This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
Click on title to link to the results of a National Public Radio (NPR) survey about the 100 favorite summer books that interest its listeners. I have read many of them, have you? Some I would never think of reading, others they missed.
From NPR-Chronicling
Ernest Hemingway’s Relationship With The Soviets-And Then Some
CIA archivist Nicholas Reynolds discusses his new book,Writer, Sailor, Soldier, Spy: Ernest
Hemingway's Secret Adventures. It describes Hemingway's relationship with
Soviet intelligence.
Click on link for a
piece of Papa Hemingway’s link with the Soviets during World War II
When Studs Terkel Spoke Truth To Power In A Sullen World -A Tribute From NPR’s Christopher Lydon’s “Open Source”
Link to Christopher Lydon's Open Source program on the late "people's journalist" Studs Terkel
http://radioopensource.org/sound-of-studs-terkel/
By Si Lannon
It was probably Studs Terkel via a series of book reviews of his interviews trying to get a feel for the soul of the American from Sam Lowell that I first heard the expression “speaking truth to power.” Spoke that message to a sullen world then. Unfortunately since that time the world had not gotten less sullen. Nor has the need to speak truth to power dissipated since Studs passed from this mortal coil of a world that he did so much to give ear and eye to. The problem, the real problem is that we in America no longer produce that pied piper, that guy who will tell the tale the way it has to be told. Something about those gals and guys who waded through the Great Depression, saw firsthand in the closed South Side Chicago factories that something was desperately wrong with the way society operated and slogged through World War II and didn’t go face down in the post-war dead ass could war night spoke of grit and of a feeling that the gritty would not let you down when the deal went down. When Mister (Peabody, James Crow, Robber Baron you name it) called the bluff and you stood there naked and raw.
Fellow Chicagoan writer Nelson Algren (he of The Man With The Golden Arm and Walk On The Wild Side) put the kind of gals and guys Studs looked around for in gritty urban sinkhole lyrical form but Studs is the guy who found the gritty unwashed masses to sing of. (It is not surprising that when Algren went into decline, wrote less lucid prose Stud grabbed him by the lapels and did a big time boost on one of his endless radio talks to let a candid world know that they missing a guy who know how to give voice to the voiceless, the people with small voices who are still getting the raw end of the deal, getting fucked over if you really want to nitty-gritty truth to power). So check this show out to see what it was like when writers and journalists went down in the mud to get to the spine of society.
Click On Title To Link To Studs Terkel’s Web Page.
BOOK REVIEW
Coming Of Age, Studs Terkel, The New Press, New York, 1995
As I have done on other occasion when I am reviewing more than one work by an author I am using some of the same comments here, where they are pertinent, as I did in earlier reviews. In this series the first Studs Terkel book reviewed was that of his “The Good War”: an Oral History of World War II.
Strangely, as I found out about the recent death of long time pro-working class journalist and general truth-teller "Studs" Terkel I was just beginning to read his "The Good War", about the lives and experiences of, mainly, ordinary people during World War II in America and elsewhere, for review in this space. As with other authors once I get started I tend to like to review several works that are relevant to see where their work goes. In the present case the review of "Coming Of Age" serves a dual purpose- to reflect on the working lives of working people (mainly) after they have made their mark and moved out of the work force and as a reflection of one of Studs’ preoccupations- the fate of his generation- the so-called “greatest generation”.
Probably Terkel’s most famous oral history is his “Working” which chronicles the thoughts of working people and others, circa 1980, about their lives their aspirations and their inspirations. That book was weighted a bit toward the experiences of those who came of age in the Great Depression of the 1930’s , fought World War II and gained a measure of security in the dizziness of the post World War II Cold War. His “The Good War”, of necessity, takes dead aim at that population. Here we have those same recollections (in some case literally as previous interviewees get to have their say once again), circa 1995, from the perspective of “retirement”. Some of the material is interesting but, frankly, as I know from personal experience running through a litany of life’s physical, mental and social ailments gets a little thin on the ground after a while.
Moreover, while I found "Working" to be very interesting as a sociological study and as a means of giving voice to the preoccupations of “working stiffs” this present volume “does not speak to me”. As a member of the generation after the above-mentioned one, "the Generation of ’68", my preoccupations are not the same and so those experiences expressed here of retirement and the “great awakening” do not feel right. In short, this book turns solely as a last homage by Studs to the so-called “greatest generation”, his generation. While I am painfully aware of the shortcomings of my own "Generation of ’68" as a catalyst for social change I have long argued that the World War II generation, my parents’ generation, sold its heritage out for a mess of pottage. So that feeling has to be factored in here, as well.
