For a while, at least, Cat Stevens, who sort of looked Jewish in a Greek kind of way, was one of us, and his songs, hippie-ish anthems like “Father and Son,” “Peace Train,” “Wild World,” and “Moonshadow,” became our summer-camp liturgy. Never mind that an astute listener might have even figured this out by merely listening to the song “Rubylove,” found on “Teaser and the Firecat,” in which Stevens sang in fluent Greek - not Hebrew - with music that featured the sound of the bouzouki, not the violin or clarinet. Never mind, of course, that Cat Stevens was in fact Steven Demetre Georgiou, born two months after the establishment of the State of Israel in London to Stavros Georgiou, a Greek Cypriot, and Ingrid Wickman, a Swede of Greek Cypriot descent. It was then and there that I was let in on a shocking secret: Cat Stevens’s real name is Steven Katz, and he cleverly switched it around to sound more like an entertainer and to hide his Jewishness. The melodies were sweet and catchy and easy to sing, and I buried myself so deep inside them that I could even pull off a passable imitation of Stevens, enough to propel me onto the stage of camp “assemblies,” those morning variety shows featuring performances of all kinds, by campers and counselors and staffers, that built community first thing in the morning after breakfast. Not all, of those songs were relatively easy to strum on the guitar, but most were. By 1972, Stevens had already achieved his greatest success with a stunning trio of albums released in the previous two years that, as much or more than the work of anyone else, established the category of “singer-songwriter,” a term that hadn’t even been coined before then. When I went off to sleep-away camp in 1972 for the first time, the soundtrack of the summer - especially for those like me, who arrived with guitar in hand - was all Cat Stevens, all the time.