Saturday, June 21, 2014

Gerry Goffin dead at 75: Carole King’s ex-husband and songwriting partner leaves unsung musical legacy

New York-born lyricist who co-wrote songs like ‘Natural Woman’ and ‘Will You Love Me Tomorrow’ died Thursday in his Los Angeles home, his wife announced.

NEW YORK DAILY NEWS
Published: Thursday, June 19, 2014, 5:25 PM
Updated: Thursday, June 19, 2014, 10:55 PM
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Australia Out. ACCESS RIGHTS ONLY. This is a publicly distributed handout. Getty Images provides access rights only and does not license the copyright in the image.GAB Archive/RedfernsLyricist Gerry Goffin, best known for his collaborations with his former wife, Carole King, died Thursday at the age of 75.
Gerry Goffin, who with his first wife Carole King wrote classic 1960s songs like "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow," "Some Kind of Wonderful" and "Natural Woman," died Thursday at his Los Angeles home. He was 75.
His second wife Michelle said he died of natural causes.
"Gerry was my first love," King said in a statement Thursday. "He had a profound impact on my life and the rest of the world. Gerry was a good man and a dynamic force, whose words and creative influence will resonate for generations to come."
Goffin grew up in Queens with his mother and grandfather, whom he described as difficult. He said he was an introverted child who had a gift for science and a secret passion for music.
He met fellow New Yorker King when both were students at Queens College. They married in August 1959, when he was 20 and she was 17.
They began a songwriting partnership in which she composed most of the music and he wrote most of the lyrics. They wrote dozens of bad songs while he worked as a chemist and she took a secretarial job.

Gerry Goffin, Carole King's Ex-husband, Dies At 75

Inform

Gerry Goffin, a prolific and multi-dimensional lyricist who with his then-wife and songwriting partner Carole King wrote such hits as "Will You Love Me Tomorrow,"...

His goal, he later said, was to write the kind of Broadway music on which he had grown up while listening to radio shows like "The Make-Believe Ballroom."
King wanted to write rock 'n' roll.
Rock 'n' roll won out when they had their first hit, "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow," a No. 1 in 1961 for the Shirelles.
Goffin said that when "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" reached No. 1, they took a limousine to his chemical-testing job so he could tell his boss there he quit. He was 21.
Goffin and King became one of several star writing teams at New York's famous Brill Building in the early 1960s, along with Ellie Greenwich and Jeff Barry and Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann.
Husband and wife singer songwriting team Goffin and King rehearse during a recording session in a New York studio in 1959.Michael Ochs ArchivesHusband and wife singer songwriting team Goffin and King rehearse during a recording session in a New York studio in 1959.
The late Greenwich recalled years later that "We would go on weekend trips with Carole and Gerry, and I remember on the way back we'd listen to the radio and have a contest about whose songs we heard the most."
Goffin and King wrote often for "girl groups" like the Cookies ("Chains") the Chiffons ("One Fine Day") and Little Eva, who was their babysitter and had a No. 1 hit with their dance workout "The Locomotion."
They also had hits like "Take Good Care of My Baby" for Bobby Vee, "Every Breath You Take" for Gene Pitney, "Pleasant Valley Sunday" for the Monkees, "Crying in the Rain" for the Everly Brothers, "Up On the Roof" for the Drifters and the sentimental "You've Got a Friend" for James Taylor.
Goffin and King divorced in 1968, though they continued to collaborate periodically. King said in her autobiography that Goffin had ongoing problems from his LSD use in the 1960s.
Their relationship is dramatized in the Broadway musical "Beautiful."
Carole King and Gerry Goffin reunite during for the 2004 Grammy Awards.R. Diamond/WireImageCarole King and Gerry Goffin reunite during for the 2004 Grammy Awards.
Born in Brooklyn and a graduate of Brooklyn Tech High School, Goffin eventually moved to the West Coast and remained active in the music business for the rest of his life.
His later songs included the Whitney Houston hit "Saving All My Love For You" and Diana Ross's "Theme From Mahoghany," both of which he cowrote with Michael Masser.
He and King were inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1987 and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1990.
He is survived by his wife and five children.
At last night's performance of "Beautiful: The Carole King Musical" at the Sondheim Theatre, the cast dedicated the performance to him, and they dimmed the lights at the theater.