Studs personal fate as a victim of the “red scare” in the 1950’s is only the most vivid example at hand for my belief that his generation sold out for a security blanket- and not a very good one. The virtual “civil war” between the generations during most of the Vietnam period of the 1960's and beyond (remember those Reagan Democrats of the 1980’s were, for the most part, those self-same ‘greatest generation’ types) graphically speaks to that difference in values. Nevertheless read Studs’ take on his generation's swansong here and read all of Studs’ oral histories, good, bad or indifference to get a snapshot of what America, and Americans liked, disliked or didn’t know a thing about in the 20th century. Kudos, Brother Terkel.
Tom Wolfe-Fashionista Of
His Own Kind-And A Hell Of A Writer When The Deal Went Down Has Cashed His
Check
By Bart Webber
I had been, strangely
enough, in La Jolla out in California attending yet another writers’ conference
which seems to be the makings of my days these days, attending writers’
conferences that is instead of taking pen to paper or rather fingers to word
processor keyboard, when I heard Tom Wolfe had cashed his check. “Cashed his
check” a term (along with synonymous “cashed his ticket”) grabbed from memory
bank as a term used when I was “on the bum” hanging out in hobo jungle camps
and the whole trail of flop houses and Salvation Army digs to signify that a
kindred had passed to the great beyond. Was now resting in some better place
that a stinking stew-bitten, flea –bitten, foul-aired and foul-person place. No
more worries about the next flop, the next jug of cheapjack wine, the next
run-in with vicious coppers and railroad bulls, and the next guy who was ready
to rip whatever you had off to feed his own sullen addiction.
By the way this is not
Thomas Wolfe of You Can’t Go Home Again,
Look Homeward, Angels, etc. but the
writer, maybe journalist is a better way to put the matter of tons of
interesting stuff from acid trips in the 1960s hanging with Ken Kesey and his
various tribes of merry pranksters, the Hell’s Angels, drifters, grifters and
midnight sifters, to marveled space flights in the 1970s to Wall Street in the
reckless 1980 and back who had cashed his check. The strange part of the
“strangely enough” mentioned above was that on Monday May 14th 2018,
the day he died, I was walking along La Jolla Cove and commenting to my
companion without knowing his fate that Tom Wolfe had made the La Jolla surfing
scene in the early 1960s come alive with his tale of the Pump House Gang and
related stories about the restless California tribes, you know those Hell’s
Angels, Valley hot-rod freaks and the like who parents had migrated west from dustbowl
Okies and Arkies to start a new life out in Eden. These next generation though
lost in a thousand angsts and alienation not having to fight for every breath
of fresh air (with the exception of the Angels who might as well have stayed in
the Okies and McAllister Prison which would have been their fate.
I don’t know how Tom
Wolfe did at the end as a writer, or toward the end, when things seemed to
glaze over and became very homogenized, lacked the verve of hard ass 1960s,
1970s, and 1980s times. Although I do note that he did a very although I note
he did an interesting take on the cultural life at the Army base at Fort Bragg
down in North Carolina in a book of essays around the theme of hooking up. That
hooking up angle a sign that social cohesiveness in the age of the Internet was
creating some strange rituals. Know this those pound for pound in his prime he along
with Hunter Thompson could write the sociology of the land with simple flair
and kept this guy, me, flipping the pages in the wee hours of the morning. RIP,
Tom Wolfe, RIP.
The 50th Anniversary Of The Summer Of Love, 1967-Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night- The Music Of Tom Waits
CD Reviews
Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night, Tom Waits, Electra/Asylum Records, 1975
The inner lives of the denizens of that late night diner in the famous painting by the American realist artist Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (1942). The scorching literary sketches of the rich and famous and the skid row bums provided by the late “Gonzo” journalist Doctor Hunter Thompson, accompanied by the renderings of the artist Ralph Steadman. The jingle-jangle high side lyrics of the legendary folk musician Bob Dylan of the “Blood On The Tracks” period. The reach into the far side of the part of the psyche exhibited by those down at the base of American society in an earlier period by the novelist Nelson Algren in “Walk On The Wild Side”. And that same reach later by the man of the “mean” Los Angeles streets, Charles Bukowski. Wrap them all up in a whiskey-soaked, cigarette-scarred, gravelly, rasping voice and you have the idiosyncratic musician Tom Waits. Placed in that same company as above? Yes, by all means. Not a bad place to be, right?
