Music

Just in time for Thanksgiving, Arlo Guthrie tells it like it is

The Massachusetts folk legend talks candidly about his new book, "Alice's Restaurant," and the spirit of the '60s.

Arlo Guthrie. Courtesy Photo / Eric Brown

By Lauren Daley

November 22, 2023

9 minutes to read

Arlo Guthrie is always, refreshingly, himself.

Incapable of feeding you a line, phoning it in, packaging and selling himself.

It’s why he’s such a joy to interview.

His no-bull vibe, shaggy-dog stories and playful way with words are why fans love him.

I witnessed all three in my recent interview with Massachusetts’s folk legend.

Examples?

I called Guthrie at his winter home in Sebastian, Florida — he’ll return to Washington, Mass. this spring — ostensibly to talk about a new biography, “Rising Son: The Life and Music of Arlo Guthrie” by Hank Reineke, with commentary by Guthrie.

“This is not a book for the New York Times bestseller or even the Boston Globe bestseller” lists, he tells me. “It’s not that kind of book. It’s a book that may be interesting to people who have an affinity to those times and to the people that inhabited those times.”

Example B: His 18-minute war protest story-song about a Massachusetts litterbug enjoying a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat, “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree,” is as much a Thanksgiving tradition as pumpkin pie and football. Many of us will listen Thursday. Will Guthrie?

“I’ve sung it enough,” he tells me. He adds that most of the “Alice’s Restaurant” movie is “frankly, garbage.”

(Never change, Arlo.)

The son of rail-ridin’ Dust Bowl song-poet Woody and professional dancer Marjorie Mazia Guthrie has always been his own man: Woodstock-playin’, war-protestin’, white-maned folk singer from Western Mass.

Since his father died in 1967, Arlo has served as the Guthrie family “keeper of the flame,” as his website aptly states. Guthrie retired from touring and singing in 2020 after a series of strokes, posting to Facebook that “touring and stage shows are no longer possible … In short – Gone Fishing.” In 2021, he married Marti Ladd Guthrie.

“Rising Son,” a near-500-page “academic book” as Guthrie describes it, takes a magnifying glass to Guthrie’s career, largely from 1983 on, drawing on interviews and articles interspersed with input from the man himself to add a bit of color.

Book proceeds go towards the Guthrie Center in Great Barrington, housed in the old church where Alice and Ray once “decided that they didn’t have to take out their garbage for a long time.”

Our wide-ranging interview is peppered with Guthrie-isms that could be song titles— “Truth rings true to people,” “trying to adjust to being the me I am today” — as he talked in that signature emphatic Guthrie style about his quiet Thanksgivings, Bob Dylan, why he walked out of the “Alice’s Restaurant” movie, and more.

Interview has been edited and condensed.

Boston.com: So how did this book come together? Reineke writes that you’d emailed him in 2020.

[Reineke writes that his 2012 unauthorized biography, ‘Arlo Guthrie: The Warner Reprise Years’ appeared, “without the cooperation of the title subject. So it was a complete surprise when, eight years on, I received an email from Guthrie, asking if I had interest in helping him with a book [to] examine the second act of his career in music…”]

Arlo Guthrie: I guess the impetus was I’d had a number of organizations suggesting I write an autobiography or whatever. I wasn’t into that. Hank’s original book was better than I imagined it would be before I’d told him I didn’t want any part of it.

It’s not of interest in the long-term to do a tell-all — there’s enough of those. But I was happy to work with Hank — who is really good with dates and names and all kinds of stuff — on a book, as I had not done on his first book. I thought the first book suffered from that. A lot of it, I thought, was as accurate as he could be, but it didn’t have a life.

So in this book, you interject comments throughout.

Yes, I mean, it’s still an academic book. It’s not a romance novel. It is not a tell-all. It chronicles my time from the early ’80s — when I founded Rising Son Records — to the present time.

It says you wanted to look at your second act.

Well, I don’t view my life in half, or quarters or thirds. But it’s a way of picking up from where he left off.

What do you think fans would be most interested in here?

People my age — whether they’re fans or not— went through the same kinds of things. So it’s of interest to them, their kids, their grandkids. It was an interesting time. What happens to somebody — after having the fortune of being somebody during the ’60s — 20 years later? 30 years? What happens to the culture?

Earlier this year, you came out of retirement for a storytelling show, “What’s Left of Me,” in Boston. Have you gone back into retirement since?

Well, I’m not actually retired in the sense that I’m doing more than I intended.

What do you mean?

I’m talking to you!

[laughs]

I didn’t intend to talk to anybody or meet with people. It just happens. Now that I’ve lost the insulation of being in a tour bus, people can find me.

Are you planning any other storytelling-type shows?

There’s nothing planned, there’s nothing not planned. I don’t want to get back on a tour bus. I can’t physically take it. I can’t physically sing like I did 30 years ago. I can’t play like I did. I’ve had a number of health issues. Let me put it this way: I had a great frickin’ time.

I loved the last 50 years. I met wonderful people wherever I went. I can’t do that now. There’s a shift I have to adjust to. Dealing with things at the end of a career is different than dealing with them at the beginning. It’s not a click of the fingers. It takes time to develop a relationship to the present. I’m trying to adjust to being the me I am today.