Read more: http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/music-arts/gerry-goffin-carole-king-ex-husband-songwriting-partner-dead-75-article-1.1836676#ixzz35JoDE6gq

***Entering North-September, 1960-With The Atlantic Junior High School (Yeah, Yeah I Know Middle School) Class Of 1960 In Mind 

Now that we have earlier this month safely passed the 50th anniversary of our graduation from old North and we have now flown with the winds wherever they have taken us since then I think it is appropriate to step back to that starry-eyed first day of high school on September 7, 1960. [Thanks, Google Calendar] The faint-hearted or those who have not taken their medication should pass on this one. And, yes, I know that those classmates from Central Junior High (okay, okay Middle School) did not enter North until September, 1961 but you can find your own chronicler to tell your story. We will all link up to form the big baby-boomer Class of 1964 then. By the way I have used a certain amount of literary license here. Do you think a guy who half the time can’t remember where he put his eye glasses these days can remember all this stuff from 50 years ago? Christ, no.

********

This story started out as my response to a story that Frankie Riley, my old junior high school buddy, told me one afternoon a while  back at his office in downtown Boston about an adventure he had going to Norfolk Downs for his grandmother on a summer day a few weeks before school started in 1960. That story triggered something in me and got me thinking back to the start of school in 1960. This is the way I told Frankie the story one evening sitting in a bar in Boston so although it is my story around the edges it could have been Frankie’s story, or your story for that matter:

Funny, there I was, finally, finally after what seemed like an endless heat-waved, eternal August dog day’d, book-devoured summer, standing, nervously standing, waiting with one foot on the sturdy granite-chiseled steps, ready at a moment’s notice from any teacher’s beck and call, to climb up to the second floor main entrance of old North, an entrance flanked by huge concrete spheres on each side, that were made to order for me to think that I too had the weight of the world on my shoulders that sunny day. And those doors, by the way, as if the spheres were not portentous enough, were also flanked by two scroll-worked concrete columns, or maybe they were gargoyle-faced, my eyes were a little bleary just then, who gave the place a more fearsome look than was really necessary but that day, that day of all days, every little omen had its evil meaning, evil for me.

There I was anyway, pensive (giving myself the best of it, okay, nice wrap-around-your soul word too, okay), head hanging down, deep in thought, deep in scared, get the nurse fast, if necessary, nausea-provoking thought, standing around, a little impatiently surly as was my “style” (that “style” I had picked up a few years before in elementary school down in the Germantown “projects” after seeing James Dean or someone like that strike the pose, and it stuck). Anyway it was then about 7:00 AM, maybe a little after, and like I said my eyes had been playing tricks on me all morning and I could not seem to focus, as I waited for the first school bell to sound on that first Wednesday after Labor Day in the year of our lord, 1960.

First day of school should have been no big deal, right? We all had done it many times before by then so it should have been easy. Year after year, old August dog days turned into shorter, cooler September come hither young wanna-be learner days. Nothing to get nervous about, nothing to it. (Did I say that already?) Especially the first day, a half day, a “gimme” day, really, one of the few out of one hundred and eighty, count ‘em, and mainly used for filling out the one thousand and one pieces of paper about who you were, where you lived, and who you lived with. Yeah, and who to call in case you took some nasty fall in gym trying to do a double twist-something on the gym mat, trying to impress in the process some girl over on the other side of the gym with your prowess, hoping she had not been looking just then if you faltered. Or a wrestled double-hammer lock grip on some poor, equally benighted fellow student that went awry like actually had happened to Frankie the previous year in eighth grade when he got flipped against the gym wall trying to break the hold. Hey, they were still talking about that one in the Atlantic Junior High locker rooms at the end of the year, I heard.

