Voicing a need for "information control" one of the Nieman Fellows asked Seeger, "Who would play God?"
He replied that the government should form committees to screen out what is deemed "harmful" information.
"But who's going to be on the committee?" another reporter asked, grinning awkwardly.
Slightly more ruffled, Seeger advocated the establishment of committees for scientists, committees for journalists, committees for businessmen, each to decide what is best for their profession.
"But how will these people be chosen?" came another pointed question in a more pointed, cynical tone.
"The people will elect them," Seeger retorted hotly.
The harried folksinger then broke into a story about "misinformation," and how the front pages of every major paper in the nation had mistreated him. His face turning red, his aging body trembling from frustration at his audience's inability to understand him, he jumped to his feet and contronted his skeptically smiling audience.
"How will the American people be better informed if you do not inform them?" he barked at the journalists.
The skeptical smiles faded, Seeger sat down and collected himself, pulling back his thinning wedge of shaggy gray hair. The discussion continued cordially, peppered with an occasional song.
Seeger returned to his dream of "a sense of community," a feeling of union and togetherness. He reminisced about a concert in Washington, back in the early '70s, where the audience was sharply divided ... "there were Quakers who just wanted to sit back and listen to music, there were students who wanted to throw rocks, and we couldn't find a song that all of them liked. I was asked to play one last song, so I played John Lennon's song, 'Give Peace a Chance,' and everyone started singing together, moving to the music ... for that moment everyone was united, screaming, crying, 'All we are saying, is give peace a chance' ... it was incredible."
Seeger, the musician, has seen just about everything. He's seen the rise of Woodie Guthrie, Guthrie's son Arlo, Dylan's ascension to fame ("I envy Bob Dylan," he said), and the death of a good friend, Phil Ochs.
Ochs, like Seeger, was a leader in the peace movement and enchanted many a crowd with his folk music. With the passing of the peace movement in the '70s, Ochs became disappointed and depressed. He committed suicide last year.
In a very subdued and sorry tone, Seeger interjected at the mention of Ochs's name, "Oh, I'm still kicking myself. I saw Phil a few months before he died, and I wish I had known how serious it was. He was drinking heavy, and, oh, I wish I could have helped him."
This brought Seeger to the realization that many celebrities never make--"success can ruin you."
"I'm a lucky man, because I survived my success," he said. "It's a tough thing to handle when you go from obscurity and then all of a sudden everyone's listening to your music. Some folks just can't handle it..."
At the end of his talk at Currier House, Seeger started singing the tune, "'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free, 'tis a gift to come down, where you ought to be..." And in a swelling chorus smacking of an old movie, the Currier students joined in unison to the old Quaker tune. It would have made such a pleasant addition to "Bound for Glory."
After dropping out of Harvard ("two-and-a-half years later, I decided I hadn't missed much"), bumming around Depression America with a guitar on his back, joining the Army, achieving fame as a musician and leader of the peace movement, confronting the censorship and rejection of many in the country, and facing the needling of Niemans at Harvard, Seeger is not the least bit cynical. "Cynicism's the enemy," Seeger claims, and for all 57 years of struggling with society, Seeger has not lost any of his idealism.
"Idealists scare me," one Nieman calmly confided to another over a glass of wine after Seeger's seminar. "Perhaps that's the problem," the other replied.