Accompanied by his mother and brother, shooting suspect Sonenalinh Kounduangta surrendered to police Saturday evening. The 16-year-old Vancouver boy is accused of shooting two college students after being turned away from a party July 13. Wahed Magee, 21, remains in serious condition. Ryan Quinlan, 22, is in fair condition. Both are being treated at Legacy Emanual Hospital in Portland and are students at Washington State University in Pullman. Vancouver Police Sgt. John Chapman of the gang robbery unit said publicity in the case probably prevented friends and family from keeping Kounduangta in hiding. At a press conference Wednesday, police announced a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of first-degree assault. He said Kounduangta's mother arrived Friday in this area from her home in Alaska. The family said they happened to see Kounduangta walking along the street and then accompanied him to the Vancouver Police Department's central precinct on Stapleton Road about 5:45 p.m. "They said they saw him walking around, which I find very hard to believe," Chapman said, but he added that what's important is that he is in custody. The family waited at the station for officers to arrive. "I talked to him; he's calm," Chapman said. Chapman began interviewing Kounduangta on Saturday night, hoping to find out more about what happened the night of the shooting. Police say Kounduangta is a member of a local gang and that he was with a large group of people who tried to crash a party in the 1300 block of Northwest 52nd Street. When the crashers were told to leave, they began vandalizing cars, kicking and walking on them, and tearing off one car's spoiler. People at the party confronted them, and that's when police say Kounduangta opened fire. $00:0200300822: $199:A0200300822 $01:Copyright 2002 The Columbian Publishing Co. $02:$?The Columbian $20:July 21, 2002, Sunday $30:Front Page; Pg. a1 $60:LOMAX SAVED THE SOUNDS OF AMERICA: LITTLE-KNOWN MUSIC PATHFINDER DIES AT 87 $90:TED ANTHONY, Associated Press writer $120: He was an adventurer with boundless energy, scouring mountains and back roads for authentic American voices and carrying them home to the city, where performers with names like Guthrie and Seeger and Dylan listened and changed forever the way the country listened to music. Unless you're in the record business or the folklore business, odds are you never heard of Alan Lomax. But it would be nearly impossible to find, anywhere, an American untouched by his decades of seeking out and popularizing the music of the masses. Lomax, who died Friday at 87, believed the American folk tradition was something to be preserved, passed on to the future in an age when technology and faster-paced lives were threatening to swallow it up. And so he did, by the thousands, one song at a time. Delta blues, Appalachian ballads, New Orleans jazz, English bawdy songs Lomax was hungry for them all. Wherever they were sung, he and his bulky equipment were there, long before interstate highways and air travel made remote places accessible. At first, he worked with his father, John Avery Lomax, a patriarch of folk-music collecting. Then he worked for the Library of Congress, nearly doubling its folk-music archive. He hosted radio shows, issued records, compiled folk songs into books and credited the men and women who had provided his bounty. Lomax hit the road with his father in 1933, when he was 18. They traversed the south, stopping at prison farms, sawmills, general stores, anywhere people might be willing to share their very personal music with strangers no easy task for an outsider, especially one from back east. In these remote villages and settlements and patch towns, the Lomaxes found people still singing the songs their parents taught them, songs whose lives stretched back to the 19th, 18th, 17th centuries and even across the sea back to England or Ireland or, in the case of the blues, West Africa. By 1937, Lomax was embarking on his own trips. He set out for a wild, mountainous expanse of eastern Kentucky that few outsiders ever visited. In the car was his Presto reproducer, a needle-driven recorder that captured songs on heavy, fragile acetate disks. He was 22. It was a bumpy trip. Battery cells went dead. He ran out of blanks. One county had received power just before he arrived; others lacked electricity entirely. One man attempted to stab Lomax, convinced the song collector was making moves on his wife. But the excursion was fruitful, producing 228 new songs like "Rising Sun Blues," which would become popular within a few years as "House of the Rising Sun." Even the not-so-memorable songs were viewed by Lomax with affection. "I have made so far 32 records, some of them quite marvelous, some of them mediocre, but all necessary," he wired Washington from Harlan, Ky., in September 1937. A ubiquitous part of the New York City folk scene of the early 1940s, Lomax passed the songs he had collected to the musicians who would later become cornerstones of the Folk Revival. Among those who adopted Lomax finds: Lead Belly, whom Lomax's father had "discovered" in a Louisiana prison, Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. It was a heady time to be a folk musician. Politics leftist, populist politics had given many a sense of purpose. Performers needed material that