This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the 1947 Alfred Hitchcock film, The Paradine Case.
DVD Review
The Paradine Case, starring Gregory Peck, Anne Todd, Alida Valli, Louis Jourdan, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, Selznick International Pictures, 1947
Okay, okay I ‘ll back off a little on my remark that on the basis of two recently reviewed Alfred Hitchcock films, The Wrong Man and I Confess, apparently the late thriller director had less that total admiration for the cops, the New York City and Quebec City cops anyway. Yah, the cops, the London cops, got it right, got it right up to the big step off as they collared their man, oops woman, wrapped it up tight, and let the long arm of justice take its course. But see there was dame involved, a femme fatale to boot so you can hardly blame a guy like me (or Hitchcock’s London cops for that matter under other circumstances) for not seeing what was clear as day in front of us. But it was a close thing anyway before the end, and some pretty big time lawyers, oops, barristers got egg on their faces before it was all over.
I better explain (and explain fast before some irate cop gives me, poor me, the thirddegree for complaining about their police procedures). See this mysterious woman, thisfemme fatale there is no other way to call it discreetly, was married to a mucky-mucky blind (age and infirmity blind) English rich gentleman named Paradine who wound up very, very dead one night having ingested a poisoned drink. Naturally his ever-loving wife, Mrs. Paradine (played by Alida Valli), young, fetching, restless, of indeterminate background, and, oh yah, a femme fatale, if I didn’t mention that before was the easy choice to step off for the caper. Mrs. Paradine though was not without financial resources and could and did hire the best up and coming criminal defense lawyer around town, oops again, barrister, Tony Keane(played by Gregory Peck), a very, very married barrister by the way. Married to an upper crust woman (played by Anne Todd) who was perhaps just a bit too stiff upper lip and earnest when all is said and done.
Naturally when a femme is on the prowl every guy within ten miles is fair game and, of course, Tony forgets every law 101 thing that got him to where he was including taking a big fall for Mrs. Paradine once she got her hooks into him. Those hooks included Tony, against all reason and evidence, trying to set up Colonel Paradine’s valet, Andre, as the fall guy (played by Louis Jourdan).That proved to be Tony’s undoing as Mrs. Paradine, turning out to be a good femme, or my idea of a good femme, won’t hear of letting Andre take the fall, especially after Tony has grilled Andre on the stand in court and as a result Andre commits suicide. That knowledge unravels Mrs. Paradine who admits in open court, against all reason since that all male jury was also swayable, that Andre was her lover and that she, and she alone, murdered her husband to run off with him.
Build those gallows high, very high indeed. Naturally the very earnest Mrs. Keane took her Tony back, or wanted to but you can see, see as clear as day, how even big time lawyers, oops once more, barristers could have gotten thrown off course when a femme is in the room. So what do expect of poor amateur like me who was secretly pulling for her just like I do for every femme, good or bad. But that too was a close thing.
Bradley's third birthday in prison. Help raise funds
for his upcoming court martial.
Dear Friend of Bradley Manning,
This Monday, Bradley Manning turned 25, celebrating his third birthday in
prison while awaiting trial for releasing important documents to the public via
WikiLeaks. The government has delayed Brad’s court martial for over two years.
But now we have big news: his court marital is expected to start in March
2013. We’re writing today because we need your help to raise enough money for
Brad’s trial expenses. We've had a generous donor offer to match the first
$10,000 donated in December. Please make a donation so we can ensure Bradley Manning has the best
defense possible when he goes to court.
We just finished a major hearing in Maryland. For the first time, Brad’s
lawyer, David Coombs, presented evidence that showed the abusive conditions Brad
was held in for eleven months.
In court, Coombs showed that Brad was kept on enforced “suicide watch,”
against the recommendations of psychiatrists. This included solitary confinement
with no access to sunlight, eyeglasses and clothing taken away, and even extreme
humiliation such as being forced to stand nude for morning inspection. As Coombs
stated:
"Brad's treatment at Quantico will forever be etched, I believe,
in our nation's history, as a disgraceful moment in time. Not only was it stupid
and counterproductive. It was criminal.”
Thanks to your support - financial and otherwise - we’ve helped fund the
legal defense that allowed all of this evidence of torturous treatment to be
submitted in pretrial hearings, giving Brad a real chance at seeing justice.
But the court martial will be our toughest battle yet – weeks of
cross-examinations, evidence, and testimony will be presented. We are expecting
this trial to last far longer than a normal court martial, potentially lasting
for three or four months.
For
more information about the defense fund click
here.
Just to cover the costs of the trial, we need to raise at least $75,000.
We’ll need even more to organize protests and public events around the trial. Can you please pitch in? Every bit helps.
It’s been a challenging and inspiring two years, and we couldn’t have done
any of it without the dedication and unstinting tenacity of our supporters.
2013 is going to be historic. Let’s make sure we have the resources –
financial and otherwise – to ensure Brad has the best defense possible.
Help us defend Bradley Manning – and the right of the public to know the
truth – by making a donation today.
Thank you for all that you do,
Loraine Reitman Co-founder and steering committee member, Bradley
Manning Support Network
PS We’re a 501c3 and all donations are tax deductible.
Help us continue to cover
100% of Bradley's legal fees! Donate today.
Upper
Crust chain divided up at auction By Jenn Abelson<http://bostonglobe.com/staff/abelson> | Globe
Staff December 19, 2012 [Shannon Liss-Riordan sued Upper Crust in 2010 on
behalf of immigrant workers who claim the company took advantage of
employees.]
