I picked up my husband�s copy of The New New Journalism today while waiting for AJ to finish his bathroom routine (This kid has a stack of catalogs piled up next to the toilet that rivals my grandfather�s hunting magazines in the bathroom at my grandparents house that us kids new was to be avoided at all costs. We made the mistake of letting him look at a toy catalog when we were potty training and having trouble convincing him to sit there. Now every trip to the bathroom is a marathon. But I digress.) and found it was much harder to put down than I expected. This is not a book to read cover to cover, but I found that it resonated with me on several levels. First, this is not an anthology of essays, which is what I expected. It is interviews with writers about how they do what they do, which is a subject I always find interesting and sometimes inspiring for my own measly writing ventures. More specifically, it�s a collection of interviews with writers who develop and write non-fiction articles by getting personally involved with their subjects. This is very similar to a topic I�ve become involved with in several discussions with ethnomusicologists of late � the question of whether it is advisable to become part of your project and, if you choose to try, how to accomplish it ethically.

With ethnomusicology (as, I�m sure, in journalism), the nature of the ethical dilemma varies depending on the type of project. The ethical problem I was discussing with a group at the conference I attended a couple of weeks ago was the problem of working with people with fewer resources and less access to political power than the ethnographer. This discussion addressed two issues. The first was the problem of going into countries to study them when you�re coming from a colonialist power. How do you do this in a humane way? The second issue stemmed from the first question. What if you use your access to resources to improve the situation for the people you study? What kind of an ethnographer does that make you? Can you really be objective enough to study the situation if you get involved in that particular way? Do you need to be? Or is the good you might be able to accomplish enough?

But another side of the issue has been raised in the last week or so on an ethnomusicology discussion group, namely, what if the ethnographer is already an expert, an insider of a particular subculture and wants to study it from that point of view. My first reaction is that that seems to be a valuable thing, but is it really that different from the situations above? And mightn�t a certain kind of involvement preclude certain types of scholarly questioning?

I wonder about this when I haul out my violin to play Irish fiddle. I am not Irish, nor am I an expert fiddle player, but I long ago fell in love with the music and resolved to learn to play after getting the chance to sit in with some musicians on a trip to Ireland. Since then I�ve studied with some of the best fiddle players working in America. I�m still not that great, but I can hold my own and I love to go to seisiuns whenever I can. While I love the music, I also love the process of music making. A seisiun is all about community, about group expectations, about unwritten protocols. For example, I learned fast that fiddle players are expected to start tunes at least once in a seisiun. So I always make sure I have a couple of things that I can play well enough to lead. But I also always tape the seisiuns to learn new tunes. These tapes have become objects of fascination, because they reveal a great deal about the way a seisiun operates.

Seisiuns in the U.S. are usually run by one or two musicians hired by the hosting bar to make sure the music flows smoothly throughout the evening. The in-house musicians have a huge effect on the way a seisiun runs. Some are pretty dictatorial and run seisiuns more like concerts that the audience is invited to join in on. Others are more open to others having a say in the matter.

There is one bar in Chicago that tends to be a gathering place for Irish musicians after their performances elsewhere. When I was active on the circuit, it was the Abbey Pub, although I understand it�s moved a few doors down to Francis O�Neill�s, as the Abbey�s been focusing more and more on rock bands. The Abbey had organized seisiuns every Sunday afternoon, but one evening I was there with my fiddle after a concert that some friends of mine had played downtown. We gathered around the piano with some of the greats of Irish-American music. The usual Abbey seisiun-leader was there, but so was a very important fiddle player from the West Coast in for the concert. Right from the start there was just a little too much banter between the two, which made it clear that there was a bit of rivalry there. They would occasionally start tunes at the same time. Usually the in-house musician would defer to the out of town guest, but it was clear it was getting under his skin. Then came the showdown. There is an immensely popular jig known as �The Cliffs of Moher.� In this particular tune, there is one note in the third phrase that is contested � some play it natural, others flat (the former makes it more of a melodic priority; the latter sounds more like an ornamental note and is often accompanied by a slide). As it happened, the two musicians had a disagreement as to which was the correct way to play the tune. A spectacular argument ensued conducted entirely in music. Each player held doggedly to his version. Every time the note in questions came up, it was louder and more dissonant than the time before. With each repetition the tune got faster and faster and more and more ornate until finally most of us novices had to drop out in exhaustion and awe.

Scenes like this are worthy of study and thought. There is a lot more going on than meets the eye of a casual observer. Playing into the disagreement, beyond general musical rivalry is political rivalry as well � the two, although both dwelling in the U.S. now, both come from different parts of Ireland. I am not a part of the deep history of this particular musical culture, but I am a participant and it is because I am a participant that I am so fascinated by the world that surrounds it. Nevertheless, and even in my fairly tangential and infrequent involvement, there are some kinds of questions I might not feel comfortable asking some of my friends and acquaintances there. I�m not sure that if I revealed myself to be a journalist or an ethnomusicologist if my relationship would change to the musicians and even the topic about which I may seek to write. What if I had to write something less than complimentary about someone with whom I have a personal relationship whom I know might read what I wrote. Would that color the way I wrote it down? You bet. Does that make me a bad scholar of the subject? I�m not certain. I suppose it depends on what I�m trying to accomplish.

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