Upon The 50th Anniversary Of The Death Of "King OF The Beats" Jack Kerouac-In Honor Of Jean Bon Kerouac On The 60th Anniversary Of “On The Road” (1957)-”Beat” Writer’s Corner- Jack Kerouac At The End – “Vanity of Duluoz”

In Honor Of Jean Bon Kerouac On The 60^th Anniversary Of “On The Road” (1957)

By Book Critic Zack James

To be honest I know about On The Road Jack Kerouac’s epic tale of his generation’s search for something, maybe the truth, maybe just for kicks, for stuff, important stuff that had happened down in the base of society where nobody in authority was looking or some such happening strictly second-hand. His generation’s search looking for a name, found what he, or someone associated with him, maybe the bandit poet Gregory Corso, king of the mean New York streets, mean, very mean indeed in a junkie-hang-out world around Times Square when that place was up to its neck in flea-bit hotels, all-night Joe and Nemo’s and the trail of the “fixer” man on every corner, con men coming out your ass too, called the “beat” generation. (Yes,  I know that the actual term “beat” was first used by Kerouac writer friend John Clemmon Holmes in an article in some arcane journal but the “feel” had to have come from a less academic source so I will crown the bandit prince Corso as genesis)

Beat, beat of the jazzed up drum line backing some sax player searching for the high white note, what somebody told me, maybe my oldest brother Alex who was washed clean in the Summer of Love, 1967 but must have known the edges of Jack’s time since he was in high school when real beat exploded on the scene in Jack-filled 1957, they called “blowing to the China seas” out in West Coast jazz and blues circles, that high white note he heard achieved one skinny night by famed sax man Sonny Johns, dead beat, run out on money, women, life, leaving, and this is important no forwarding address for the desolate repo man to hang onto, dread beat, nine to five, 24/7/365 that you will get caught back up in the spire wind up like your freaking staid, stay at home parents, beaten down, ground down like dust puffed away just for being, hell, let’s just call it being, beatified beat like saintly and all Jack’s kid stuff high holy Catholic incense and a story goes with it about a young man caught up in a dream, like there were not ten thousand other religions in the world to feast on- you can take your pick of the meanings, beat time meanings. Hell, join the club they all did, the guys, and it was mostly guys who hung out on the poet princely mean streets of New York, Chi town, Mecca beckoning North Beach in Frisco town cadging twenty-five cents a night flea-bag sleeps (and the fleas were real no time for metaphor down in the bowels where the cowboy junkies drowse in endless sleeps, raggedy winos toothless suck dry the dregs and hipster con men prey on whoever floats down), half stirred left on corner diners’ coffees and groundling cigarette stubs when the Bull Durham ran out).

I was too young to have had anything but a vague passing reference to the thing, to that “beat” thing since I was probably just pulling out of diapers then, maybe a shade bit older but not much. I got my fill, my brim fill later through my oldest brother Alex. Alex, and his crowd, more about that in a minute, but even he was only washed clean by the “beat” experiment at a very low level, mostly through reading the book (need I say the book was On The Road) and having his mandatory two years of living on the road around the time of the Summer of Love, 1967 an event whose 50^th anniversary is being commemorated this year as well and so very appropriate to mention since there were a million threads, fibers, connections between “beat” and “hippie” despite dour grandpa Jack’s attempts to trash those connection when the acolytes and bandit hangers-on  came calling looking for the “word.” So even Alex and his crowd were really too young to have been washed by the beat wave that crashed the continent toward the end of the 1950s on the wings of Allan Ginsburg’s Howl and Jack’s travel book of a different kind (not found on the AAA, Traveler’s Aid, Youth Hostel brochure circuit if you please although Jack and the crowd, my brother and his crowd later would use such services when up against it in let’s say a place like Winnemucca in the Nevadas or Neola in the heartlands).

Literary stuff for sure but the kind of stuff that moves generations, or I like to think the best parts of those cohorts. These were the creation documents the latter of which would drive Alex west before he finally settled down to his career life as a high-road lawyer (and to my sorrow and anger never looked back which has caused more riffs and bad words than I want to yell about here).             

Of course anytime you talk about books and poetry and then add my brother’s Alex name into the mix that automatically brings up memories of another name, the name of the late Peter Paul Markin. Markin, for whom Alex and the rest of the North Adamsville corner boys, Frankie, Jack, Jimmy, Si, Josh (he a separate story from up in Olde Saco, Maine and so only an honorary corner boy after hitching up with the Scribe out on a Russian Hill dope-filled park), Bart, and a few others still alive recently had me put together a tribute book for in connection with that Summer of Love, 1967, their birthright event, just mentioned.  Markin was the vanguard guy, the volunteer odd-ball unkempt mad monk seeker, what did Jack call his generation’s such, oh yeah, holy goofs,   who got several of them off their asses and out to the West Coast to see what there was to see. To see some stuff that Markin had been speaking of for a number of years before 1967 (and which nobody in the crowd paid any attention to, or dismissed out of hand, what they called “could give a rat’s ass” about in the local jargon which I also inherited in those cold, hungry bleak 1950s cultural days in America) and which can be indirectly attributed to the activities of Jack, Allen Ginsburg, Gregory Corso, that aforementioned bandit poet who ran wild on the mean streets among the hustlers, conmen and whores of the major towns of the continent, William Burroughs, the Harvard-trained junkie  and a bunch of other guys who took a very different route for our parents who were of the same generation as them but of a very different world.

But it was above all Jack’s book, Jack’s travel adventure book which had caused a big splash in 1957(after an incredible publishing travail since the story line actually related to events in the late 1940s and which would cause Jack no end of trauma when the kids showed up at his door looking to hitch a ride on the motherlode star, and had ripple effects into the early 1960s and even now certain “hip” kids acknowledge the power of attraction that book had for their own developments, especially that living simple, fast and hard part). Made the young, some of them anyway, like I say I think the best part, have to spend some time thinking through the path of life ahead by hitting the vagrant dusty sweaty road. Maybe not hitchhiking, maybe not going high speed high through the ocean, plains, mountain, desert night but staying unsettled for a while anyway.    