Suzanne Kreiter/Globe staff
Shannon Liss-Riordan sued
Upper Crust in 2010 on behalf of immigrant workers who claim the company took
advantage of employees. * The bankrupt Upper Crust pizza chain was sliced up
at auction Wednesday, as a private equity firm with ties to ousted founder
Jordan Tobins won leases for four restaurants, while an attorney who filed a
class-action lawsuit against Tobins and the company for allegedly exploiting
workers purchased the Harvard Square location. Shannon Liss-Riordan, who sued
Upper Crust in 2010 on behalf of immigrant employees who claim the business took
advantage of workers and seized back wages from them, said she plans to give
employees ownership shares in the restaurant. She partnered with another
investor, Haluk Ozek, who owns Monella Boutique in Harvard Square, to buy the
Cambridge lease and equipment and they are considering naming the restaurant
"The Just Crust." "We are very excited about buying back the Harvard Square
location and making it into a model workplace for the benefit of the workers,"
Liss-Riordan said. "I hope this effort will provide at least one bright spot in
this sad and troubling story." An affiliate of Ditmars Ltd. - the private
equity firm working with Tobins - made the top offers of $290,000 for the South
End location on Tremont Street; $180,000 for the Lexington restaurant; $110,000
for the Wellesley shop; and $75,000 for the Watertown site. Christopher Panos,
who represents Ditmars, said it is pleased it was the highest bidder and is
hopeful it can soon begin hiring workers and making pizza. This fall, the
firm provided $250,000 as part of a settlement that was in the works between
Tobins and his Upper Crust partners, according to attorneys and court
records. "Upper Crust is really Jordan's life so he's very excited. He's very
happy a number of employees will be back having jobs," said Rick Mikels, an
attorney for Tobins, who started the chain in Beacon Hill in 2001. Boston
Restaurant Associates, which runs the Regina Pizzeria chain, acquired the lease
for the Upper Crust near Fenway Park for $175,000. Sam Sokol, who works for a
real estate and hospitality investment firm, paid $100,000 for the Newbury
Street site and said he plans to open a pizza shop at the location, but would
not disclose which brand. Al Carvelli, who runs an Upper Crust franchise in
Plymouth, submitted the successful bid of $70,000 for the Hingham location. The
landlord at State Street bought back its lease for $170,000 and the landlord for
the Washington, D.C., shop also took over its site for $63,000. The offers
are for leases and restaurant equipment, not the rights to use the Upper Crust
name. Upper Crust filed for bankruptcy protection in October after years of
financial and labor troubles. A bankruptcy trustee closed 10 stores in November
because the business had almost no cash and few supplies after executives paid
themselves a month's salary in advance. Upper Crust said in court records it
owes at least $3.4 million, and the US Department of Labor filed a claim that
the company owes workers $850,000 in back wages and damages. As Upper Crust
rapidly expanded, the business depended on immigrant laborers from a village in
Brazil. At first, workers embraced the opportunity, but over time, the
relationship was strained as employees were underpaid for long workweeks while
owners indulged in luxuries such as a yacht, according to a 2010 investigation
published in the Globe<http://www.boston.com/business/articles/2010/12/05/harmony_gives_way_to_exploitation_charge_against_upper_crust/>. They
took their complaints to federal labor officials, who ordered the pizza chain to
pay workers about $350,000 in overtime. Company executives then allegedly came
up with a scheme to wrest the money back by slashing wages, resulting in a
class-action lawsuit and another labor investigation. Tobins and his
partners, Joshua Huggard and Brendan Higgins, have repeatedly denied these
allegations. But tensions between the co-owners emerged earlier this year when
Tobins was placed on leave, and then sued by Huggard and Higgins for allegedly
misusing about $750,000 in company funds for personal expenses. Liss-Riordan
said she believes there are questions about whether Tobins, through a
third-party firm, can buy the Upper Crust locations because of an injunction
prohibiting him from transferring assets. "Although he will claim he is doing
it through someone else, the point is that assets under his control should be
preserved to pay back the employees, as well as creditors of Upper Crust,"
Liss-Riordan said. A hearing to approve the sales, which totaled roughly $1.5
million, is set for Dec. 27. Mark G. DeGiacomo, the trustee overseeing the
bankruptcy, said he will review all aspects of the bidders, including statements
disclosing where the money was coming from and relationships to the
debtors. DeGiacomo is investigating Upper Crust operations for potential
lawsuits against individuals who may have received money prior to the bankruptcy
outside the course of business. He said he plans to try to recover more funds
for creditors. Get two weeks of FREE unlimited access to BostonGlobe.com. No
credit card required.<https://services.bostonglobe.com/registration/free/Rv.aspx?p1=FCF_Article>
Jenn Abelson can be reached at abelson@globe.com<mailto:abelson@globe.com>
.
Holiday
Greetings to All Friends and Allies
of
Dorchester People for Peace!
Best Wishes from DPP to those
observing the holidays – or simply enjoying the spirit of the season. .
.
And
a PEACEFUL NEW YEAR!
We have posted
these videos many times before during the Holidays. Watch them for the first
time if you haven’t seen them before; watch them again and you won’t be
disappointed. . .
CHRISTMAS IN THE
TRENCHES -- 1914
In December,
1914, after months of slaughter during the First World War (it was supposed to
be “The War to End all Wars”!), British and German soldiers declared an informal
and spontaneous truce. The story of their fraternization and holiday
celebration is told in detail here
and here (the link in last week’s Update is obsolete).
