When the lights dimmed in Jordan Hall Friday night and the audience quilted down, the butt end of a guitar came out slowly through the curtain, its varnish glittering, followed by the arm, shoulder and figure of Josh White. And so it went throughout the evening--the guitar and music came first and Josh, the person, appeared only when the music stopped, to say a word or two or wipe his lips. With each song, the chords would sound first, loud and vigorous; then the words would rush in between the chords, pushed forward by the tapping of White's foot and the beat that filled the hall. Josh joined forces with each song, giving it to everybody to see and understand.

The songs he sang merited this treatment. Sometimes they were familiar, like the hard-driving "John Henry" or the insinuating "Water Cresses." Sometimes they were new pieces like "Lulu is a Lady." Halfway through the program, the hollow of his threat was glistening, for he was working hard, plucking handfuls of notes from his guitar and circling the hall with his voice. When he announced a song the audience knew, they picked it up with a murmur and relished it among themselves with a nod or smile. They came back at him with a verse if he asked for it. Singing "Old Smokey," he threw the words at them one line at a time, catching them again when his chord changed and gave the group their cue.

Up to the end the music predominated, but he final song was "Strange Fruit" and Josh was no longer a "troubadour" as the program announced. "This song needs no introduction," he said. As he sang, he became a witness for the Negro people, a person with something to say, not an entertainer with a guitar. He told of the mournful South where men are still hanging from the trees, the "strange fruit" that is everyone's poison. Cheers and clapping followed the guitar off the stage but the praise was all of Josh White.