Like I said above Alex was out on the road two years and other guys, other corner boys for whatever else you wanted to call them that was their niche back in those days and were recognized as such in the town not always to their benefit, from a few months to a few years. Markin started first back in the spring of 1967 but was interrupted by his fateful induction into the Army and service, if you can call it that, in Vietnam and then several more years upon his return before his untimely and semi-tragic end down some dusty Jack-strewn road in Mexico cocaine deal blues. With maybe this difference from today’s young who are seeking alternative roads away from what is frankly bourgeois society and was when Jack wrote although nobody except commies and pinkos called it that for fear of being tarred with those brushes. Alex, Frankie Riley the acknowledged leader, Jack Callahan and the rest, Markin included, were strictly “from hunger” working class kids who when they hung around Tonio Pizza Parlor were as likely to be thinking up ways to grab money fast any way they could or of getting into some   hot chick’s pants any way they could as anything else. Down at the base of society when you don’t have enough of life’s goods or have to struggle too much to get even that little bit “from hunger” takes a big toll on your life. I can testify to that part because Alex was not the only one in the James family to go toe to toe with the law back then when the coppers were just waiting for corner boy capers to explode nay Friday or Saturday night, it was a close thing for all us boys as it had been with Jack when all is said and done. But back then dough and sex after all was what was what for corner boys, maybe now too although you don’t see many guys hanging on forlorn Friday night corners anymore.

What made this tribe different, the Tonio Pizza Parlor corner boys, was mad monk Markin. Markin called by Frankie Riley “Scribe” from the time he came to North Adamsville from across town in junior high school and that stuck all through high school. The name stuck because although Markin was as larcenous and lovesick as the rest of them he was also crazy for books and poetry. Christ according to Alex, Markin was the guy who planned most of the “midnight creeps” they called then. Although nobody in their right minds would have the inept Markin actually execute the plan. That was for smooth as silk Frankie now also like Alex a high-road lawyer to lead. That operational sense was why Frankie was the leader then (and maybe why he was a locally famous lawyer later who you definitely did not want to be on the other side against him). Markin was also the guy who all the girls for some strange reason would confide in and thus was the source of intelligence about who was who in the social pecking order, in other words, who was available, sexually or otherwise. That sexually much more important than otherwise. See Markin always had about ten billion facts running around his head in case anybody, boy or girl, asked him about anything so he was ready to do battle, for or against take your pick.

The books and the poetry is where Jack Kerouac and On The Road come into the corner boy life of the Tonio’s Pizza Parlor life. Markin was something like an antennae for anything that seemed like it might help create a jailbreak, help them get out from under. Later he would be the guy who introduced some of the guys to folk music when that was a big thing. (Alex never bought into that genre, still doesn’t, despite Markin’s desperate pleas for him to check it out. Hated whinny Bob Dylan above all else.) Others too like Kerouac’s friend Allen Ginsburg and his wooly homo poem Howl from 1956 which Markin would read sections out loud from on lowdown dough-less, girl-less Friday nights. And drive the strictly hetero guys crazy when he insisted that they read the poem, read what he called a new breeze was coming down the road. They could, using that term from the times again, have given a rat’s ass about some fucking homo faggot poem from some whacko Jewish guy who belonged in a mental hospital. (That is a direct quote from Frankie Riley at the time via my brother Alex’s memory bank.)

Markin flipped out when he found out that Kerouac had grown up in Lowell, a working class town very much like North Adamsville, and that he had broken out of the mold that had been set for him and gave the world some grand literature and something to spark the imagination of guys down at the base of society like his crowd with little chance of grabbing the brass ring. So Markin force-marched the crowd to read the book, especially putting pressure on my brother who was his closest friend then. Alex read it, read it several times and left the dog- eared copy around which I picked up one day when I was having one of my high school summertime blues. Read it through without stopping almost like Jack wrote the final version of the thing on a damn newspaper scroll in about three weeks. So it was through the Scribe via Alex that I got the Kerouac bug. And now on the 60^th anniversary I am passing on the bug to you.           

Book Review

Vanity Of Duluoz: An Adventurous Education, 1935-1946, Jack Kerouac, Coward-McCann, New York, 1967

Some of the general points made below have been used in other reviews of books and materials by and about Jack Kerouac.

“As I have explained in another entry in this space in a DVD review of the film documentary “The Life And Times Of Allen Ginsberg”, recently I have been in a “beat” generation literary frame of mind. I think it helps to set the mood for commenting on Jack Kerouac’s lesser work, essentially a fictionalized memoir of his teenage and young adult years, under review here, “Vanity Of Duluoz”, that it all started last summer when I happened to be in Lowell, Massachusetts on some personal business. Although I have more than a few old time connections with that now worn out mill town I had not been there for some time. While walking in the downtown area I found myself crossing a small park adjacent to the site of a well-known mill museum and restored textile factory space. Needless to say, at least for any reader with a sense of literary history, at that park I found some very interesting memorial stones inscribed with excerpts from a number of his better known works dedicated to Lowell’s ‘bad boy’, the “king of the 1950s beat writers”.

And, just as naturally, when one thinks of Kerouac then, “On The Road”, his classic modern physical and literary ‘search’ for the meaning of America for his generation which came of age in post-World War II , readily comes to mind. No so well known, however, is the fact that that famous youthful novel was merely part of a much grander project, an essentially autobiographical exposition by Kerouac in many volumes starting from his birth in 1922, to chart and vividly describe his relationship to the events, great and small, of his times. Those volumes bear the general title “The Legend Of Duluoz”. That is why we today, in the year of the forty anniversary of Kerouac’s death, are under the sign of his last work “Vanity Of Duluoz”.

As mentioned above this ‘novel’ reads more like a thinly, very thinly fictionalized memoir , ostensibly directed toward telling his third wife, Stella, the sister of a long dead boyhood admirer from the old neighborhood in Lowell killed in World War II, about this decisive period in his life for his literary development. This period from 1935 to 1946 spans his high school days, partially detailed in another volume in the series “Maggie Cassidy”, is filled with acts of athletic prowess, some literary disappointments and a general longing to get out of town and ends just prior to the physical and literary “search” for America of “On The Road”. In between we are told about the budding college athletic career gone sour, the breaks, friendly and unfriendly, with his parents, his various ways, civilian and military, of serving in World War II and his stumbling onto a number of characters in wartime New York City who would form the basic of many later novels, and incidentally the core of “the beat generation”.

In many ways this is the least satisfactory of the dozen or so novels in the “Visions” compilation in that it is basically (and consciously) written as a direct narrative of events with a certain hard edge of a writer who has essentially lost his moorings (in 1967 just prior to his death), retired from the world and is feeling sorry about it. Sorry enough to basically rehash the past, a past that while not without conflict, represented his golden youth and the beginning of his serious literary ambitions. Almost jarringly, especially for those of us aficionados who have read most of the other Kerouac works, there is little reflection, not much of that be-bop word play that animated so many of the earlier works, and no little philosophical tidbits to think about. The easiest way to show the lose of literary spark is by comparison- take the early hard-bitten, almost boringly presented chapters here that deal with his high school and early college career and compare with the lyric quality of some of the prose in describing those same events in “Maggie Cassidy”. Has anyone ever written better about the dramatic tensions of a ...Track meet? Case closed.