echoed of the masses, and Lomax was thrilled to provide it. "He purposely tried his best to infect us with these songs," Pete Seeger recalled later. "One of the reasons we had a folk revival in this country was that Alan Lomax could recognize those qualities in a song that could make someone 1,000 miles from Kentucky want to sing them," Matt Barton, head of the Lomax Archives in New York City, said in a 2000 interview. Not everyone appreciated Lomax. His abrasiveness alienated some of his contemporaries. His politics disgusted others and, in the early 1950s, contributed to his seven-year trip to England. Others criticized him as they had his father for compiling "composites" of folk songs taking versions from several people and blending them into one. What Alan Lomax did was, in a way, inherently contradictory. He was terrified that recorded sound would eradicate the folk-singing tradition. Who needed to sing when you could play a record? And yet Lomax used the very instrument he feared to accomplish his goals. And in large part because of him, that music managed to be preserved even as it changed. Today, any American can visit the Library of Congress and hear the voices of miners and railroad men and grandmothers and itinerant balladeers who sang long ago into machines long gone. Yesterday's America, today's ears. Lomax put it this way in 1940: "The essence of what makes America lies not in the headlined heroes but in the everyday folks who live and die unknown, yet leave their dreams as legacies." Alan Lomax, who used technology to give voice to the voiceless, is silent now. But the voices he preserved? In the records of yesterday and the music of today, we are hearing them still.
MARGARET ELLIS, Columbian staff writer
SHOOTING SUSPECT GIVES UP00-00-0000
Accompanied by his mother and brother, shooting suspect Sonenalinh Kounduangta surrendered to police Saturday evening. The 16-year-old Vancouver boy is accused of shooting two college students after being turned away from a party July 13. Wahed Magee, 21, remains in serious condition. Ryan Quinlan, 22, is in fair condition. Both are being treated at Legacy Emanual Hospital in Portland and are students at Washington State University in Pullman. Vancouver Police Sgt. John Chapman of the gang robbery unit said publicity in the case probably prevented friends and family from keeping Kounduangta in hiding. At a press conference Wednesday, police announced a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of first-degree assault. He said Kounduangta's mother arrived Friday in this area from her home in Alaska. The family said they happened to see Kounduangta walking along the street and then accompanied him to the Vancouver Police Department's central precinct on Stapleton Road about 5:45 p.m. "They said they saw him walking around, which I find very hard to believe," Chapman said, but he added that what's important is that he is in custody. The family waited at the station for officers to arrive. "I talked to him; he's calm," Chapman said. Chapman began interviewing Kounduangta on Saturday night, hoping to find out more about what happened the night of the shooting. Police say Kounduangta is a member of a local gang and that he was with a large group of people who tried to crash a party in the 1300 block of Northwest 52nd Street. When the crashers were told to leave, they began vandalizing cars, kicking and walking on them, and tearing off one car's spoiler. People at the party confronted them, and that's when police say Kounduangta opened fire. $00:0200300822: $199:A0200300822 $01:Copyright 2002 The Columbian Publishing Co. $02:$?The Columbian $20:July 21, 2002, Sunday $30:Front Page; Pg. a1 $60:LOMAX SAVED THE SOUNDS OF AMERICA: LITTLE-KNOWN MUSIC PATHFINDER DIES AT 87 $90:TED ANTHONY, Associated Press writer $120: He was an adventurer with boundless energy, scouring mountains and back roads for authentic American voices and carrying them home to the city, where performers with names like Guthrie and Seeger and Dylan listened and changed forever the way the country listened to music. Unless you're in the record business or the folklore business, odds are you never heard of Alan Lomax. But it would be nearly impossible to find, anywhere, an American untouched by his decades of seeking out and popularizing the music of the masses. Lomax, who died Friday at 87, believed the American folk tradition was something to be preserved, passed on to the future in an age when technology and faster-paced lives were threatening to swallow it up. And so he did, by the thousands, one song at a time. Delta blues, Appalachian ballads, New Orleans jazz, English bawdy songs Lomax was hungry for them all. Wherever they were sung, he and his bulky equipment were there, long before interstate highways and air travel made remote places accessible. At first, he worked with his father, John Avery Lomax, a patriarch of folk-music collecting. Then he worked for the Library of Congress, nearly doubling its folk-music archive. He hosted radio shows, issued records, compiled folk songs into books and credited the men and women who had provided his bounty. Lomax hit the road with his father in 1933, when he was 18. They traversed the south, stopping at prison farms, sawmills, general stores, anywhere people might be willing to share their very personal