More ominously, they wanted that information so that if you crossed-up one, or more, of your mean-spirited, ill-disposed, never-could-have-been-young-and-troubled, ancient, Plato or Socrates ancient from the look of some of them, teachers and your parents (meaning embarrassed, steaming, vengeful Ma really, not hard-working-could-not-take-the-time-off Pa in our neighborhoods) needed to be called in to confer about “your problem,” your problem that you would grow out of with a few days of after school “help.” Please.

That “gimme” day (let’s just call it that okay) would furthermore be spent reading off, battered, monotone homeroom teacher-reading off, the one thousand and one rules; no tardiness to school under penalty of being placed in the stocks, Pilgrim-style; no illness absences short of the plague, if you had it, not a family member, and then only if you had a (presumably sanitized) doctor’s note; no cutting classes to explore the great American day streets at some nearby corner variety store, or mercy, the Downs, one-horse Norfolk Downs also under severe penalty; no (unauthorized) talking in class (but you could bet your last dollar they would mark it down if you did not  “authorize talk,” Jesus); no giving guff (yeah no guff, right) to your teachers, fellow students, staff, the resident mouse or your kid brother, if you had a kid brother; and, no writing on walls, in books, and only on occasion on an (authorized) writing pad.

Continuing rule-ward; get this one, neither Frankie nor I could believe this one over at Atlantic, no cutting in line for the school lunch. The school lunch, Christ, as poor as our families were we at least had the dignity not to pine for, much less cut in line for, those beauties: the American chop suey done several different ways to cover the week, including a stint as baloney and cheese sandwiches, I swear. Moving along; no off-hand rough-necking (or just plain, ordinary necking, either); no excessive use of the “lav” (you know what that is, enough said), and certainly no smoking, drinking or using any other illegal (for kids) substances.

Oh, yeah, and don’t forget to follow, unquestioningly, those mean-spirited, ill-disposed teachers that I spoke of before, if there was a fire emergency. And here’s a better one, in case of an off-hand atomic bomb attack go, quickly and quietly, to the nearest fall-out shelter down in the bowels of the old school. That’s what we had practiced over at Atlantic. Frankie told me he hoped that they would not try that old gag at North and have all of us practice getting under our desks in such an emergency like in elementary school. Christ, Frankie thought (and me too when we talked about it) he would rather take his chances, above desk, thank you. And… need I go on, you can listen to the rest of the rules when you get to homeroom I am just giving you the highlights, the year after year, memory highlights.

And if that wasn’t enough, the reading of the rules and the gathering of more intelligence about you than the FBI or the CIA would need we then proceeded to our shortened classes for the ritualistic passing out of the books, large and small (placing book covers on each, naturally, name, year, subject and book number safety placed in insert). All of them covered against the elements, your own sloth, and the battlefield school lunch room. Remember that humongous science book that has every known idea from the ancient four furies of the air to nuclear fission, that math book that has some Pythagorean properties of its own, the social studies books to chart out human progress (and back-sliding) from stone age-cave times on up, and the precious, precious English book (Frankie  hoped that he would get to do Shakespeare that year, he had  heard that we would, we both agreed that guy knew how to write a good story, same with that Salinger book that I told Frankie about that I had read during the summer and that he would read later that year). Still easy stuff though, for the first day.