Note: I have not mentioned this previously but do so here because it is a greater issue. On occasion Kerouac, rather simplistically and ritualistically, railed against Communists and the Communist threat. On more than one occasion I have noted that in dealing with the political pronouncement of great writers and poets, or for that matter not so great writers and poets, that I have always been indulgent. Except when those literary lights take up the political battles. Then all bets are off. Kerouac, with the exception of some bizarre remarks against “hippies” in the 1960s who after all were just following the prescripts of “On The Road”, was not a political person. For the most part the denizens of the “beat” generation were, like Kerouac, apolitical and withdrew in horror from confronting authority, any authority. That was part of their charm, but, eventually, a serious shortcoming. For the part that the “beat” generation played in helping those of us who came later challenge the status quo, thanks. For the part that the “beat” generation played in not leading a “children’s crusade” against bourgeois society, you should have done better by us your offspring.

Upon The 50th Anniversary Of The Death Of "King OF The Beats" Jack KerouacAs Hometown Lowell Celebrates -On The 60th Anniversary Of Jack Kerouac's "On The Road" (1957)-"When The Beatniks Were Social Lions"- An Article By Hunter S. Thompson On A Slice Of Post World War II Americana

Click on title to link to 1964 (pre-Gonzo) "The Nation" article by Hunter Thompson on the beat scene in San Francisco, "When The Beatniks Were Social Lions". This and other earlier articles compiled in "The Great Shark Hunt", Volume One, demonstrate for the millionth time that great talents that head in new directions(in Thompson's case, as a 'gonzo' journalist in the early days, if not later)must pay their dues by learning the basics of their craft. This article shows that he knew how to work the newspaper human interest story beat, even if a little off-beat. He mined that milieu his whole working career with varying amounts of success. Hell, this is just a good story about an interesting slice of bohemian Americana. Period.

The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *An Encore Presentation-Douglas Brinkley's Radio Interview On His Bob Dylan "Rolling Stone" Magazine Interview

Click On Title To Link To Tom Ashbrook's "On Point" Interview With Professor Douglas Brinkley (Known Previously In This Space For His Friendship With The Late "Gonzo" Journalist Doctor Hunter S. Thompson) About His 2009 Bob Dylan "Rolling Stone" Magazine Interview.

The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *The 1960s Folk Revival Loses One Of Its Own- Mary Travers Of "Peter, Paul and Mary" Has Passed Away

Click on title to link to the “New York Times” obituary for the late Mary Travers of the 1960s folk revival trio, “Peter Paul and Mary”.

Markin comment:

Of late I have been placing entries in space, too many it seems, concerning the deaths of various iconic figures from the folk revival milieu of the 1960s’, the time of my introduction as a youth to that form of music that I have over the past year or so spent a great deal of time commenting on in this space. Today’s news brings the announcement of the death of Mary Travers, the female member of the folk trio “Peter, Paul and Mary” that had a number of cross-over hits from reworking more traditional folk songs like “If I Had A Hammer” and helped popularize a number of Bob Dylan’s early songs, especially “Blowin’ In The Wind”.

Just a few days ago I was working on an entry concerning the “beat” generation of the 1950s, especially about the role of Allen Ginsberg as the poet laureate of that movement. One of the notes that I made in that entry was that I was then, and am now, “…very indulgent toward the poetic spirits, the protest song singers, and the other cultural figures who “rage against the monster”, whether they are “politically correct” or not.” Unless some such figure wants to argue that music is, or whatever their particular cultural endeavor, the revolution rather than the hard political struggle to wrest the power from the capitalists’ hands then I am willing to leave them to their own devises. That is especially the case with musicians; after all every tribe, including our generic anti-war and social justice tribe, need their muses to bind themselves together for the common struggle.

I have hardly gotten that idea on the word processor and here I am already put to the test. Although I readily acknowledge the work that Peter, Paul and Mary did in helping raise funds and providing music for the black civil rights and anti-Vietnam War struggles they, as a musical entity, never captured my imagination. To their credit, they could always then, and later around the South Africa apartheid struggles and the fight for justice in Central America in the 1980s, be depended on to show up and sing. And to be sure, I, on more than one occasion, went to one of their concerts or was at some political rally where they sang. But they never “spoke” to me. A classic example of this is a comparison of their version of Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In The Wind” and theirs. Dylan’s got plenty of play on the old record player (for the younger set that is way music was played then-how primitive, right?) back in the days. I am not sure that I ever even owned a “Peter, Paul and Mary” album.

But here is the real “skinny”- P,P&M, like James Taylor just seemed too tame for the “rage” that drove, and drives, my political perspectives. It may just come down to this today- with a keen sense of the musical interests and demographics of their donor base- any time that the Public Television System has done one of their endless ‘once a year’ fund drives some old concert of those above named singers is bound to be the vehicle for the pitch. Another way to look at it is when the deal went down in the 1960s what was more necessary to bind the tribe together the lyrics to “Puff The Magic Dragon” or Steppenwolf’s “Monster”? Yes, that last is the point I am trying to neatly make.

"Puff Magic Dragon"

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Little jackie paper loved that rascal puff,
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff. oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on puffs gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow wheneer they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flag when puff roared out his name. oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, jackie paper came no more
And puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his life-long friend, puff could not be brave,
So puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee.



Words and music by John Kay, Jerry Edmonton, Nick St. Nicholas and Larry Byrom

(Monster)

Once the religious, the hunted and weary
Chasing the promise of freedom and hope
Came to this country to build a new vision
Far from the reaches of kingdom and pope
Like good Christians, some would burn the witches
Later some got slaves to gather riches

But still from near and far to seek America
They came by thousands to court the wild
And she just patiently smiled and bore a child
To be their spirit and guiding light

And once the ties with the crown had been broken
Westward in saddle and wagon it went
And 'til the railroad linked ocean to ocean
Many the lives which had come to an end
While we bullied, stole and bought our a homeland
We began the slaughter of the red man

But still from near and far to seek America
They came by thousands to court the wild
And she just patiently smiled and bore a child
To be their spirit and guiding light

The blue and grey they stomped it
They kicked it just like a dog
And when the war over
They stuffed it just like a hog

And though the past has it's share of injustice
Kind was the spirit in many a way
But it's protectors and friends have been sleeping
Now it's a monster and will not obey

(Suicide)

