R.I.P., Mary Travers

For me, this is the day the music died. News of Mary Travers’ death yesterday moved me to tears. I never met her, but I felt about her as I have about some friends. I’d met Peter Yarrow during his Cornell years, when he came to sing at the fraternity house where my brother and boyfriend lived. I was in a sort of trance that night, listening to Peter sing, and when he sang “O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn”, I felt he was singing to me. Peter always stomped (not tapped) one foot, and that night he broke a floorboard at the frat house.

Anyway, this isn’t about Peter, it’s about Mary Travers. The first time I saw PPM perform, she appeared as a goddess—her statuesque body, her silky long blond hair that she continually tossed. Her voice was magic for me, because she was one of the few singers in whose key I could manage to sing. Her harmonies transformed the three people into one entity. I saw her as a real person—a woman not much older than I, who enjoyed singing, had a family, and had a cause. I admired her, not simply because she was doing what I loved to do myself—sing folk music—but she did it with grace and style. She didn’t have to wear sexy clothes, dance seductively, or scream into the microphone. She didn’t even have to play the guitar. She stood there, flipping her hair, clearly having fun, enjoying every moment. And Mary felt every song she sang; ergo, I felt every song she sang.

There was a mighty triumvirate of female folk singers (in alpha order): Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Mary Travers. They inspired me, each of them in their own way. Joan and Mary were the ones I tried most to emulate, since their songs were more accessible to my limited vocal range. Joan wrote incredibly stirring lyrics, and sang them with great intensity. I can’t compare the three one against the other—they were different in many ways. But there was something about Mary.

Mary Travers, you were a light, an inspiration, and a goddess. Thank you, and rest in peace.