Many thanks to
our friends in the Veterans for Peace, Smedley Butler Brigade, for
reminding us of this!
The event has
been immortalized in a song by folksinger JOHN MCCUTCHEON,which
you can hear and watch along with contemporary illustration and a moving
introduction by the performer:
The song ends
with this stanza:
My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I
dwell Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned its lessons
well That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame And
on each end of the rifle we're the same.
* * *
*
VIDEO: John Lennon –
HAPPY CHRISTMAS (The War is Over) – updated for today
Together with so many of you, DPP
achieved a huge success November 6, when more than 600,000 voters in 91 cities
in Massachusetts, including Boston, passed Referendum Question 4 by a 3 to 1
margin at the polls. The voters gave a resounding YES to Protecting
Social Security, Medicare and other benefits; Investing in Jobs; Taxing the 1%;
Bringing the War Dollars Home.
But we need
to let you know that we are facing our own ‘fiscal cliff’!
The Referendum Campaign caused
expenses, far beyond our usual very modest budget, forprinting Referendum Campaign signs, flyers and polling-place palm cards.
We need to raise at
least $1600 just to pay our bills.
Please send a
donation of whatever you can afford – with checks payable to Dorchester People
for Peace -- to our treasurer:
… a man came running down the stairs of some sad sack, no elevator, long gone, brownstone ready for the wrecker’s’ ball, wild-haired, throwing off devil brown hair that wouldn’t stay down, devil brown-eyed,smirks, half-dressed, shirt open, pant fly open like maybe he had just finished up some hurried sex with his best friend’s wife and that best friend is now walking up Canal Street in New Jack City ready to be greeted by that ever loving wife once he walks up the six flights to their honeymoon-like cold water flat, cockroach friendly, the flat, or maybe, same wild-haired,different take, maybe open pant fly open having just come from some boyfriend, or stray pick-up back alley after being drip-dried, he had that wild-eyed look for that hunger too, that boy hunger, hell for all human hungers if you looked closely, he frantic, muttering, yes, muttering a mile a minute words, machine gun gangster muttering those words, ashes in the mouth words like truth, beauty, age, wisdom, the veda, the Buddha truth, the karma sutra, the act of contrition, six hail marys and this, throw them all out and start fresh, start fresh with the new beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday, beatitude truth.
Muttering death of god truth, beat down old man god truth, muttering against false prophets truth, muttering quietly just then some new truth, a truth worth pondering.
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Markin comment:
Those of us who came of age in the 1960s, especially those of us who cut our political teeth on defending, under one principle or another (right to national self-determination, socialist solidarity, general anti-imperialist agenda, etc.), the Cuban revolution that we were front row television witnesses to, cherish the memory of the heroic Cuban defenders at the Bay of Pigs. No one cried when the American imperial adventure was foiled and President John Kennedy (whatever else we felt about him then), egg on face, had to take responsibility for the fiasco.
Those of us who continue to adhere to the anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist, pro-socialist agenda, whatever our differences with the Cuban leadership, today can join in honoring those heroic fighters. Today is also a day to face the hard fact that we have had too few victories against the imperialist behemoth. The imperial defeat at the Bay of Pigs was however our victory. As today’s imperialist activity in Libya, painfully, testifies to those forces, however, have not gotten weaker in the past 50 years. So the lesson for today’s (and future) young militants is to honor our fallen forebears and realize that the beast can be defeated, if you are willing to fight it. Forward! Defend the Cuban Revolution!
Rock This Town, Volume 2, various artists, Rhino Records, 1991
The bulk of this review was used to review Volume 1 as well:
The last time that I discussed rockabilly music in this space was a couple of years ago when I was featuring the work of artists like Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis who got their start at Sam Phillips’ famed Sun Records studio in Memphis. Part of the reason for those reviews was my effort to trace the roots of rock and rock, the music of my coming of age, and that of my generation, the generation of ’68. Clearly rockabilly was, along with country and city blues from the likes of Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and Ike Turner and rhythm and blues from the likes of Big Joe Turner, a part of that formative process. The question then, and the question once again today, is which strand dominated the push to rock and rock, if one strand in fact did dominate.
I have gone back and forth on that question over the years. That couple of years ago mentioned above I was clearly under the influence of Big Joe Turner and Howlin’ Wolf and so I took every opportunity to stress the bluesy nature of rock. Recently though I have been listening, and listening very intently, to early Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis and I am hearing more of that be-bop rockabilly rhythm flowing into the rock night. Let me give a comparison. A ton of people have done Big Joe Turner’s classic rhythm and bluish Shake, Rattle, and Roll, including Bill Haley, Elvis, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee. When I listen to that song as performed in the more rockabilly style by them those versions seem closer to what evolved into rock. So for today, and today only, yes Big Joe is the big daddy, max daddy father of rock but Elvis, Jerry Lee, and Carl are the very pushy sons.
And that brings us to this treasure trove of rockabilly music presented in two volumes of which this is the second; including material by those who have revived, or kept the rockabilly genre alive over the past couple of decades. I have already done enough writing in praise of the work of Sam Phillips and Sun Records to bring that good old boy rockabilly sound out of the white southern countryside. There I noted that, for the most part, those who succeeded in rockabilly had to move on to rock to stay current and so the rockabilly sound was somewhat transient except for those who consciously decided to stay with it. Here are the examples that I used for volume one and they apply here as well:
“…the best example of that is Red Hot by Bill Riley and his Little Green Men, an extremely hot example by the way. If you listen to his other later material it stays very much in that rockabilly vein. In contrast, take High School Confidential by Jerry Lee Lewis. Jerry Lee might have started out in rockabilly but this number (and others) is nothing but the heart and soul of rock (and a song, by the way, we all prayed would be played at our middle school dances to get things moving).” Enough said.