The spirit was freedom and justice
And it's keepers seem generous and kind
It's leaders were supposed to serve the country
But now they won't pay it no mind
'Cause the people grew fat and got lazy
And now their vote is a meaningless joke
They babble about law and order
But it's all just an echo of what they've been told
Yeah, there's a monster on the loose
It's got our heads into a noose
And it just sits there watchin'

Our cities have turned into jungles
And corruption is stranglin' the land
The police force is watching the people
And the people just can't understand
We don't know how to mind our own business
'Cause the whole worlds got to be just like us
Now we are fighting a war over there
No matter who's the winner
We can't pay the cost
'Cause there's a monster on the loose
It's got our heads into a noose
And it just sits there watching

(America)

America where are you now?
Don't you care about your sons and daughters?
Don't you know we need you now
We can't fight alone against the monster

© Copyright MCA Music (BMI)
All rights for the USA controlled and administered by
MCA Corporation of America, INC

--Used with permission--

Happy Birthday Jim Kweskin-The Max Daddy Of Jug- *A “Blues Mama” For Our Times- The Blues Of Maria Muldaur

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Maria Muldaur Performing "Handy Man".

CD Review

Naughty Bawdy &Blue, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2007

This CD review was originally posted in 2007 elsewhere hence the now dated reference to ex-president Clinton…

If you ever wondered who, if anyone, was going to carry on the tradition of great female blues singers now that the likes of Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, Sippy Wallace and Memphis Minnie have long been gone from the scene look no further. As I pointed out in a review of her last album, "Sweet Lovin' Ol' Soul",. Maria Muldaur has paid her dues and here she is doing it all over again. This is the third album in series that she started in 2002 to cover the old great blues singers. In the present album she covers the above-mentioned singers and others in a style in which they would surely recognize as their own. These are the classic female blues singers of the 1920's and 30's. Maria is in fast company but she does not miss a beat.

Pay particular attention to her rendition of Victoria Spivey's "Handy Man" (Spivey"s "TB Blues" is nicely done, as well). Check out what the divine Ms. Spivey had to say about Maria on the liner notes. And do check out the covers of Sippy Wallace songs, "Up Country Blues" and "Separation Blues". Damn if Maria does not sound like that unfortunately not well known singer (Maria also covered a Wallace classic "Don't Advertise Your Man" on her last album). Update: I just found out recently (2009) that Sippy Wallace appeared with the Jim Kweskin Jug Band (Maria's old group) in the 1960's. Now it all makes sense, right?

I would also add that I had the pleasure of hearing some of the cuts on this album live in concert by Maria in Cambridge (one of her old stomping grounds in her youthful days with the Kweskin Jug Band back in the sixties) and she can still belt them out. If there is any truth in the assumption that former President Clinton was our first `black' president no one can deny that Maria is our first `black' classic blues singer. And has the stage presence, to boot. The tradition lives. Listen on.


"Don’t Advertise Your Man"

This Tom-Swifter,
A blab-mouth sister,
Had herself a lovin' sheik!
She had a way of braggin'
Kept her tongue a-waggin',
With every woman she'd meet;
So her bosom friend
Vamped her lovin' man,
He quit her cold as ice;
Now she never had
So much to say,
But gives very woman this advice:

Open your eyes,
Woman, be wise!
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to have a little bird in a bush,
But it ain't like the one you've got in your hand.
Your head will hang low,
Your heart will ache,
Your threatenin' frog's
Gonna vamp and snake,
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!

What a blunder
To blow like thunder,
When you love you love your daddy so!
You better keep him hidin',
Don't you be confidin'
To every woman you know!
If you do, you'll find,
Some gal will sure be tryin'
Her best to take him 'way from you!
So you'd better heed my good advice,
And do like a woman ought to do.

Don't be a nut,
Keep your mouth shut,
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to brag about your hat or your dress,
But don't go blowin' 'bout the man you love best!
Just rave about the things your man can do,
And some woman will sure take him away from you!
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!
And don't you advertise your man!

Happy Birthday Jim Kweskin-The Max Daddy Of Jug- *A “Blues Mama” For Our Times Encore- The Blues Of Maria Muldaur

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Maria Muldaur Performing " Richland Woman Blues".

CD Review

Sweet Lovin’ Ol’ Soul, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2005

I have often noted that when white women cover blues songs done by the old classic black singers like Memphis Minnie, Bessie Smith, Big Mama Thornton and the like some undefined ingredient is missing. Call it "soul" or the "miseries" or whatever you like but somehow the depths of a song are generally not reached. Not so here, as Maria Muldaur presents the second of an anticipated three albums covering some great classics of old time barrel house blues. (The first album was "Richland Woman's Blues", taking the title from a song by Mississippi John Hurt so you know Maria is reaching for the blues roots, no question).

Bessie Smith's "Empty Bed Blues" sticks out as do her duos with the legendary Taj Mahal. Blind Willie Johnson’s classic religiously-tinged “Take A Stand” and Bessie Smith's (with Clara Smith) “I’m Going Back” get their proper workout. The big highlight though (and a very necessary “re-discovery”) is the tribute to Memphis Minnie, “She Put Me Outdoors”. And a very necessary “discovery” of the very hard times, hard hustle and hard knocks of the female blues singer, “Tricks Ain’t Walkin”. More needs to be said on that question. As Maria points out in her liner notes some of these songs here are ones that she wanted to do earlier in her career but was either talked out or could not do justice to then. But now Maria knows she has paid her dues, I know she has paid her dues, and you will too. Listen.

Blues Lyrics - Mississippi John Hurt
Richland's Woman Blues
All rights to lyrics included on these pages belong to the artists and authors of the works.
All lyrics, photographs, soundclips and other material on this website may only be used for private study, scholarship or research.

Gimme red lipstick and a bright purple rouge
A shingle bob haircut
and a shot of good boo'

Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' your horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Come along young man, everything settin' right
My husbands goin' away till next Saturday night

Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Now, I'm raring to go, got red shoes on my feet
My mind is sittin' right for a Tin Lizzie
seat

Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
The red rooster said, "Cockle-doodle-do-do"
The Richard's' woman said, "Any dude will do"

Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
With rosy red garters, pink hose on my feet
Turkey red bloomer, with a rumble seat

Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Every Sunday mornin', church people watch me go
My wings sprouted out, and the preacher told me so

Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Dress skirt cut high, then they cut low
Don't think I'm a sport, keep on watchin' me go

Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone

*The Nitty- Gritty Folk (Oops) Jazz Voice Of Dave Van Ronk- Bob Dylan’s “Buckets Of Rains”

Happy Birthday To You-

By Lester Lannon

I am devoted to a local folk station WUMB which is run out of the campus of U/Mass-Boston over near Boston Harbor. At one time this station was an independent one based in Cambridge but went under when their significant demographic base deserted or just passed on once the remnant of the folk minute really did sink below the horizon.