music with strangers no easy task for an outsider, especially one from back east. In these remote villages and settlements and patch towns, the Lomaxes found people still singing the songs their parents taught them, songs whose lives stretched back to the 19th, 18th, 17th centuries and even across the sea back to England or Ireland or, in the case of the blues, West Africa. By 1937, Lomax was embarking on his own trips. He set out for a wild, mountainous expanse of eastern Kentucky that few outsiders ever visited. In the car was his Presto reproducer, a needle-driven recorder that captured songs on heavy, fragile acetate disks. He was 22. It was a bumpy trip. Battery cells went dead. He ran out of blanks. One county had received power just before he arrived; others lacked electricity entirely. One man attempted to stab Lomax, convinced the song collector was making moves on his wife. But the excursion was fruitful, producing 228 new songs like "Rising Sun Blues," which would become popular within a few years as "House of the Rising Sun." Even the not-so-memorable songs were viewed by Lomax with affection. "I have made so far 32 records, some of them quite marvelous, some of them mediocre, but all necessary," he wired Washington from Harlan, Ky., in September 1937. A ubiquitous part of the New York City folk scene of the early 1940s, Lomax passed the songs he had collected to the musicians who would later become cornerstones of the Folk Revival. Among those who adopted Lomax finds: Lead Belly, whom Lomax's father had "discovered" in a Louisiana prison, Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. It was a heady time to be a folk musician. Politics leftist, populist politics had given many a sense of purpose. Performers needed material that echoed of the masses, and Lomax was thrilled to provide it. "He purposely tried his best to infect us with these songs," Pete Seeger recalled later. "One of the reasons we had a folk revival in this country was that Alan Lomax could recognize those qualities in a song that could make someone 1,000 miles from Kentucky want to sing them," Matt Barton, head of the Lomax Archives in New York City, said in a 2000 interview. Not everyone appreciated Lomax. His abrasiveness alienated some of his contemporaries. His politics disgusted others and, in the early 1950s, contributed to his seven-year trip to England. Others criticized him as they had his father for compiling "composites" of folk songs taking versions from several people and blending them into one. What Alan Lomax did was, in a way, inherently contradictory. He was terrified that recorded sound would eradicate the folk-singing tradition. Who needed to sing when you could play a record? And yet Lomax used the very instrument he feared to accomplish his goals. And in large part because of him, that music managed to be preserved even as it changed. Today, any American can visit the Library of Congress and hear the voices of miners and railroad men and grandmothers and itinerant balladeers who sang long ago into machines long gone. Yesterday's America, today's ears. Lomax put it this way in 1940: "The essence of what makes America lies not in the headlined heroes but in the everyday folks who live and die unknown, yet leave their dreams as legacies." Alan Lomax, who used technology to give voice to the voiceless, is silent now. But the voices he preserved? In the records of yesterday and the music of today, we are hearing them still.
MARGARET ELLIS, Columbian staff writer
SHOOTING SUSPECT GIVES UP00-00-0000
Accompanied by his mother and brother, shooting suspect Sonenalinh Kounduangta surrendered to police Saturday evening. The 16-year-old Vancouver boy is accused of shooting two college students after being turned away from a party July 13. Wahed Magee, 21, remains in serious condition. Ryan Quinlan, 22, is in fair condition. Both are being treated at Legacy Emanual Hospital in Portland and are students at Washington State University in Pullman. Vancouver Police Sgt. John Chapman of the gang robbery unit said publicity in the case probably prevented friends and family from keeping Kounduangta in hiding. At a press conference Wednesday, police announced a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of first-degree assault. He said Kounduangta's mother arrived Friday in this area from her home in Alaska. The family said they happened to see Kounduangta walking along the street and then accompanied him to the Vancouver Police Department's central precinct on Stapleton Road about 5:45 p.m. "They said they saw him walking around, which I find very hard to believe," Chapman said, but he added that what's important is that he is in custody. The family waited at the station for officers to arrive. "I talked to him; he's calm," Chapman said. Chapman began interviewing Kounduangta on Saturday night, hoping to find out more about what happened the night of the shooting. Police say Kounduangta is a member of a local gang and that he was with a large group of people who tried to crash a party in the 1300 block of Northwest 52nd Street. When the crashers were told to leave, they began vandalizing cars, kicking and walking on them, and tearing off one car's spoiler. People at the party confronted them, and that's when police say Kounduangta opened fire. $00:0200300822: $199:A0200300822 $01:Copyright 2002 The Columbian Publishing Co. $02:$?The Columbian $20:July 21, 2002, Sunday $30:Front Page; Pg. a1 $60:LOMAX SAVED THE SOUNDS OF AMERICA: LITTLE-KNOWN MUSIC PATHFINDER DIES AT 87 $90:TED ANTHONY, Associated Press writer $120: He was an adventurer with boundless energy, scouring mountains and back roads for authentic American voices and carrying them home to the city, where performers with names like Guthrie and Seeger and Dylan listened and changed forever the way the country listened to music. Unless you're in the record business or the folklore business, odds are you never heard of Alan Lomax. But it would be nearly impossible to find, anywhere, an American untouched by his decades of seeking out and popularizing the music of the masses. Lomax, who died Friday at 87, believed the American folk tradition was something to be preserved, passed on to the future in an age when technology and faster-paced lives were threatening to swallow it up. And so he did, by the thousands, one song at a time. Delta blues, Appalachian ballads, New Orleans jazz, English bawdy songs Lomax was hungry for them all. Wherever they were sung, he and his bulky equipment were there, long before interstate highways and air travel made remote places accessible. At first, he worked with his father, John Avery Lomax, a patriarch of folk-music collecting. Then he worked for the Library of Congress, nearly doubling its folk-music archive. He hosted radio shows, issued records, compiled folk songs into books and credited the men and women who had provided his bounty. Lomax hit the road with his father in 1933, when he was 18. They traversed the south, stopping at prison farms, sawmills, general stores, anywhere people might be willing to share their very personal music with strangers no easy task for an outsider, especially one from back east. In these remote villages and settlements and patch towns, the Lomaxes found people still singing the songs their parents taught them, songs whose lives stretched back to the 19th, 18th, 17th centuries and even across the sea back to England or Ireland or, in the case of the blues, West Africa. By 1937, Lomax was embarking on his own trips. He set out for a wild, mountainous expanse of eastern Kentucky that few outsiders ever visited. In the car was his Presto reproducer, a needle-driven recorder that captured songs on heavy, fragile acetate disks. He was 22. It was a bumpy trip. Battery cells went dead. He ran out of blanks. One county had received power just before he arrived; others lacked electricity entirely. One man attempted to stab Lomax, convinced the song collector was making moves on his wife. But the excursion was fruitful, producing 228 new songs like "Rising Sun Blues," which would become popular within a few years as "House of the Rising Sun." Even the not-so-memorable songs were viewed by Lomax with affection. "I have made so far 32 records, some of them quite marvelous, some of them mediocre, but all necessary," he wired Washington from Harlan, Ky., in September 1937. A ubiquitous part of the New York City folk scene of the early 1940s, Lomax passed the songs he had collected to the musicians who would later become cornerstones of the Folk Revival. Among those who adopted Lomax finds: Lead Belly, whom Lomax's father had "discovered" in a Louisiana prison, Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. It was a heady time to be a folk musician. Politics leftist, populist politics had given many a sense of purpose. Performers needed material that echoed of the masses, and Lomax was thrilled to provide it. "He purposely tried his best to infect us with these songs," Pete Seeger recalled later. "One of the reasons we had a folk revival in this country was that Alan Lomax could recognize those qualities in a song that could make someone 1,000 miles from Kentucky want to sing them," Matt Barton, head of the Lomax Archives in New York City, said in a 2000 interview. Not everyone appreciated Lomax. His abrasiveness alienated some of his contemporaries. His politics disgusted others and, in the early 1950s, contributed to his seven-year trip to England. Others criticized him as they had his father for compiling "composites" of folk songs taking versions from several people and blending them into one. What Alan Lomax did was, in a way, inherently contradictory. He was terrified that recorded sound would eradicate the folk-singing tradition. Who needed to sing when you could play a record? And yet Lomax used the very instrument he feared to accomplish his goals. And in large part because of him, that music managed to be preserved even as it changed. Today, any American can visit the Library of Congress and hear the voices of miners and railroad men and grandmothers and itinerant balladeers who sang long ago into machines long gone. Yesterday's America, today's ears. Lomax put it this way in 1940: "The essence of what makes America lies not in the headlined heroes but in the everyday folks who live and die unknown, yet leave their dreams as legacies." Alan Lomax, who used technology to give voice to the voiceless, is silent now. But the voices he preserved? In the records of yesterday and the music of today, we are hearing them still.
MARGARET ELLIS, Columbian staff writer
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