 

 

Yeah, but this will put a different spin on it for you, well, a little different spin anyway. That day I started in the “bigs”, at least the bigs of the handful-countable big events of my short, sweet life. That day unlike all the others before I was starting my freshman year at hallowed old North and I was nervous as a kitten. Don’t tell me you weren’t just a little, little, tiny bit scared when you went from the cocoon-like warmth (or so it seemed compared to the “bigs”) of junior high over to the high school, whatever high school it was. Come on now, I’m going to call you out on it. Particularly those Atlantics who, after all, had been there before at the beginning of seventh grade , unlike me who came out of the Germantown "projects" and moved back to North Quincy after the "long march" move over to Atlantic in that Valley Forge winter of 1959 so I didn’t know the ropes at North at all. They, especially those sweet girl Atlantics, including a certain she that I was severely "crushed up" on, in their cashmere sweaters and jumpers or whatever you call them, were nevertheless standing on those same steps, as we exchanged nods of recognition, and they were there just as early as I was, fretting their own frets, fighting their own inner demons, and just hoping and praying or whatever kids do when they are “on the ropes” to survive the day, or just to not get rolled over on day one.

And see, here is what you also don’t know, know yet anyway. I had caught Frankie’s disease. You have never heard of it, probably, and don’t bother to go look it up in some medical dictionary at the Thomas Crane Public Library, or some other library, it’s not there. What it amounted to was the old time high school, any high school, version of the anxiety-driven cold sweats. Now I know some of you knew Frankie, and some of you didn’t, I told his story to you before, the story about his big, hot, “dog day” August mission to get picnic fixings, including special stuff, like Kennedy’s potato salad, for his grandmother. That’s the Frankie I’m talking about, my best junior high friend, Frankie.

Part of that story, for those who don’t know it, mentioned what Frank was thinking about when he got near battle-worn North on his journey to Norfolk Downs back in that August. I’m repeating; repeating at least the important parts here, for those who are clueless:

“Frankie had, just a couple of months before, graduated from Atlantic Junior High School and so along with the sweat on his brow from the heat a little bit of anxiety was starting to form in Frankie’s head about being a “little fish in a big pond” freshman come September as he passed by. Especially, a proto-beatnik “little fish.” See, he had cultivated a certain, well, let’s call it “style” over there at Atlantic. That "style" involved a total disdain for everything, everything except trying to impress girls with his long chino-panted, plaid flannel-shirted, thick book-carrying knowledge of every arcane fact known to mankind. Like that really was the way to impress teenage girls. In any case he was worried, worried sick at times, that in such a big school his “style” needed upgrading…”

And that is why, when the deal went down and I knew I was going to the “bigs” I had spent the summer that year, reading, big time booked-devoured reading. Hey, I'll say I did. The Communist Manifesto, that one just because old Willie Westhaver over at Atlantic called me a Bolshevik when I answered one of his foolish math questions in a surly manner. I told you that was my pose, what do you want. I just wanted to see what he was talking about. In any case, I wasn’t no commie, although I don’t know what the big deal was, and I wasn’t about to turn anybody in about it, and the stuff was hard reading anyway. How about Democracy in America (by a French guy), The Age of Jackson (by a Harvard professor who knew our soon to be President Jack Kennedy, and was crazy for old-time guys like Jackson), and Catcher In The Rye (Holden was me, me to a tee). Okay, okay I won’t keep going on but that was just the reading on the hot days when I didn’t want to go out, anybody could have tested me on the books, I was that ready.

Here's why. I intended, and I swear I intended to even on that first nothing (what did I call it before?-"gimme," yah) day of that new school year in that new school in that new decade to beat old Frankie, old book-toting, girl-chasing Frankie, who knew every arcane fact that mankind had produced and had told it to every girl who would listen for two minutes (maybe less) in that eternal struggle, boy meets girl struggle, at his own game. Frankie, my buddy of buddies, mad monk, prince among men (well, boys, anyway) who navigated me through the tough, murderous parts of junior high, mercifully concluded, finished and done with, praise be, and didn’t think twice about it. He, you see, despite, everything I said a minute ago was “in”; that arcane knowledge stuff worked with the “ins” who counted, worked, at least a little, and I got dragged in his wake. Now I wanted to try out my new “style”