Stick outs here on Volume 2 include: C’mon Everybody, Eddie Cochran (probably better known for his more bluesy, steamy, end of school rite of passage Summertime Blues, a very much underrated performer whose career was cut short when he was killed in a car accident; Let’s Have A Party, Wanda Jackson (one of the few famous women rockabilly artists in a very much male-dominated genre); Red Hot ( a cover of the famous one by Bill Riley featured in Volume 1), Robert Gordon and Link Wray; Rock This Town (title track from the group that probably is the best known devotee of the rockabilly revival), The Stray Cats.
Hey, blame it on Warren Smith and a freshly heard Rock and Roll Ruby via YouTubeautomatic retro magic. Hell, blame it on
Sonny Burgess burning up the world with Red-headed
Woman, yah, now that I think of it blame it on him,or even on a mad dog middle of the night discussion with kindred
Peter Paul Markin rekindled from childhood (or rather budding teen-hood) about
who was who in the be-bop rock and roll firmament in the mid-1950s. Damn, blame
it on the retro-fuelled Stray Cats but under no circumstances blame it on me
for lighting up cyberspace with a bag full of rockabilly gumbo.
The last time that I discussed rockabilly music in this space was a couple
of years ago when I was mulling over the work of artists like Elvis, Johnny
Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis, when they were young and hungry, from hunger really,
and fed into our jailbreak hungry after years of listening to parent Sinatra, Como,
Page and the Ink Spots ad infinitum,
who got their start at Sam Phillips’ famed Sun Records studio in Memphis. Part
of the reason for those thoughts was my effort to trace the roots of rock and
roll, the music of my coming of age, and that of my generation, the generation
of ’68. Clearly rockabilly was, along with country and city blues from the
likes of Robert Johnson, Skip James , Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and pre-Tina Ike
Turner (think Rocket 88 among other
be-bop stuff) and rhythm and blues from the likes of Big Joe Turner (think, big
think and don’t spare anything, Shake,
Rattle and Roll) a part of that formative process. The question then, and
the question once again today, is which strand dominated the push to rock and
roll, if one strand in fact did dominate.
I have gone back and forth on that question over the years. That couple of
years ago mentioned above I was clearly under the influence of Big Joe Turner
and Howlin’ Wolf and so I took every opportunity to stress the bluesy nature of
rock. Recently though I have been listening, and listening very intently, to
early Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis and I am hearing more of
that be-bop rockabilly rhythm flowing into the rock night. Let me give a
comparison. A ton of people have done Big Joe Turner’s classic rhythm and
bluish Shake, Rattle, and Roll, including Bill Haley, Elvis, Carl
Perkins, and Jerry Lee. When I listen to that song as performed in their more
rockabilly style those versions seem closer to what evolved into rock. So for
today, and today only, yes Big Joe is the big daddy, max daddy father of rock
but Elvis, Jerry Lee, and Carl are the very pushy sons.
And that brings us to the treasure trove of rockabilly music, the stuff the
big boys came, all back forty barns dances, high school last chance dances, and
country fair jamborees from, the stuff the big boys listened to get an idea or
two, and maybe helped to create. I have
already done enough writing in praise of the work of Sam Phillips and Sun
Records to bring that good old boy rockabilly sound out of the white southern
countryside. I noted that for the most part those who succeeded in rockabilly in
say 1954, or 55 had to move on to rock to stay current with the youth wave (the
disposable income/allowance post- World War II youth wave, mainly girls, who
bought those luscious 45 RPM records and put those nickels, dimes and quarters in
the jukeboxes and, and, sometimes, pretty please some times, let the likes of cash-lite Josh Breslin and P.P. Markin help
them make their selections, okay) and so the rockabilly sound was somewhat
transient except for those who consciously decided to stay with that sound. The
best example of that, other than those mentioned above, is Red Hot by
Bill Riley and His Little Green Men, an extremely hot example by the way. If
you listen to his other later material it stays very much in that rockabilly
vein. In contrast, take High School Confidential by Jerry Lee Lewis.
Jerry Lee might have started out in rockabilly down in that Cajun mishmash Louisiana
swamp but this number (and others) is nothing but the heart and soul of rock
(and a song, by the way, we all prayed would be played at our junior high school
dances to get thing, you know what things, going). Case closed.
Other stick-outs included Ooby Dooby, Roy Orbison (although he has a
ton of better songs); Blue Suede Shoes (the teeth-cutting, max daddy of
rockabilly songs), Carl Perkins; Susie-Q (right at that place where
rockabilly and blues meet to form rock and a classic come hither song), Dale
Hawkins; Party Doll (another great junior high school dance song), Buddy
Knox; Come On, Let’s Go (bringing
just a touch of Tex-Mex into the rockabilly mix), Ritchie Valens, and the national
anthem, Summertime Blues by the great
and underrated Eddie Cochran.