So much for radio folk history except to say that the DJs on many of the programs go out of their ways to commemorate or celebrate the birthdays of many folk, rock, blues and related genre artists. So many and so often that I have had a hard time keeping up with noting those occurrences in this space which after all is dedicated to such happening along the historical continuum.

To “solve” this problem I have decided to send birthday to that grouping of musicians on an arbitrary basis as I come across their names in other contents or as someone here has written about them and we have them in the archives. This may not be the best way to acknowledge them, but it does do so in a respectful manner.   

Click on title to link to the late folk singer/historian Dave Van Ronk performing in his patented nitty-gritty manner Bob Dylan’s classic FOLK song “Buckets Of Rain”. Dave insisted, right up until the end on both his last CD (…and the tin can bended, and the story ended) and DVD concert ("Dave Van Ronk At The Bottom Line In 2001”) that he was informed by jazz and considered himself a jazz vocalist. You be the judge, folk or jazz. This ain’t no opera singer though, right?


"Buckets Of Rain" Bob Dylan



Buckets of rain
Buckets of tears
Got all them buckets comin' out of my ears.
Buckets of moonbeams in my hand,
I got all the love, honey baby,
You can stand.

I been meek
And hard like an oak
I seen pretty people disappear like smoke.
Friends will arrive, friends will disappear,
If you want me, honey baby,
I'll be here.

Like your smile
And your fingertips
Like the way that you move your lips.
I like the cool way you look at me,
Everything about you is bringing me
Misery.

Little red wagon
Little red bike
I ain't no monkey but I know what I like.
I like the way you love me strong and slow,
I'm takin' you with me, honey baby,
When I go.

Life is sad
Life is a bust
All ya can do is do what you must.
You do what you must do and ya do it well,
I'll do it for you, honey baby,
Can't you tell?

The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- Happy Birthday Woody Guthrie The Father We Never Knew-Once More Into The Time Capsule, Part One-The New York Folk Revival Scene in the Early 1960’s-Woody Guthrie

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Woody Guthrie Performing "Hard Traveling'".


CD Review

Washington Square Memoirs: The Great Urban Folk Revival Boom, 1950-1970, various artists, 3CD set, Rhino Records, 2001



"Except for the reference to the origins of the talent brought to the city the same comments apply for this CD. Rather than repeat information that is readily available in the booklet and on the discs I’ll finish up here with some recommendations of songs that I believe that you should be sure to listen to:

Disc One; Woody Guthrie on “Hard Travelin’”, Big Bill Broonzy on “Black , Brown And White”, Jean Ritchie on “Nottamun Town”, Josh White on “One Meat Ball” Malvina Reynolds on “Little Boxes”, Cisco Houston on “Midnight Special”, The Weavers on “Wasn’t That A Time”, Glenn Yarborough on “Spanish Is A Loving Tongue”, Odetta on “I’ve Been Driving On Bald Mountain”, The New Lost City Ramblers on “Don’t Let Your Deal Go Down”, Bob Gibson and Bob Camp on “Betty And Dupree”, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott on “San Francisco Bay Blues”, Peggy Seeger on “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”, Hoyt Axton on “Greenback Dollar” and Carolyn Hester on “Turn And Swing Jubilee”."


Woody Guthrie on "Hard Travelin'". In a sense the folk revival of the 1960s would have had a huge hole in it if not for the work of Guthrie in creating a vast amount of material in the 1930s and 1940s about the trials and tribulations of working people, including those who had been dispossessed of their land. Children’ songs, work songs, protest songs old Woody gave us a complete package to add to the traditional musics brought over from the old countries and that created by earlier artist like Stephen Foster.


Hard Travelin'

I've been havin' some hard travelin', I thought you knowed
I've been havin' some hard travelin', way down the road
I've been havin' some hard travelin', hard ramblin', hard gamblin'
I've been havin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been ridin' them fast rattlers, I thought you knowed
I've been ridin' them flat wheelers, way down the road
I've been ridin' them blind passengers, dead-enders, kickin' up cinders
I've been havin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been hittin' some hard-rock minin', I thought you knowed
I've been leanin' on a pressure drill, way down the road
Hammer flyin', air-hose suckin', six foot of mud and I shore been a muckin'
And I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been hittin' some hard harvestin', I thought you knowed
North Dakota to Kansas City, way down the road
Cuttin' that wheat, stackin' that hay, and I'm tryin' make about a dollar a day
And I've been havin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been working that Pittsburgh steel, I thought you knowed
I've been a dumpin' that red-hot slag, way down the road
I've been a blasting, I've been a firin', I've been a pourin' red-hot iron
I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been layin' in a hard-rock jail, I thought you knowed
I've been a laying out 90 days, way down the road
Damned old judge, he said to me, "It's 90 days for vagrancy."
And I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been walking that Lincoln highway, I thought you knowed,
I've been hittin' that 66, way down the road
Heavy load and a worried mind, lookin' for a woman that's hard to find,
I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord

The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *Once Again,On Music As The Revolution-Or Counter-Revolution?

Click on title to link to Bob Feldman's blog on the subject of music (folk)and revolution. I have left a comment there.

The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *In Pete Seeger’s House- Heading For The Roots And The Mountains

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of the Greenbriar Boys performing "Roll On Buddy" on Pete Seeger's "Rainbow Quest". For the New Lost City Ramblers check my archives for earlier reviews.

DVD Review

Rainbow Quest, Pete Seeger, The New Lost City Ramblers, The Greenbriar Boys, Shanachie, 2005

In a year that has featured various 90th birthday celebrations it is very appropriate to review some of the 1960’s television work of Pete Seeger, one of the premier folk anthologists, singers, transmitters of the tradition and “keeper” of the folk flame. This DVD is a “must see” for anyone who is interested in the history of the folk revival of the 1960’s, the earnest, folksy style of Pete Seeger or the work of the also tradition-oriented New Lost City Ramblers made up of (early on) the folklorist and master photographer John Cohen, Tom Paley ( a valuable folk source in his own right as witness his comments in various documentaries about the New York City part of the folk revival of the early 1960s) and Mike Seeger, Pete’s half-brother (it is in the genes, right?). I have now reviewed several of these “Rainbow Quest” productions and it is clear that, kinship aside, Pete, along with his use of a whole range of folk instrumentation that gets a full workout in this presentation, is most comfortable with this group as he joyfully plays along with the boys.