See that was why on that Wednesday after Labor Day in the year of our lord, 1960, that 7:00 AM, or a little after, Wednesday after Labor Day, I had Frankie’s disease. He had harped on it so much before the opening of school that I woke up about 5:00 AM that morning, maybe earlier, but I know it was still dark, with the cold sweats. I tossed and turned for a while about what my “style”, what my place in the sun was going to be, and I just had to get up. I’ll tell you about the opening day getting up ritual stuff later, some other time, but right then I was worried, worried as hell, about my “style”, or should I have said my lack of style over at Atlantic. That will tell you a lot about why I woke up that morning before the birds.

...Suddenly, a bell rang, a real bell, students, like lemmings to the sea, were on the move, especially those Atlantics that I had nodded to before as I took those steps, two at a time. Then it was too late to worry about style, or anything else. We were off to the wars; I would have to make my place in the sun as I went along, on the fly.

********

[Frankie, who for once listened patiently as I finished my story,  then let out with a “Who are you kidding Jackman that is not the way you told me the story back then.” The he went on. I remember very well what you were nervous about. What that cold night sweats, that all-night toss and turn teen angst, boy version, had been about and it wasn’t first day of school jitters. It was nothing but thinking about her. That certain "she" that you had kind of sneaked around mentioning as you had been talking, talking your his head off just to keep the jitters down. The way you told it then was while on those pre-school steps you had just seen her, seen her with the other Atlantic girls on the other side of the steps, and so you are going to have to say a little something about it. And if you don’t I will. 

See, I know the previous school year, late in the eighth grade at Atlantic, toward the end you had started talking to that Lydia Stevenson, yes, that Lydia who on her mother’s side from was from some branch of the Adams family who had run the jagged old granite quarries town there in North Quincy for eons and who had employed my father and a million other fathers around there and then just headed south, or someplace for the cheaper labor I heard later. She was one of the granddaughters or some such relation I never did get it all down. And that part was not all that important anyway because what mattered, what mattered to you, was that faint scent, that just barely perceivable scent, some nectar scent, that came from Lydia when you sat next to her in art class and you two talked, talked your heads off.

But you never did anything about it, not then anyway although you said when we talked later about it you had this feeling, maybe just a feeling because you wanted things to be that way but a feeling anyway, that she had expected you to ask her out. Asking out for junior high school students then, and for freshmen in high school too because we didn’t have licenses to drive cars, being the obligatory "first date" at Jimmy Jack's Shack (no, not the one off Wollaston Boulevard, that's for the tourists and old people, the one on Hancock up toward the Square is the one I am talking about). You said you were just too shy and uncertain to do it.

Why? Well you said it was because you came from the “wrong side of the tracks” in the old town, over by the old abandoned Old Colony tracks and she, well like I said came from a branch of the Adams family that lived over on Elm in one of those Victorian houses that the swells are crazy for now, and I guess were back then too. That is when you figured that if you studied up on a bunch of stuff, stuff that you liked to study anyway, then come freshman year you just might be able to get up the nerve to ask her to go over to Jimmy Jack's for something to eat and to listen to the jukebox after school some day like every other Tom, Dick and Harry did then.

.... So don’t tell me suddenly, a bell rang, a real bell, students, like lemmings to the sea, were on the move, especially those Atlantics that you had nodded to before as you took those steps, two at a time. And don’t tell me it was too late then to worry about style, or anything else. Or make your place in the sun as you went along, on the fly. No it was about who kind of brushed against you as you rushed up the stairs and who gave you one of her biggest faintly-scented smiles as you both raced up those funky granite steps. Yeah, a place in the sun, sure.]

 

A YouTube film clip of Mark Dinning performing his teen tear-jerker, Teen Angel to set an "appropriate" mood for this sketch. Did we really listen to such lyrics then and not wince, maybe think that they were cool or worse think that the poor girl who was silly enough to go back into harm’s way to get that damn class ring which her guy probably got from a cracker-jack box deserved sainthood. Jesus.   