Poet’s Corner – The Gangster Poet Cometh – Gregory Corso’s “The Whole Mess…Almost”
… a man came running down the stairs of some sad sack, no elevator, long gone, brownstone ready for the wrecker’s ball, wild-haired, throwing off devil brown hair that wouldn’t stay down, devil brown-eyed, smirks, half-dressed, shirt open, pant fly open like maybe he had just finished up some hurried sex with his best friend’s wife and that best friend is now walking up Canal Street in New Jack City ready to be greeted by that ever loving wife once he walks up the six flights to their honeymoon-like cold water flat, cockroach friendly, the flat, or maybe, wild-haired maybe open pant fly open having just come from some boyfriend back alley after being drip-dried, he had that wild-eyed look for that hunger too, that boy hunger, hell for all human hungers if you looked closely, he frantic, muttering, yes, muttering a mile a minute words, machine gun gangster muttering those words, words like truth, beauty, age, wisdom, the veda, the Buddha truth, the karma sutra, the act of contrition, six hail marys and this, throw them all out and start fresh, start fresh with the new beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday, beatitude truth. …and hence Gregory Corso.
The Whole Mess... Almost
I ran up six flights of stairs to my small furnished room opened the window and began throwing out those things most important in life
First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink: 'Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!' 'Oh yeah! Well, I've nothing to hide… OUT!' Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement: 'It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!' 'OUT!' Then Love, cooing bribes: 'You'll never know impotency! All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!' I pushed her fat ass out and screamed: 'You always end up a bummer!' I picked up Faith Hope Charity all three clinging together: 'Without us you'll surely die!' 'With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!'
The Beauty… ah, Beauty-- As I led her to the window I told her: 'You I loved the best in life …but you're a killer; Beauty kills!' Not really meaning to drop her I immediately ran downstairs getting there just in time to catch her 'You saved me!' she cried I put her down and told her: 'Move on.'
Went back up those six flights went to the money there was no money to throw out. The only thing left in the room was Death hiding beneath the kitchen sink: 'I'm not real!' It cried 'I'm just a rumor spread by life…' Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all and suddenly realized Humor was all that was left-- All I could do with Humor was to say: 'Out the window with the window!'
High School Drag: Phillipa Fallon [1958] My old man was a bread stasher all his life. He never got fat. He wound up with a used car, a 17 inch screen and arthritis.
Tomorrow is a drag, man. Tomorrow is a king sized bust.
They cried ‘put down pot,’ ‘don’t think a lot,’ for what? Time, how much? And what to do with it.
Sleep, man, and you might wake up digging the whole human race giving itself three days to get out.
Tomorrow is a drag, pops, the future is a flake.
I had a canary who couldn’t sing. I had a cat who let me share my pad with her. I bought a dog that killed the cat who ate the canary. What is truth?
I had an uncle with an ivy league card. He had a life with a belt in the back. He had a button-down brain. Wind up a belt in the mouth with a button-down lip.
We cough blood on this earth. Now there’s a race for space. We can cough blood on the moon soon.
Tomorrow’s dragsville, cats. Tomorrow is a king size drag.
Tool a fast shore, swing with a gassy chick. Turn on to a thousand joys. Smile on what happened, or check what’s going to happen, You’ll miss what’s happening. Turn your eyes inside and dig the vacuum.
Tomorrow, DRAG.
Phillipa Fallon [1958] High School Drag (Welles / Glasser) MGM 12661
From The Search For The Blue-Pink Great American West Night:
“And then... .
the great Western shore, surf’s up, white, white wave-flecked, lapis-lazuli blue-flecked ocean, rust golden-gated, no return, no boat out, land’s end, this is it coast highway, heading down or up now, heading up or down gas stationed, named and unnamed, side road diners, still caboose’d, ravine-edged sleep and beach sleeped, blue-pink American West night.
Yes, but there is more. No child vision but now of full blossom American West night, the San Francisco great American West night, of the be-bop, bop-bop, narrow-stepped, downstairs overflowed music cellar, shared in my time, the time of my time, by “beat” jazz, “hippie’d folk”, and howled poem, but at this minute jazz, high white note-blown, sexed sax-playing godman, unnamed, but like Lester Young’s own child jazz. Smoke-filled, blended meshed smokes of ganja and tobacco (and, maybe, of meshed pipe smokes of hashish and tobacco), ordered whisky-straight up, soon be-sotted, cheap, face-reddened wines, clanking coffee cups that speak of not tonight promise. High sexual intensity under wraps, tightly under wraps, swirls inside its own mad desire, black-dressed she (black dress, black sweater, black stockings, black shoes, black bag, black beret, black sunglasses, ah, sweet color scheme against white Madonna, white, secular Madonna alabaster skin. What do you want to bet black undergarments too, ah, but I am the soul of discretion, your imagination will have to do), promising shades of heat-glanced night. And later, later than night just before the darkest hour dawn, of poems poet’d, of freedom songs free-verse’d, of that sax-charged high white note following out the door, out into the street, out into the eternity lights of the great golden-gated night. I say, can you blame me?”
Leading to this …
High School Drag: Phillipa Fallon [1958] My old man was a bread stasher all his life. He never got fat. He wound up with a used car, a 17 inch screen and arthritis.
Tomorrow is a drag, man. Tomorrow is a king sized bust.
They cried ‘put down pot,’ ‘don’t think a lot,’ for what? Time, how much? And what to do with it.
Sleep, man, and you might wake up digging the whole human race giving itself three days to get out.
Tomorrow is a drag, pops, the future is a flake.
I had a canary who couldn’t sing. I had a cat who let me share my pad with her. I bought a dog that killed the cat who ate the canary. What is truth?
I had an uncle with an ivy league card. He had a life with a belt in the back. He had a button-down brain. Wind up a belt in the mouth with a button-down lip.
We cough blood on this earth. Now there’s a race for space. We can cough blood on the moon soon.