Also included on this DVD is a performance by the legendary Greenbriar Boys, a group that combined urban folk aficionados and real mountain music men to take advantage of the early interest in the mountain music roots of a lot of what the 1960s folk scene was searching for, authenticity . Additionally, Pete, as an early exponent of what is now called “world music” does some lesser known traditional songs and does a hearty rendition of the classic radical labor anthem “Joe Hill”.

This DVD contains some very interesting and, perhaps, rare television film footage from two of Pete Seeger shows, packaged in one DVD, entitled “Rainbow Quest”. Each show is introduced (and ends, as well) by Pete singing his old classic “If I Had A Golden Threat” and then he proceeds to introduce, play guitar and banjo and sing along with the above-mentioned artists.

One final note: This is a piece of folk history. Pete Seeger is a folk legend. However, the production values here are a bit primitive and low budget. Moreover, for all his stature as a leading member of the folk pantheon Pete was far from the ideal host. His halting speaking style and almost bashful manner did not draw his guests out. Let’s just put it this way the production concept used then would embarrass a high school television production class today. But, Pete, thanks for the history lesson.

*The Bob Dylan Bootleg Legacy- A Time Capsule

Happy Birthday To You-

By Lester Lannon

I am devoted to a local folk station WUMB which is run out of the campus of U/Mass-Boston over near Boston Harbor. At one time this station was an independent one based in Cambridge but went under when their significant demographic base deserted or just passed on once the remnant of the folk minute really did sink below the horizon.

So much for radio folk history except to say that the DJs on many of the programs go out of their ways to commemorate or celebrate the birthdays of many folk, rock, blues and related genre artists. So many and so often that I have had a hard time keeping up with noting those occurrences in this space which after all is dedicated to such happening along the historical continuum.

To “solve” this problem I have decided to send birthday to that grouping of musicians on an arbitrary basis as I come across their names in other contents or as someone here has written about them and we have them in the archives. This may not be the best way to acknowledge them, but it does do so in a respectful manner.   

CD REVIEW

Bob Dylan: The Bootleg Series, Volumes 1-3, Bob Dylan, Columbia Records, 1991.

I have spilled no little ink on the question of the value of various bootleg products, genuine basement tapes, fake basement tapes, etc. that have come out of over the years detailing the career of the premier folk troubadour of his times, Bob Dylan. The core of my argument is that if you have limited cash resources, time or energy (or, heaven forbid, aren't all that into him) then getting copies of his earlier albums rather than more esoteric compilations is the way to go. That said, I can remember being very pleasantly surprised when this three volume CD start of what would become, as of this writing, an eight volume series came out.

The virtue of this particular set housed under roof is that it ranges in material, time and composition from Dylan's early work in 1961 until the time of release, 1991. In between we are feasted to outtakes, variations and some never, until then, previously released material. Thus we get some early talking blues material that shows the early influence of Woody Guthrie on Dylan's early style as he tries to find his "voice" (and Volume One ends with a poetic screed/talking blues in honor of Woody that alone is worth the price of admission to this volume).

We further get some glimpses at Dylan's changeover to a more personal, less quasi-political style, in the mid-1960's with songs like "Farewell, Angelina" and "Sad-eyed Lady Of The Lowlands". Of course, the whole switchover to electric, including electric back up band (The Band, initially), gets signaled here by full array of tracks with the classic "Like A Rolling Stone" being a very nice highlight. His religious conversion, or whatever it was (or is), is expressed in songs like "Foot Of Pride" and "Tell Me". Then there are the variations like a faster version of "It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes a Train To Cry" than the one used on an earlier album. And, of course, the outtakes like the truncated version of "Subterranean Homesick Blues" recorded here. All in all, quite a mishmash but a mishmash with great historical interest. And a few tunes that should have been released long ago like "Blind Willie McTell", a carib-flavored "Santa Fe" and "Walking Down The Line". Feast on.

Note: As always in this series there is a very informative and copious set of liner notes that go into detail about the genesis of each song or some other worthwhile tidbit.


ANGELINA

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1981 Special Rider Music

Well, it's always been my nature to take chances
My right hand drawing back while my left hand advances
Where the current is strong and the monkey dances
To the tune of a concertina

Blood dryin' in my yellow hair as I go from shore to shore
I know what it is that has drawn me to your door
But whatever it could be, makes you think you've seen me before
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

His eyes were two slits that would make a snake proud
With a face that any painter would paint as he walked through the crowd
Worshipping a god with the body of a woman well endowed
And the head of a hyena

Do I need your permission to turn the other cheek?
If you can read my mind, why must I speak?
No, I have heard nothing about the man that you seek
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

In the valley of the giants where the stars and stripes explode
The peaches they were sweet and the milk and honey flowed
I was only following instructions when the judge sent me down the road
With your subpoena

When you cease to exist, then who will you blame?
I've tried my best to love you, but I cannot play this game
Your best friend and my worst enemy is one and the same
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

There's a black Mercedes rollin' through the combat zone
Your servants are half dead; you're down to the bone
Tell me, tall man, where would you like to be overthrown
Maybe down in Jerusalem or Argentina?

She was stolen from her mother when she was three days old
Now her vengeance has been satisfied and her possessions have been sold
He's surrounded by God's angels and she's wearin' a blindfold
And so are you, Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

I see pieces of men marching; trying to take heaven by force
I can see the unknown rider, I can see the pale white horse
In God's truth tell me what you want, and you'll have it of course
Just step into the arena

Beat a path of retreat up them spiral staircases
Pass the tree of smoke, pass the angel with four faces
Begging God for mercy and weepin' in unholy places
Angelina

Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina

BLIND WILLIE MCTELL

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1983 Special Rider Music


Seen the arrow on the doorpost
Saying, "This land is condemned
All the way from New Orleans
To Jerusalem."
I traveled through East Texas
Where many martyrs fell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, I heard the hoot owl singing
As they were taking down the tents
The stars above the barren trees
Were his only audience
Them charcoal gypsy maidens
Can strut their feathers well
But nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

See them big plantations burning
Hear the cracking of the whips
Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
(And) see the ghosts of slavery ships
I can hear them tribes a-moaning
(I can) hear the undertaker's bell
(Yeah), nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

There's a woman by the river
With some fine young handsome man
He's dressed up like a squire
Bootlegged whiskey in his hand
There's a chain gang on the highway
I can hear them rebels yell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, God is in heaven
And we all want what's his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I'm gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

FAREWELL ANGELINA

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1965, 1966 Warner Bros. Music Inc


Farewell Angelina
The bells of the crown
Are being stolen by bandits
I must follow the sound
The triangle tingles
And the trumpet play slow
Farewell Angelina
The sky is on fire
And I must go.