So how’s your health? You had a series of strokes a few years ago.

Yeah, I survived. I’m talking to you. But age takes its toll on everyone.

You reached out for the book project the same year you announced your retirement. Were you going through a reflective moment?

I think it was coincidental. I don’t think there is not a cause and effect. Early 2020, the venues shut down. I thought it was a great time to get out. There’s a use-by date on everything, including folk singers.

Going back, you’ve said the 1967 Newport Folk Fest, singing on a milk-crate, launched your career overnight, in a way.

It did. Not just in a way. It seems now overnight, but it actually took a few days.

[laughs] Right.

I went with my English girlfriend as fans. I was not a performer. They had a free stage — a milk-crate out in the middle of a field. It didn’t have a microphone. There were 50 people who heard me. One festival producer, Oscar Brand, said “He’s got to do something else.” So they put me on a bigger milk-crate in a bigger field. Then he said, “He’s got to play the main-stage.”

[Then there was a New York Times article] called “Newport is his just for a song.” That changed everything. One day, I was just a regular kid. The next day, I was an entertainer. And I continued to do that for over 50 freakin’ years!

[laughs] Your first Newport Folk ever was with Dylan as a kid.

Yes. I was probably 15. Bob Dylan said to my mom, “I’m going to Newport.” She said “Great, take Arlo.” And he reluctantly agreed. He dragged me along and I met some incredible people.

Like who?

One guy was a Native American holy man. I’ve met some wonderful people that expanded my ability to see reality for more than my own point of view. To include them in my estimation of what was real and important.

Dylan came to your house looking for your dad when you were a kid.

He came to our door in 1961. I mean, he’s certainly one of the best-known poets of that era and remains immensely important. I hope it lasts. I hope people will respect the work and integrity and scholarliness of his ability.

What do you mean, “hope it lasts”? Younger fans not getting into him?

I think younger people in general, not just in the U.S., they’re not aware of the depth of knowledge it takes for somebody to be a poet like Bob Dylan. They’ll look at some of the works and go, “Oh, this is cool.” But there’s more to it. I’m hoping in the long run, people acknowledge the work that goes into being somebody like Bob Dylan. Or Paul McCartney. You don’t just write songs like that. There’s work behind it.

You can’t just copy them. You have to think of something new, like they did. “Alice’s Restaurant” was new. Nobody had written an 18-minute monologue. And certainly, I didn’t have any aspirations of it being played on the radio every Thanksgiving. Nobody in their right mind would have thought that.

So how did it come to you?

Because it’s what happened to me! I didn’t make it up.

[laughs] I know, but what sparked you to think: This would work as an 18-minute song?

I was just wasting time on stage by recounting events that happened. I might have been embellishing here and there, but not by much. Truth rings true to people. They don’t even know why they like it. I didn’t have any aspirations of it even being played on the radio, let alone every Thanksgiving.

Has it become part of your tradition to listen? Here, it always plays at noon and my family always listens.

I don’t listen to the radio in general. Even if I did, I definitely wouldn’t be listening at noon on Thanksgiving.

[laughs] Why not?

I’ve done it enough times. I did it almost every night.

How did the movie come about?

I got a call from Arthur Penn. He said, “Arlo, I know most people think you’re making this stuff up. But I live in Stockbridge. I know these people. I know you’re not making it up.”

[laughs]

The record came out in ’67. We started filming in 1968. Well, the song takes 20 minutes at most; a movie takes 90 minutes at least. So they had to make up 70 minutes of stuff. Most of that stuff is, frankly, garbage.

[laughs] What do you mean?

I mean, it’s fiction. It’s fine. But I remember going to see the movie when it premiered. I walked out. I thought: This is a terrible movie.

[laughs] Because it was made up?

I thought they were sneaking in comments on their perceptions of the times. That the hopes and dreams of these young people will never come to fruition. And they were wrong. Arthur Penn was wrong. Venable Herndon, the co-writer, was wrong. We have made a difference. Some things are silly when you look back, but some things are enduring. Those values are not ’60s values — they’re eternal values.

“Peace and love” is still a great idea. “Be mindful of the environment” is still a good idea. “Don’t trash the earth” is still a good idea. “Treat people equally, whether they’re women, or men, or Black or white, or orange or polkadot” is still a good idea.

[At the Guthrie Center] we’re doing our part. The church is still there, doing great stuff. One thing I learned from Pete Seeger was to act locally, think globally. We’ve kept that tradition going.

You had Thanksgiving with Alice last year.

I did. Marti and I went to my friend Rick’s house — Rick was the guy I took the garbage out with. We had a nice Thanksgiving. But the truth is, it’s a national holiday. People will be with friends and family. And we wish them well. We can’t be with any one of them. That was fun. We had a great time. Once was enough.

What are you doing this year?

We’re keeping a low-profile. I’m just looking out at the rain. I’m looking out at the wind. I’m looking out at what’s going on.

Lauren Daley can be reached at [email protected]. Follow her on Twitter @laurendaley1.

Lauren Daley

Lauren Daley is a longtime culture journalist. As a regular contributor to Boston.com, she interviews A-list musicians, actors, authors and other major artists.

Just in time for Thanksgiving, Arlo Guthrie tells it like it is