*******

*In Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!-David McGowan

 

http://www.thejerichomovement.com/prisoners.html

 

A link above to more information about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.

Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month

Markin comment (reposted from 2010)


In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a The Rag Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site, seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more public fight for their freedom.

That last notion set me to the task at hand. Readers of this space know that I am a longtime supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense organization which supports class war prisoners as part of the process of advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.

Note: This list, right now, is composed of class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!

*In Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!-Eric McDavid

 

http://www.thejerichomovement.com/prisoners.html

 

A link above to more information about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.

Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month

Markin comment (reposted from 2010)


In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a The Rag Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site, seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more public fight for their freedom.

That last notion set me to the task at hand. Readers of this space know that I am a longtime supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense organization which supports class war prisoners as part of the process of advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.

Note: This list, right now, is composed of class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!

*In Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!-Marie Jeanette Mason

  

http://www.thejerichomovement.com/prisoners.html

 

A link above to more information about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.

Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month

Markin comment (reposted from 2010)


In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a The Rag Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site, seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more public fight for their freedom.

That last notion set me to the task at hand. Readers of this space know that I am a longtime supporter of the Partisan Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense organization which supports class war prisoners as part of the process of advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.

Note: This list, right now, is composed of class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All Class-War Prisoners Now!

 
U.S. No Troops -No Drones -No Bombs No Planes -No Mercenaries- No Materials To Iraq

CHICKENS COMING HOME TO ROOST IN IRAQ

 

Tell President Obama "Don't Try to Put Out the Fire in Iraq With Gasoline!"

Have they learned nothing?  Please take action: Tell President Obama not to try putting out the fire with gasoline – no U.S. military intervention in Iraq, invest in diplomacy and international cooperation instead.

In the 1980’s the US supported Saddam Hussein when he was using poison gas against Iran and his own Kurdish population; in the 1990’s we starved Iraq with a punishing embargo, while at the same time looking the other way when the regime repressed uprisings by Kurds in the north and the mostly poor Shi’a majority in the south; after the 2003 invasion US troops stood by while Iraq’s cultural patrimony was looted and destroyed; we first installed a subservient regime under a US pro-consul, then cultivated a Shi’a-dominated government after elections boycotted by much of the Iraqi population; we looked the other way when “our” Iraqi government and its supporters emptied Baghdad’s Sunni neighborhoods under the noses of  US occupying troops; then we allied with Sunni tribal leaders to fight “al-Qaeda” but continued to look the other way when the new Iraqi government oppressed and disenfranchised non-Shi’a https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN9GGetMjfdoWRkX667nblDPvTNCNfMGk_5d618T0N15Cn2xSIqBg6Wmr2j7gse4enHqyw3LFbxofnBj9qb3zIYdGHcb2ytLYSO17GXSQHMP_s4GBmZbeMx26NrQ4sTJoqSJoZ/s1600/Sykes-Picot.pngArabs; now we seem to be trying to maneuver regime change in Baghdad to remove the same government we once empowered..

There was no “Al-Qaeda in Iraq” (or Syria) before our invasion. And, it must be noted, funding for the religious fanatics comes from “our” allies Turkey and the Gulf petro-monarchies – Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Kuwait, and others -- along with US-allied Pakistan in the background.  Just like the “Freedom Fighters” in Afghanistan during the 1980’s, where Osama bin-Laden came to prominence.

Amazingly, there are now rising voices from our DC elites for US airstrikes against the Iraqi insurgents, to send US military trainers for the Iraqi army or even to deploy US troops on the ground. Very few seem to have learned the lesson that US intervention is the cause of the present nightmare in Iraq, not the solution.

The catastrophic outcomes of neo-colonial “divide and rule” have a lineage extending back throughout the 20th century in the Middle East and beyond.  Once it was the British and French empire builders sowing chaos; now it is US neo-conservative and neo-liberal “democracy promoters.”  Same chickens, different roost.