There's no need for anger
There's no need for blame
There's nothing to prove
Ev'rything's still the same
Just a table standing empty
By the edge of the sea
Farewell Angelina
The sky is trembling
And I must leave.

The jacks and queens
Have forsaked the courtyard
Fifty-two gypsies
Now file past the guards
In the space where the deuce
And the ace once ran wild
Farewell Angelina
The sky is folding
I'll see you in a while.

See the cross-eyed pirates sitting
Perched in the sun
Shooting tin cans
With a sawed-off shotgun
And the neighbors they clap
And they cheer with each blast
Farewell Angelina
The sky's changing color
And I must leave fast.

King Kong, little elves
On the rooftoops they dance
Valentino-type tangos
While the make-up man's hands
Shut the eyes of the dead
Not to embarrass anyone
Farewell Angelina
The sky is embarrassed
And I must be gone.

The machine guns are roaring
The puppets heave rocks
The fiends nail time bombs
To the hands of the clocks
Call me any name you like
I will never deny it
Farewell Angelina
The sky is erupting
I must go where it's quiet.


FOOT OF PRIDE

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1983 Special Rider Music

Like the lion tears the flesh off of a man
So can a woman who passes herself off as a male
They sang "Danny Boy" at his funeral and the Lord's Prayer
Preacher talking Ôbout Christ betrayed
It's like the earth just opened and swallowed him up
He reached too high, was thrown back to the ground
You know what they say about bein' nice to the right people on the way up
Sooner or later you gonna meet them comin' down

Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back

Hear ya got a brother named James, don't forget faces or names
Sunken cheeks and his blood is mixed
He looked straight into the sun and said revenge is mine
But he drinks, and drinks can be fixed
Sing me one more song, about ya love me to the moon and the stranger
And your fall by the sword love affair with Erroll Flynn
in these times of compassion when conformity's in fashion
Say one more stupid thing to me before the final nail is driven in.

Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back

There's a retired businessman named Red, cast down from heaven and he's out of his head
He feeds off of everyone that he can touch
He said he only deals in cash or sells tickets to a plane crash
He's not somebody that you play around with much
Miss Delilah is his, a Philistine is what she is
She'll do wondrous works with your fate
Feed you coconut bread, spice buns in your bed
If you don't mind sleepin' with your head face down in a grave.

Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back

Well they'll choose a man for you to meet tonight
You'll play the fool and learn how to walk through doors
How to enter into the gates of paradise
No, how to carry a burden too heavy to be yours
Yeah, from the stage they'll be tryin' to get water outta rocks
A whore will pass the hat, collect a hundred grand and say thanks
They like to take all this money from sin, build big universities to study in
Sing "Amazing Grace" all the way to the Swiss banks

Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back

They got some beautiful people out there, man
They can be a terror to your mind and show you how to hold your tongue
They got mystery written all over their forehead
They kill babies in the crib and say only the good die young
They don't believe in mercy
Judgment on them is something that you'll never see
They can exalt you up or bring you down main route
Turn you into anything that they want you to be

Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back

Yes, I guess I loved him too
I can still see him in my mind climbin' that hill
Did he make it to the top, well he probably did and dropped
Struck down by the strength of the will
Ain't nothin' left here partner, just the dust of a plague that has left this whole town afraid
From now on, this'll be where you're from
Let the dead bury the dead. Your time will come
Let hot iron blow as he raised the shade

Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back

I SHALL BE RELEASED

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1967,1976 Dwarf Music

They say ev'rything can be replaced,
Yet ev'ry distance is not near.
So I remember ev'ry face
Of ev'ry man who put me here.
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.

They say ev'ry man needs protection,
They say ev'ry man must fall.
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place so high above this wall.
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.

Standing next to me in this lonely crowd,
Is a man who swears he's not to blame.
All day long I hear him shout so loud,
Crying out that he was framed.
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.

LAST THOUGHTS ON WOODY GUTHRIE

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1973 Special Rider Music

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine

Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm talking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding


And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club

And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache«
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of rnoney and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that

Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AINÕT REAL"

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs

You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in the Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown

*On The 17th Anniversary Of His Death-The Folk Historian Struts His Stuff- The Life And "New York Times" Of Dave Van Ronk

Happy Birthday To You-

By Lester Lannon

I am devoted to a local folk station WUMB which is run out of the campus of U/Mass-Boston over near Boston Harbor. At one time this station was an independent one based in Cambridge but went under when their significant demographic base deserted or just passed on once the remnant of the folk minute really did sink below the horizon.

So much for radio folk history except to say that the DJs on many of the programs go out of their ways to commemorate or celebrate the birthdays of many folk, rock, blues and related genre artists. So many and so often that I have had a hard time keeping up with noting those occurrences in this space which after all is dedicated to such happening along the historical continuum.

To “solve” this problem I have decided to send birthday to that grouping of musicians on an arbitrary basis as I come across their names in other contents or as someone here has written about them and we have them in the archives. This may not be the best way to acknowledge them, but it does do so in a respectful manner.   

Click on title to link to the "New York Times" February 11, 2002 obituary for folk singer (jazz vocalist), historian and political gadfly Dave Van Ronk.

Once Again On Frederick Douglas-Happy 200th Birthday Brother We Have Not Forgotten You Or Brother John Brown Either- A New Biography-For Frederick Douglass On His 200th Birthday- *Free And Equal Blues-The Work Of Josh White

Once Again On Frederick Douglas-Happy 200^th Birthday Brother We Have Not Forgotten You Or Brother John Brown Either

In this 200^th birthday year of Frederick Douglas the revolutionary abolitionist and women’s rights advocate we have been graced with radio programs dedicated to his outstanding career. A new biography by Douglas Blight with many insights into this brilliant orator, lecturer, advocate and activist against grim slavery for himself and his people has been highlighted on several talk shows. Here’s a link to one recent one on NPR’s On Point:

https://www.npr.org/2018/10/16/657512770/frederick-douglass-is-an-extended-meditation-on-the-legends-self-invention

And another  

https://www.npr.org/2018/10/16/657512770/frederick-douglass-is-an-extended-meditation-on-the-legends-self-invention

This is what you need to know about Frederick Douglass and the anti-slavery, the revolutionary abolitionist fight. He was the man, the shining q star black man who led the fight for black men to join the Union Army and not just either be treated as freaking contraband or worse, as projected in early in the war by the Lincoln administration the return of fugitive slaves to “loyal” slave-owners. Led the fight to not only seek an emancipation proclamation as part of the struggle but a remorseless and probably long struggle to crush slavery and slaver-owners and their hanger-on militarily. Had been ticketed at a desperate moment in 1864 to recreate a John Brown scenario if they logjam between North and South in Virginia had not been broken. Yes, a bright shining northern star black man.    