Although I have been listening to the music of one Tom Waits for decades, every since I heard Jerry Jeff Walker do a cover of his classic song of loneliness, longing and reaching for the elusive promise of Saturday night dreams in “Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night”, I am not familiar with his biography. All I know is that aside from his own far-reaching musical endeavors, as expressed in numerous albums over the years, he has acted in some motion pictures, most notably as a skid row philosopher of sorts in the movie version of William Kennedy’s “Ironweed” (a natural, right?) and has provided the soundtrack music to many movies, most notably the Al Pacino-starring “Sea Of Love”. That Waits soundtrack version of the late 1950’s, early 1960’s classic teenage anthem to longing and love is just the right example of what Brother Waits means musically to this reviewer. Taking that simple song of teenage longing, Waits’ husky-voiced rendition reaches back and turns it into something almost primordial, something that goes back beyond time to our first understandings that we are ‘alone’ in the universe. Enough said.
But so much for all of that because what I really want to mention is the “Waits effect”. Every once in a while I ‘need’ to listen to words and sounds that express the dark, misbegotten side of the human experience. You know, sagas of Gun Street girls, guys talking “Spanish in the halls’, people lost out there on the edge of society and the like. Is there anyone today who can musically put it better? If you need to hear about hope, dope, the rope. Wine, women and song or no wine, no women or no song. About whiskey-caked barroom floors, floozies, boozies, flotsam, jetsam, stale motel rooms, cigarette-infested hotels, wrong gees, jokers, smokers and ten-cent croakers. Drifters, grifters, no good midnight sifters. Life on the fast lane, nowhere lane, some back street alley, perhaps, out in the valley. This, my friends is you address. Listen up. Professor Waits is at the lectern.
"(Looking For) The Heart of Saturday Night"
Well you gassed her up Behind the wheel With your arm around your sweet one In your Oldsmobile Barrelin' down the boulevard You're looking for the heart of Saturday night
And you got paid on Friday And your pockets are jinglin' And you see the lights You get all tinglin' cause you're cruisin' with a 6 And you're looking for the heart of Saturday night
Then you comb your hair Shave your face Tryin' to wipe out ev'ry trace All the other days In the week you know that this'll be the Saturday You're reachin' your peak
Stoppin' on the red You're goin' on the green 'Cause tonight'll be like nothin' You've ever seen And you're barrelin' down the boulevard Lookin' for the heart of Saturday night
Tell me is the crack of the poolballs, neon buzzin? Telephone's ringin'; it's your second cousin Is it the barmaid that's smilin' from the corner of her eye? Magic of the melancholy tear in your eye.
Makes it kind of quiver down in the core 'Cause you're dreamin' of them Saturdays that came before And now you're stumblin' You're stumblin' onto the heart of Saturday night
Well you gassed her up And you're behind the wheel With your arm around your sweet one In your Oldsmobile Barrellin' down the boulevard, You're lookin' for the heart of Saturday night
Is the crack of the poolballs, neon buzzin? Telephone's ringin'; it's your second cousin And the barmaid is smilin' from the corner of her eye Magic of the melancholy tear in your eye.
Makes it kind of special down in the core And you're dreamin' of them Saturdays that came before It's found you stumblin' Stumblin' onto the heart of Saturday night And you're stumblin' Stumblin onto the heart of Saturday night
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for American novelist James M. Cain..
Book Review
Baby In The Ice Box, James M. Cain, Penguin Books, New York, 1984
I have reviewed James M. Cain’s two major works The Postman Always Rings Twice and Double Indemnity elsewhere in this space. He is justly famous for those little literary potboilers. Not as well known, although they should be, are his short stories that are of the same caliber with the same kind of plot exploration and with quirky little endings, a la O. Henry. The definitive example of this little collection is the title work- Baby In The Icebox. Here we have the inevitable California male drifter of indeterminate morals, the adulterous housewife of vague if intense longings, the seemingly inevitable symbolically meaningful wild cats that populate many of Cain’s works and the intense, almost too intense, sexual stirrings that make the term potboiler very apt. The other stories follow with their own little twists. And hovering just below the surface is a literary examination of class, race and sex in 1930’s America that seldom gets this kind of inspection not matter what period we are in. These will keep you glued to the page, read them.
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for American novelist James M. Cain's noir classic, The Postman Always Rings Twice.
Book Review
The Postman Always Rings Twice, James M. Cain, Everyman's Library, New York, 2003
Okay, so now that this reviewer has recently warmed you up with review of James M. Cain's lesser works, including the minor classic Double Indemnity it is time to bring up the big guns- The Postman Always Rings Twice (hereafter, Postman). I have reviewed elsewhere in this space both the movie versions of this novel- the original one with John Garfield and Lana Turner in black and white in the 1940’s and the color version with Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange in the 1980’s. Both have there merits although the Nicholson/Lange version produced at a time when there was a more permissive atmosphere in portraying raw, primordial sexual passions is closer to the sense of Cain’s novel.
