and Russel Ward there weren't that many! – and had started buying books on British and American folklore. I also started to run folk clubs: firstly the Elizabeth, then the Edinburgh Castle then the Royal George. By then I had a mixed repertoire of British traditional songs, ballads, sea songs and, of course, bush songs. I've kept the notebooks where I wrote down each song I learned around this time – mostly songs learned from listening to recordings of traditional singers including the outstanding series on Caedmon Records 'Folk Songs of Britain and Ireland'. I was also learning the songs on the Wattle LP 'Traditional Singers and Musicians of Victoria'. I recall being completely captivated by the singing of Simon McDonald, Captain Watson, etc. This certainly was a landmark recording for me as a singer. I must admit to also being mesmerized by both A.L.Lloyd and Ewan MacColl's singing styles. Their breadth of repertoire also fascinated me.

I consider myself fortunate to have been lucky enough to meet some of the best traditional singers: Joe Heaney, Bert Lloyd, Shirley Collins, Sally Sloan, Joe Watson, Mike Seeger, Peggy Seeger, Willie Scott and Ewan MacColl. It was Peggy and Ewan who most inspired me to continue singing for they had a habit, a good habit, of looking at music from so many different angles. They made one feel responsible for the tradition and to see the carrying of traditional songs as an honour. This is a subject we discussed often and I am indebted to their sharing of wisdom.

I had started collecting Australian songs and poetry around 1968. Nothing special but I was actively jotting things down as I came across them in conversation or in books. I started contributing book reviews to the ABC and then radio scripts around the same time. I had also started a bush band although I never called it a bush band. I wanted a group of musicians who could play and sing Australian traditional songs in the way I heard them in my head! This might sound strange but you must remember I had been 'balancing' between the Bush Music Club and the British-led folk revival plus I had been reading and listening to a lot of international traditional music and reading books on folklore. I had a particular sound in my head that I thought typified Australian folk music. The group was called The Larrikins and consisted of three Irishmen, Paddy McLaughlin, Jack Fallis, Ned Alexander and myself. We played together for a couple of years and recorded my first folk music series for the ABC – it was a collection of railway songs called 'Navvy on the Line'. It was an eclectic mixture of songs and the recordings were later reissued as an LP on the Larrikin label.

By 1972 I had become totally fired-up with collecting Australian folklore and embarked on an ambitious field-collecting trip that lasted thirteen months. I lived in a Kombi Van and hawked the ABC's Nagra tape recorder high and low. The result was a collection of songs, poems, drinking toasts, stories and associated folklore that became the start of my collection in the National Library of Australia.

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