The Mini-Fest was held in a very small, slightly rundown school in Takoma Park.

Molly bought the tickets and handed Vicki the schedule of events, which was as follows:

Just as they were beginning to look at the schedule, an eerie shriek echoed through the hallway: "He's crushing your head! He's crushing your head!"

Molly and Vicki raced towards the sound. The screams quickly faded and were replaced by crashing piano chords. The women burst into a classroom where a small man was bouncing behind a piano. He was simultaneously dancing and playing the piano and a harmonica that was hanging from his neck by means of a metal holder. Every now and then he would stop his harmonica playing to shout: "He's crushing your head! He's crushing your head!" Then he would laugh demonically and seven dancers behind him would chorus: "He's crushing your head! He's crushing your head!"

Finally he began to sing:

Sinner better listen to Gospel Fred, Or Satan will come and crush your head.

Give me this day my daily bread, And keep ol' Satan from crushing my head.

Poor little Liza went to bed, And Satan came and crushed her head.

Liza didn't listen to what the Bible said, So, Satan came and crushed her head.

One day you'll wake up, you'll wake up dead, And Satan will come and crush your head!

At this, Gospel Fred jumped up from the piano and started dancing toward Molly and Vicki. He held his thumb and forefinger in front of him and screamed: "He's crushing your heads! He's crushing your heads!" The dancers, who Vicki guessed to be the Sanctified Spawn of Secaucus, danced behind him making the same hand gesture and staring intently at the two women while shouting "He's crushing your heads! He's crushing your heads!"

Molly and Vicki backed out of the classroom quickly. After they'd gained the safety of the vendor's area and had caught their breath, they studied the program.

"Well, Molly, what shall we listen to next?"

"We've got to go to Siobhan Ni Nestrovic y Gomez's workshop at 2:45. She's the featured performer today and her sister Magda is a good friend of mine."

"What sort of stuff does she do?"

"World music drawn from her Slavo/Celtic/Iberian Roots."

"Huh?"

"She Moved through the Fair to a Salsa beat....Oh God, I can't believe they gave 'Sick' Nic a workshop! Well, maybe it'll keep him out of the way."

"Who's 'Sick' Nic?"

"Just folk music's reigning sadist! He makes his own instruments in his bathtub -- and believe me, they sound warped. His concept of tuning is rudimentary, he sings off key, and he loves to perform excruciatingly long songs about lingering, messy deaths and cannibalism. His specialty is crashing other people's workshops. You see, festivals all have workshops where members of the audience are invited to come up and sing a song. The catch is that Nic's songs are all at least forty verses long. It's torture!"

"Can't they just kick him off the stage?"

"No, this is folk music where we're all equal and everyone's contribution is valuable. He's stubborn too. Legend has it that someone once set his music on fire to stop his performance, but old Sick Nic kept right on playing until his beard was singed and his sheet music was too charred to read. Besides all that, he's a founding member of the folklore society. Unless you're really consumed with morbid curiosity, Vicki, we'll skip his workshop."

"Now, this should be a treat," Molly said, pointing to a block on the program. "Alastair Mucklethunk is a guitarist from Glasgow who's supposed to be incredible."

"Mmm...the write-up says '... The founder of the super group Guitar Gods of the Serengeti, this robust young Glaswegian has already toppled the guitar gods of Olde England -- America look out!' A bit overstated, isn't it?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out!" said Molly as she headed for Mucklethunk's workshop.

Once they were seated in the classroom where the workshop was to take place, Vicki indulged in some people watching. She noticed that the instruments had already been set up for the Reel Slavic Salsa workshop. As she idly surveyed the clutter of drums, bouzoukis, keyboards, and cables, a tall, gangly, gray-bearded man walked up to one of the keyboards and began tinkering with it. He moved to one of the bouzoukis and began retuning it. Then Mucklethunk came in.

Alastair Mucklethunk stood out in this crowd. Vicki idly wondered how many Shetland sheep had been denuded to make his sweater.

"He gives new meaning to the word 'hunk,' doesn't he?" she whispered to Molly.

"'Monolith' would be more accurate. He looks like Hagar the Horrible minus hat....Oh, no!"

"Molly, why are you trying to burrow into your seat like that?"

"Shhhh! It's Dem Rosebuns!"

"Huh?"

"Oh, no, We've been spotted!"

Vicki looked up to see a scraggly-haired gnome barreling down on them.

"Molly! Rosebuns shouted. "Where were you at the last Oyster Band Concert!? Tremendous turn-out. John was telling me that it's been that way throughout their tour. People are finally catching on. They're tired of this acoustic shit. They don't want to hear aging hippies singing about the flowers...

"Who's your friend in the short skirt? Just call me a chauvinist pig -- I freely confess it. Hello there, did Molly tell you she knew a genuine Elektro-Keltoid Music Critic. See it says right here on my card, Demming Rosebuns, Elektro-Keltoid Music Critic, DysAssociated Press. Keep it. Use it!"

"Dem, Mucklethunk's starting to play."

"Who wants to listen to this acoustic shit anyway? Did you know that Siobhan and her band are giving a workshopReel Slavic Salsa. Just between you and me, she told me that she's playing all new material that will revolutionize Celtoid fusion folk rock. Don't miss it! The other day I was on the phone to Ashley and he said Siobhan's band had the sound that Steeleye had tried in vain to achieve. Ashley will be in Canada with the Albion Band next December. Did I tell you Joe Boyd will be producing an album with Richard and Siobhan? That should be out on Vertigo sometime next year -- he says it'll make Abyssinians look like a vicarage tea party. Ian will be managing Siobhan's next tour, he says he's going to put aside all other commitments to promote her. Molly, this is going to be big! This is the band of the century! Today will be the first time their new material will be heard in public! I can't wait!"

"Dem," Molly whispered urgently, "Mucklethunk's playing! How can you review this music if you don't even listen to it?"

"Why bother, he's just doing simple strumming."

"Simple strumming!" Molly's voice rose. "He's in an alternate tuning. He's playing melody, counter melody and high harmony while slapping the strings for percussive effect, and occasionally detuning the bass string to get low notes and you call that simple strumming!"

"Yea, he sounds a lot like Martin Carthy... Did I ever tell you about the time he yelled at me? I'll never forget him screaming 'Get him out of here before I kill him,' what a grouch!"

"You've told me that story before. As I recall you'd crashed into his dressing room ten minutes before he was supposed to go on. If he had killed you it would have been justifiable homicide."

"Well, in my opinion, the last thing the folk world needs is more prima donnas."
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