Both films also take some license with the story line from the novel. That line, in summary, went something like this- Girl is unhappily married to older uncouth owner of a highway diner and gas station in sunny California of the 1930’s. Boy an outlaw tramp, who also happens to be handy, very handy, with a wrench, comes down the road and hubby puts his to work in the station. Boy meets girl. Bang. Hubby is doomed but the newly formed couple, after a false start in clearing up that little matter, seemingly is ready to start a new life together once the murder rap is cleared up. Or are they?
After a fair exposition of Cain’s works in this space, including a few short stories not reviewed, it is apparent that he was onto something about the way that novelist could look at crime and the vagaries of human passions. Most of his works, including Postman, center on the reactions of his characters to the way that their lusts (and it is mainly the distortions caused by their lusts that Cain wants to look at) lead them inevitably to crime, mainly the most heinous one murder. Moreover, as demonstrated here, no crime no matter how perfectly committed or maneuvered around, will go unpunished either as a result of the psychological reaction and revulsion against their crimes, no matter how deeply submerged, of the characters, as here, with Frank and Cora or by some quirk of fate. No police or gumshoes need apply to solve these crimes.
I have sometimes mentioned in reviewing Cain’s work that the women tend to be femme fatales and that is true to the extent that these women have strong sexual identities, use that fact, and are, usually, to the extent they are fully developed by Cain stronger than the men. But then we are back to the old Adam and Eve story, aren’t we? After all Eve was the one who took the chance. I would argue, as an aside here to the theme presented in Postman, that as conventional as Cora is in many ways, trying to make a go of the diner and trying to create a stable environment after the close call on the murder rap, that there is also some primitive Christian notion at work here. Something about the fates being played out a certain way and the gods best stay on the sidelines while they get worked out. But, hey, why don’t you read this little gem and try to figure it out for yourselves.
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for American novelist James M. Cain's noir classic, Double Indemnity.
Brother Cain Warms Up
Three Of A Kind: Career in C Major; The Embezzler: Double Indemnity, James M. Cain, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1943
I am more familiar with the work of James M. Cain via the movies as the basis of such films as The Postman Always Rings Twice and one of the works under review here Double Indemnity. For classic noir films I like to read the works they are based on to see how true they are to the literary efforts. Thus, I picked up this book for Double Indemnity but along the way I got into the other two. The common theme here is the role of women in bringing a man down (or building him up, if that seems appropriate to her designs). You know the old Adam and Eve tale in the modern setting. If Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, Cain's near contemporaries, had the hard-boiled, no nonsense detective down Cain has the bewitching femme fatale and `gullible' smitten guy down in the same way. This little three story volume, moreover, has the virtue of an introduction by Cain himself where he essentially dismisses out of hand positive critical comments about the hard-boiled outlook on the world expressed in his work, his commanding sense of language and his deft craftsmanship with the twists and turns of a story. Ya, right James.
Cain identifies Career in C Major as the story that he liked the best of the three presented here and the one that would hold up over time. I did not get that feeling mainly because the story line gets a little too bogged down by the narrator's efforts to become a male opera singer. The tension between his gratitude (if you can call it that) to his operatic paramour/muse and his catty, headstrong and over demanding wife (who also had musical ambitions) is what drives this little work. In the end, there is basically a Mexican stand-off between hubby and wife. I do not believe that either the theme or the moral hold up today. Let me point out that despite Cain's predilections for this little piece Double Indemnity, with a very much darker theme, is still remembered as a classic tale of murderous impulse. This one you can take or leave.
The Embezzler is, however, one you had better take, as its plot structure leads straight to the classics. This little sleeper of a story points to the fine twist and turns that Cain is rather noted for. The plot revolved around the complicity of a bank executive with the wife of a bank clerk to order to try to stave of family disaster (her's) by trying to "fix" the books of her philandering husband held in thrall by his fellow female employee, an accountant (go figure, right?). The twist and turns center, of course, around the attraction of the bank exec for the wronged wife who may, or may not be, on the up and up. Christ, this thing had me guessing for a while whether that exec was really going to take the tumble for a wrong "dame". Read this one. You will be glad you did.