 

Black Flags Over Mosul

An army of Sunni fighters affiliated to al Qaida crossed the Syrian border into Iraq on Tuesday, scattering defensive units from the Iraqi security forces, capturing Iraq’s second biggest city of Mosul, and sending 500,000 civilians fleeing for safety. The unexpected jihadi blitz has left President Barack Obama’s Middle East policy in tatters and created a crisis of incalculable magnitude. The administration will now be forced to focus its attention and resources on this new flashpoint hoping that it can prevent the makeshift militia from marching on Baghdad and toppling the regime of Nouri al Maliki.  Events on the ground are moving at breakneck speed as the extremists have expanded their grip to Saddam’s birthplace in Tikrit and north to Baiji, home to Iraq’s biggest refinery. The political thread that held Iraq together has snapped pushing Iraq closer to a full-blown civil war.   More

 

OBAMA: ALL OPTIONS OPEN ON IRAQ

US President Barack Obama says his government is looking at "all options", including military action, to help Iraq fight Islamist militants. But the White House also insisted it had no intention of sending ground troops. The remarks came after the cities of Mosul and Tikrit fell to Sunni Islamist insurgents during a lightning advance.The US has begun moving defence contractors working with the Iraqi military to safer areas. More

 

Congress divided over US military action in Iraq

Several Republicans urged military intervention following reports that Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki has called for US strikes by drones and manned aircraft. "There is no scenario where we can stop the bleeding in Iraq without American air power," Sen. Lindsey Graham, R-S.C., told reporters after a closed Armed Services Committee briefing with Defense Department officials. House Foreign Affairs Committee member and Iraq war veteran Adam Kinzinger, R-Ill., has been one of the most vocal proponents in the lower chamber. "We've got to get involved with airstrikes, stiffening the spines of the Iraqis," Kinzinger told Al-Monitor. "If Baghdad falls, it's really hard to imagine a Middle East that looks like that." …House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi, D-Calif., told reporters at her weekly press conference that there is "no appetite in our country to be engaged in any military activity in Iraq." "I don’t think this is our responsibility," Pelosi said.  More

 

MALIKI'S MOST SOLEMN HOUR

Some analysts said during the Second Gulf War that al Qaeda would be trading up from Afghanistan if it secured a base in Iraq. It was a prescient thought, but perhaps premature: between 2007 and 2010, Iraqis by and large rejected that fate for their country and dealt a body blow to the foreign Sunni jihadists who entered the country. But then the Syrian Civil War began... The most significant of these "new" groups has been the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIS), which over the past year has spent as much time fighting other Syrian rebels groups as the Syrian Arab Republic's forces. ISIS was once aligned with al Qaeda's central command, but has since gone its own way… Sunni grievances against the government are real and legion: job discrimination, undue prosecution of activists, human rights violations by the police, welfare cuts that "punish" the Sunnis for their collaborationist role in past dictatorships. Well before this uprising, "the Sunnis [had] lost faith in the political process and the jihadists were once again able to make inroads among them."  More

 

The Fall of Mosul and the False Promises of Modern History

The fall of Mosul to the radical, extremist Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS) is a set of historical indictments…  Integrating Mosul into British Iraq, over which London placed Faisal bin Hussein as imported king after the French unceremoniously ushered him from Damascus, allowed the British to depend on the old Ottoman Sunni elite, including former Ottoman officers trained in what is now Turkey. This strategy marginalized the Shiite south, full of poor peasants and small towns, which, if they gave the British trouble, were simply bombed by the RAF. (Iraq under British rule was intensively aerially bombed for a decade and RAF officers were so embarrassed by these proceedings that they worried about the British public finding out.)  To rule fractious Syria, the French (1920-1943) appealed to religious minorities such as the Alawites and Christians.  More

 

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