Tomorrow’s dragsville, cats. Tomorrow is a king size drag.
Tool a fast shore, swing with a gassy chick. Turn on to a thousand joys. Smile on what happened, or check what’s going to happen, You’ll miss what’s happening. Turn your eyes inside and dig the vacuum.
Tomorrow, DRAG.
Phillipa Fallon [1958] High School Drag (Welles / Glasser) MGM 12661
******* I ain’t saying that High School Confidential and this low budget be-bop B-film’s (although with a solid A on the rock and roll intro with Jerry Lee Lewis sitting at the piano in back of a flat-bed truck flailing, yes, flailing away on his classic rock and roll song, teen angst-busting , teen alienation-busting song, HighSchool Confidential, heralding the hint, just the hint, of a possibility that we of the generation of ’68 might be getting ready for that big jail break we were sitting under some atomic bomb air raid school desk looking for a sign of) “beat” poetesswill make you throw away your personally autographed first edition City Lights copy of mad monk om om man Allen Ginsberg’s Howl or even some torn-up paperback copy of Jeanbon (Jack) Kerouac’s Mexico City Blues or even some shotgun version of street gunsel mad poet Gregory Corso’s machine gun sonnets but she was a sister, a sister in the struggle to break out of squaresville, to break out of the void, to break from nine to five, to break from soda fountain giggle girl dreams, to break from seventy-six, count ‘em, forms of teen angst and sixty-six, count ‘em again, forms of teen alienation, to break from same old, same old, to, ah hell, just to break as portrayed by know nothingHollywood with its angst-less dreams and its alienation-less non-sorrows. So be-bop, be-bop sister, be-bop.
I ain’t, furthermore, saying that everything the sultry sister (1950s sultry don’t touch me just listen tea-head, but what were we to know of that kind of sultry out in Podunk teen land, cashmere sweater, black skirt, maybe devil black stockings not shown, teen boy dreams sultry whatever her message, or even no message but bop) had to say had its head on straight. Or that if we, we meaning those fledgling angst-filled, alienation sorrowed‘68ers mentioned above, had heard her in some forbidden teenage night club (no liquor allowed, no petting allowed, no, no allowed enforced by burlyguys with direct access to parents/priests/teachers/cops/authorities and hence to some mischievous god),a club filled with smoke, cigarette smoke and djinn smoke and weed smoke and maybe hash pipe smoke too although that might have been for more private moments, and maybe too train smoke and dreams, road dreams to see mystic vistas,sitting with some cashmere sweater frill, not quite old enough to do the apparel justice, blonde maybe, red-headed for sure, in ancient landlocked celtic strongholds where some fierce blue-eyed boys stood waiting, holding forth against the squares, against the cubes, against the pentagonals,against the angry young men, against the not angry young men, and ditto women, against the death-dealing old men, against the country club uncertain certainties, against that cold war hot war red scare night, against the break-out blockers as fierce as any New York Giants monster linebacker, that we would have understood half, hell, a quarter of what she said but like some mad dash shaman, oops, shaman-ess, it would have stuck, stuck to be mulled over, stuck for later times and so…be-bop, be-bop sister, be-bop.
And I definitely ain’t saying that even ifall she said did have its head on straight that we, we meaning those fledgling ‘68ers mentioned above, had heard her in some forbidden teenage night club,a club filled with smoke, cigarette smoke and djinn smoke and weed smoke and maybe hash pipe smoke too although that might have been for more private moments, and maybe too train smoke and dreams, road dreams to see mystic vistas,sitting with some cashmere sweater frill, not quite old enough to do the apparel justice, blonde maybe, red-headed for sure, in ancient landlocked celtic strongholds where some fierce blue-eyed boys stood waiting, holding forth against the squares, against the cubes, against the pentagonals,against the angry young men, against the not angry young men, and ditto women, against the death-dealing old men, against the country club uncertain certainties, against that cold war hot war red scare night, against the break-out blockers as fierce as any New York Giants monster linebacker, would have dug, yes, dug, in dig beat language dug, exactly what she had to say any more than when our time did come (when we shed teen know nothing-ness, Hollywood know nothing-ness,parent know nothing-ness, cop know nothing-ness, priest know nothing-ness, authorities know nothing-ness), the time when we got our bloody jail break time signal, that we more than echo-listened to om om-antic New Jersey mad monk Allen Ginsberg (tea head, acid head, Buddha head) howl against that evil night, or to Jeanbon (Jack) Kerouac, sweet Lowell mill boy gone sour, sittingin some hell-hole mere florida trailer park (or bungalow, maybe) sweating whiskey and hubris against his children, or to New Jack City Gregory Corso playing the lone ranger against the death night, but it would have stuck, stuck to be mulled over, stuck for later times and so…be-bop, be-bop sister, be-bop.
REMEMEBER THE BASTILLE, BUT HONOR ROBESPIERRE AND SAINT JUST.
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION, HISTORY CHANNEL PRODUCTION, 2004
This year marks the 223rdanniversary of the beginning of the Great French Revolution with storming of the Bastille on July 14th 1789. An old Chinese Communist leader, the late Zhou Enlai, was once asked by a reporter to sum up the important lessons of the French Revolution. In reply he answered that it was too early to tell what those lessons might be. Whether that particular story is true or not it does contain one important truth. Militants today at the beginning of the 21st century can still profit from an understanding of the history of the French Revolution.