Josh White: Free and Equal Blues, Josh White, Smithsonian Folkway, 1998

Most of the points that I made in a previous review, the first two paragraphs of which are reposted below, of a Josh White DVD film documentary apply here as well.

"I have spent no little ink over the past year or so reviving memories of various folk and blues artists whose music helped me pass away my youth, a youth that otherwise would have been cluttered solely with little things like the fight for a more just society, attempts to understand history and, maybe as importantly, the individuals role in it-mine. As a part of that past I had spent more than a few Sunday evenings listening to a folk program on a local radio station. As a result I became very familiar with the name Josh White as an exemplar of soulful folk and blues tunes. And the first song that I recall hearing from this iconic figure?- "You, Can't Get No Bread With One Meatball". Go figure, right?

That oddly funny selection (not played here, although it would have been nice to hear it again), fortunately, does not reflect the very serious nature of Josh White's work, his personality and his struggle as a fighter for black liberation. We are treated to all aspects of that work in this one hour film of rare clips; mostly it appears to be material from early television performances. We are favored with the smooth voice, the strong guitar work (when required to give urgency to songs like the anti-Jim Crow ones presented here early on) and the sense of showmanship and professionalism that I remember the folk historian Dave Van Ronk mentioning concerning Josh's approach to performing. But what stand out here are the songs- from the intense "Strange Fruit" (an anti-Jim Crow song also covered in a different way by Billie Holiday) to a crowd-pleasing "Danny Boy". If this is your first exposure to this legendary figure in the folk and blues world then I would only state you have found a good place to start."

That said, it is only necessary to make a few extra comments here about the range of material that White was capable of delivering depending on audience and other circumstances but first this political comment. Smithsonian Folkway, almost by definition, provides great liner notes accompanying its productions. According to those provided here, written by folk historian Elijah Wald who has more recently written a biography of folk singer Dave Van Ronk, Brother White ran afoul of the House Un-American Activities Committee during the heart of the McCarthyite "red scare" campaign of the 1950's. While it is unclear whether White named names he did not, as was necessary, refuse to co-operate. This tarnished his reputation in the New York left-wing community. And it should have.

One can nevertheless understand why the various anti-red committees and others would have an interest in Brother White. I mentioned, for one, his version of the anti-lynching "Strange Fruit" above. How about Langston Hughes' "Freedom Road" for another. Or "Jim Crow". Or "Landlord". But, you get the drift. Then there is the less political stuff that still would have to be a little suspect once you realized this was someone trying to be a black liberation fighter, before it was fashionable (or safe). Here Cole Porter's "Miss Otis Regrets" is fine. As is "Careless Love" and Victoria Spivey's "T B Blues". And, of course, that above-mentioned "One Meatball". I wish Brother White had held up better politically but he has no problem standing up musically.


Freedom Road

written by: Langston Hughes, sung by:Josh White

Hand me my gun, let the bugle blow loud
I’m on my way with my head up proud
One objective I’ve got in view
Is to keep ahold of freedom for me and you

That’s why I’m marching, yes, I’m marching
Marching down Freedom’s Road
Ain’t nobody gonna stop me, nobody gonna keep me
From marching down Freedom’s Road

It ought to be plain as the nose on your face
There’s room in this land for every race
Some folks think that freedom just ain’t right
Those are the very people I want to fight . . .

United we stand, divided we fall
Let’s make this land safe for one and all
I’ve got a message and you know it’s right
Black and white together, unite and fight!


The Free and Equal Blues

variation written by: Josh White (a slightly different version was written originally by Yip Harburg)

I went down to that St. James Infirmary, and I saw some plasma there,
I ups and asks the doctor man, "Say was the donor dark or fair?"
The doctor laughed a great big laugh, and he puffed it right in my face,
He said, "A molecule is a molecule, son, and the damn thing has no race."

And that was news, yes that was news,
That was very, very, very special news.
'Cause ever since that day we’ve had those free and equal blues.

"You mean you heard that doc declare
That the plasma in that test tube there could be
White man, black man, yellow man, red?"
"That’s just what that doctor said."
The doc put down his doctor book and gave me a very scientific look
And he spoke out plain and clear and rational,
He said, "Metabolism is international."

Chorus

Then the doc rigged up his microscope with some Berlin blue blood,
And, by gosh, it was the same as Chun King, Quebechef, Chattanooga, Timbuktoo blood
Why, those men who think they’re noble
Don’t even know that the corpuscle is global
Trying to disunite us with their racial supremacy,
And flying in the face of old man chemistry,
Taking all the facts and trying to twist ëem,
But you can’t overthrow the circulatory system.

Chorus

So I stayed at that St. James Infirmary.
(I couldn’t leave that place, it was too interesting)
But I said to the doctor, "Give me some more of that scientific talk talk," and he did:
He said, "Melt yourself down into a crucible
Pour yourself out into a test tube and what have you got?
Thirty-five hundred cubic feet of gas,
The same for the upper and lower class."
Well, I let that pass . . .
"Carbon, 22 pounds, 10 ounces"
"You mean that goes for princes, dukeses and countses?"
"Whatever you are, that’s what the amounts is:
Carbon, 22 pounds, 10 ounces; iron, 57 grains."
Not enough to keep a man in chains.
"50 ounces of phosophorus, that’s whether you’re poor or prosperous."
"Say buddy, can you spare a match?"
"Sugar, 60 ordinary lumps, free and equal rations for all nations.
Then you take 20 teaspoons of sodium chloride (that’s salt), and you add 38
quarts of H2O (that’s water), mix two ounces of lime, a pinch of chloride of
potash, a drop of magnesium, a bit of sulfur, and a soupÁon of hydrochloric
acid, and you stir it all up, and what are you?"
"You’re a walking drugstore."
"It’s an international, metabolistic cartel."

And that was news, yes that was news,
So listen, you African and Indian and Mexican, Mongolian, Tyrolean and Tartar,
The doctor’s right behind the Atlantic Charter.
The doc’s behind the new brotherhood of man,
As prescribed at San Francisco and Yalta, Dumbarton Oaks, and at Potsdam:
Every man, everywhere is the same, when he’s got his skin off.
And that’s news, yes that’s news,
That’s the free and equal blues!