There are many books that outline the history of that revolution. I have reviewed some of them in this space. Probably the most succinct overview, although it was written over one half century ago, is Professor Georges Lefebvre’s study. For those who want a quick visual overview of the main events and political disputes the History Channel production under review has a lot to recommend it. The production covers all the main points from the pre-revolutionary problems confronting France at the time including, its terrible debt problems caused in the main by its support of the American Revolution to the political, social and, yes, sexual inadequacies of Louis XVI. As has been noted by many commentators on revolution, including myself, one of the prerequisites for revolution is that the old regime can no longer govern in the same way. The personage of Louis XVI seemingly fits that proposition to a tee.
The production goes on to highlight the key events. Obviously, and most visibly the storming of the Bastille that opened up the cracks in the old monarchial regime. It details the struggle to create a constitutional monarchy through the various legislative assemblies that sought to carry out the reforms necessary to bring France into the modern age short of declaring a republic. And also the attempts, including by Louis himself, by forces of the old regime to return the old monarchy or stop the revolution in its tracks. When those efforts failed and the revolution began in earnest the production details the internal struggle by the revolutionaries, most notably the great fight between the Girondins and Jacobins for power, and the formation of the republic. After the defeat of the Girondins this led to the further fights to ‘purify’ the revolution among the Jacobin forces and the reign of the Robespierre-led Committee of Public Safety that consolidated the gains of the revolution through the ‘Reign of Terror’. Finally, the downfall and execution of Robespierre in 1794 represented the reaction that most revolutions exhibit when the political possibilities for further leftward revolutionary moves are no longer tenable.
There are many great scenes portrayed here as well. The murder of Marat by Corday. The Festival of the Supreme Being. The oratory of Danton and many more scenes that give one a pretty good general feel for the dynamics of the revolution. Included are‘talking head’ comments by noted historians of the revolution giving their take on the meaning of various events. This is a plus. The major negative is in the axis of presentation. Almost fatalistically the emergence of Robespierre is intertwined throughout all of the earlier events giving the impression that he was inevitably bound to take power. And, also inevitably, due to the excesses of the ‘Reign of Terror’ to lose it. This may be good documentary presentation form but it is bad history. Revolutions, particularly great revolutions, are few and far between. They are messy affairs at the time and as seen through the historical lens. Nevertheless if the social tensions in society could always, or should always, be resolved in a nice non- violent parliamentary way there would be no revolutions. Damn, where would that leave us as the inheritors of the sans-culottes tradition?
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the British film The Small Back Room.
DVD Review
The Small Back Room, starring David Farrar, Kathleen Byron, British Lion Films, 1949
Sure, lots of people on both sides of the Atlantic admired the pluck of the under-armed, under-manned, under- led British in holding up Hitler’s plans for a while to conquer all of Europe and who knows where else. And everybody knows, who has thought about it for a while, that running a modern war machine requires more than having X number of battalions fully armed and mobile ready to fight on some god-forsaken front. Those two ideas combine (oh, yah, along with a little off-hand romantic interest this is after all a cinematic effort) to drive this film under review, The Small Back Room.
Sammy (played in a manic-depressive manner as befits the character by David Farrah) is an explosives expert who, having done his bit at the front and taken a hit, a painfully bothersome artificial leg resulting, is now working his magic in the back rooms of the war establishment figuring out what will work and will not work in terms of military hardware. Of course all of this is tangled up with his pain, his attempts to deal with it through drugs and alcohol, his affair with his resolute stiff-upper lip girlfriend, Susan, (played by Kathleen Byron), who is forced to leave him as he attempts to hit bottom, military bureaucratic snafus, and other impediments to the war effort in order to turn the tide against the Germans.
Oh yah, and to keep a little dramatic tension a little off-hand problem with booby-trapped bombs that the Germans keep dropping over the English countryside. Naturally Sammy, in his element then, has to have a go at defanging these dastardly instruments, does so successfully and receives a big boost to his self-esteem (and a small back room of his own). Oh yah, as well, Susan comes back to him. Hell, you knew that was coming I told you she was resolute.
Frankie Riley was shocked, well maybe not shocked but stunned when he heard the news of Bill Higgins’ murder. Jesus, he had had just seen Bill in Los Angeles a couple of months before when Bill was passing through on his way south and he and Maria, his live-in mex girlfriend (immigration status fuzzy so Maria, okay), her of the sparkling laughing eyes and dark brown skin, had let Bill stay in their apartment for a couple of weeks while he worked on some plan that he had hatched, some vague plan connected with making a pile down in Mexico, downSonora way that would put he and Clara on easy street.
Bill Higgins and Frankie Riley had known each other from the hunger days in the old 1960s Olde Saco (Maine, okay) neighborhood, the old just barely working- class neighborhood where the chronically unemployed, under-employed and just plain ne’er-do-wells, mainly Irish and hence locally known as Irishtown (although more generically to outsiders, combined with the French-Canadian streets, as the Acre), mainly third or fourth generation Irish and thus firmly planted by the prior toil of forbears lived, where they had met, beyond Olde Saco Junior High corridor nod (the junior high, and come to think of it, high school nod too, a subject worthy of its own sketch but not here, not now when dope, guns, and girls, ah,women, are central to what is what) met, while hugging the walls (literally according to both sources at the time) at the old Sacred Heart (Roman Catholic) Church at the weekly (except Lent, of course, and other odd-ball feast days like the Feast of the Immaculate Conception which even as ignorant, sex ignorant,flat- out sex ignorant, as these boyos were drew a guffaw) “sock hop” held by the senior parish priest, Monsignor Lally.
Held to, well, “keep an eye, maybe more than one, on the younger portion of his flock,” as the good father expressed it each Sunday when making the announcement for the next hop in the line-up. The real reason, of course, whispered among the young, including wall-huggers Higgins and Riley, was to keep said young angel sheep, away from too much heathen devil’s music (read: ersatz Protestant music probably a Baptist or Unitarian conspiracy, the good priest spouted both theories); that rock and roll music that was just then epitomized by that hip-swaying, butt-flaying, making the girls “wet” (wet in the wrong places) praying false god praying Elvis Presley. And by all means to keep them, that unprotected angel flock to a person, but especially those with access to automobiles, from dark seawalls down at Olde Saco Beach listening to fogged-up car radios in the back seat and digging the beat while, well, just while and leave it at that or for those without golden automobile access or who were too young, away from the Strand Theater, the exclusive upstairs balcony section of course, for the young set, the car-less healthy young interested in lightless dark night s-x (you know just in case the old bastard is still around).
Frankie still remembered the first song that they had heard upon meeting at that fateful junior high school time sock hop, Danny and the Juniors’ At The Hop. And the reason he remembered that song so vividly was one sparking blue-eyed, flaming red-haired Clara Murphy, just mentioned Clara, a girl who had given both of them her come hither twelve-year old look that night (and previously at school too) and they had been hooked, hooked as bad as men (okay, boys) could be hooked by a woman (okay, girl). So it was not surprising that they both had rushed over to ask her to dance when that number was being played at that fateful dance. And Clara in her Solomonic wisdom turned them both down. Or maybe not so solomonic. Clara Murphy couldn’t, just that moment, decide whether she liked Bill or Frankie better, or whether she liked either of them, according to Frankie’s intelligence source, his younger sister Amy who was friends with Clara’s sister Bonnie and so gave in to her budding feminine wiles and had turned them both down.
Naturally that denial after those come hither looks inflamed the boyos. So for the next several weeks Bill and Frankie made every mad school boy mad attempt to win her favors. Both had recklessly, although determinedly, courted legal danger by “clipping” (five finger discount, oh, you know, petty larceny) onyx rings (Frankie’s had a diamond in the center) for her at Sam’s Jewelry Store in downtown Olde Saco (again intelligence, reliable intelligence, Clara sister Bonnie via Amy, had informed them separately that she liked those kinds of rings). She accepted both as tokens of friendship she called it. Ditto 45 RPM Elvis and Jerry Lee records from Chuck’s Record Shop over on Main Street (an easy “clip” for these adventurers, just place under your undershirt and walk out, or better slide into your underpants, no salesperson, no girl salesperson on duty at the time was going there, no way). Accepted, dispassionately accepted. Not ditto though, not ditto“clipped” flowers and candy (especially when Clara heard how the previous goods were “purchased” although she did not go so far as to give them back). They had each worked, really dragged their butts carrying doubles, as caddies as the local golf course to gather the dough necessary for those expenses. And on it went like that for several weeks.
To no avail for Frankie though because, also exhibiting another aspect of budding wiles, Clara took up with Bill (and had really, according to other reliable intelligence sources, had her eye on him all along. Girls, ah, women, go figure).Reason: stated Clara reason. Bill had a head on his shoulders and, quote, was not so hung up on silly rock and roll that was just a passing thing like Frankie, unquote. Frankie laughed at the recollection, a bittersweet recollection, since later Clara married Bill, they thereafter had drifted west to the coast, formed and unformed a couple of rock and roll bands in the strobe light dreams 1960s with Clara as a Jefferson Airplane’s Grace Slick –like lead singer and Bill on lead guitar, and now in 1973 Bill had been killed, face-down killed, down in some dusty back alley, Sonora, back alley, when that plan, that major drug deal went south on him.
According to the reports, the police reports when he went to check, Mexican police reports, so maybe a little off on the details, but on point on the face-down dead part, Bill and Clara had“muled” many times for one of the budding drug cartels. (Frankie had known this, hell, had taken delivery of some goods himself, and had, once, accompanied Bill and Clara, down there, down there the time he had met Maria, met her down in that Mexicali whorehouse and brought her Norte but that was another story).Bill, while he was working on his plan in L. A. the details of which were unknown to Frankie, had decided to go “independent” trying to take-off with one of his cartel deliveries to be used as seed money for his own operation to Panama (the ideas being trying to get to the Canal Zone and some Estados Unidos protection if things went awry, he obviously never made it) and wound up in a back alley with six slugs in the back of his head for his efforts. End of story, just another number in the broken dreams world, the fast stuff of dreams world.
What Frankie didn’t know, although if he had thought about it for ten seconds he should have known, was that Clara, Clara with her chandelier Irish dreams, was the driving force behind their new careers, and kept prodding Bill on that plan to step up to the “bigs” and build his own operation. Jesus, girls, ah, women, go figure. See here is what is funny though. Clara who had accompanied him on that fateful trip (and had been holding that delivery, ten kilos of coke just then becoming the drug of choice for the hipsters, and never cartel recovered) was never heard from again. Just that moment, that reflected moment , Frankie raised his finger to his head and nodded that old schoolboy nod to Bill’ s memory and raised his drink to Clara Murphy, Clara of the sparkling eyes and flaming red hair, and of his youth.
P.S. Frankie, few years later, receiveda report that someone, second-hand, had heard that Clara was running a whorehouse stocked with anglo girls serving the booming drug cartels down in Tampico but he just let it pass, let the schoolboy nod and the drink stand.