I mentioned above that one of the things I want to read the original story of a film noir classic for is to see how close it is to the film version. Double Indemnity runs fairly close except as to the fates of the two lovers, if that is what they are. The plot here revolves around that old standard- life insurance- or rather more properly `death' insurance, for the insured. One hulky insurance agent meets one drop dead beautiful young wife of an insured older client. Said wife merely inquires about accident insurance for dear hubby. You know, he is in a dangerous business, producing oil in L.A. The rest is history- hubby is a goner. The double indemnity part? Oh, if you die in an accident on a train you get double. Get it? You will.
The core of the story goes to the compulsive nature of the actual murder once the wheels are set in motion, its cover-up and the falling out among thieves. Along the way we get an entanglement with the deceased insured lovely daughter, her `boyfriend' and enough duplicity to fill up the jails of 1930's California to capacity. No problem. Except the ending of this story doesn't match up with the film. Yes, the moral of both is that men (and women) must not do evil things to their fellows. Okay, but in the movie it is a straight proposition- the bad guys must pay back society for their crimes. They must die. In the book not only is that true but the bad guys had to feel guilt-ridden about it as well. So, instead of getting away with their nefarious deeds they must kill themselves. Moreover, as it turns, wifey didn't tell dear old insurance man that she had a little prior history of psychopathic behavior. So all of society's books are cleared on this one. Nice. I'll take the darker book ending, thank you.
Sitting On The Rim Of The World- With The Son Of The Neon Wilderness Nelson Algren In Mind-Take Five
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
He, Nelson Algren, the poet-king of the midnight police line-up, night court shuffle, drug-infested jack-roller, dope-peddler, illicit crap game back alleys, Chicago-style, what did Carl Sandburg the old dusty poet call Chi, oh yeah, hog-butcher and steel-driver of the world, wrote of small-voiced people, mostly people who had started out in the world with small voices, small voices which never got louder. (Except that junkie wail when deep in the “cold turkey” fits, except that drunk dark tavern cheap low-shelf rye whiskey shrieking in the early morning high moon, except that stealthy jack-roller cry of delight once his victim wears that spot of blood on the back of his neck like some red badge of sap-dom, except that scream when some he-man decides that for a minute he would gain a big voice and smack his woman a few times to straighten her out, except that holler when some john decided to bust up his paid-up junkie whore just because he could, except, oh, hell, enough of exceptions in the neon-blazing small voice night.)
Yeah, Nelson had it right, had that ear for the low moan, the silence in the face of ugly Division Street tenements not fit for the hogs much less the hog-butchers, had the ear for the dazed guys spilling their pitter-patter to Captain just like back in home sweet Mississippi, Georgia, wherever, had the ear for the, what did Jack Kerouac called them, yes, the fellahin, the lump mass peasants, except now they are hell-bound bunched up together on the urban spit, small voices never heard over the rumble of the subway, working stiffs (stinking hog-butchers, sweated steel-driving men, grease-stained tractor-builders, frayed-collared night clerks in some seedy flop, porters sweeper out Mister’s leaving from his executive bathroom, and their women (cold-water flat housewives, cheap Jimmy Jack’s Diner waitresses pencil in ear and steam-tray sweated too tight faded white uniform hustling for nickels and dimes, beaten down shoe factory workers work men did not do, working donut shops filling donuts to feed the tribe, the younger ones hitting Benny’s Tavern for a few quick ones and maybe a quick roll in the hay if some guy pays the freight, older woman doing tricks for extra no tell husband cash, for a fix if she is on the quiet jones), sometimes their kids (already street-wise watching older brothers working back alley jack-rolls, cons, hanging in front of Harry’s Variety doing, well, just doing until the midnight sifter time rolls around), their kids growing up like weeds, who turned out to be disappointments.
But who could expect more from the progeny of small-voiced people, guys who sat around gin mills all night (maybe all day too I knew a few who inhabited the Dublin Grille in my old hometown of Carver, a smaller version of Chi town, another town filled with small-voice people, just fewer, small tenements, cold-water flats, same seedy places not fit to hang in, genteel people hang in).
Nelson never wrote, or wrote much, about big-voiced people who Greek tragedy stumbled, tumbled down to the sound of rumble subway stops out their doors (that damn elevated shaking the damn apartment day and night, rattling the windows, so close passengers got an eyeful when some floozy readied herself for her night’s work or not bothering with modesty, high as a kite, just letting herself not feel anything). Never spoke of people who fell off the rim of the world from some high place due to their hubris, their addictions, their outrageous wanting habits never sated before the fall (not some Edenic fall, not some “searching for the garden” like some uptown tea-fed hipsters claimed they were seeking just ask them) but a silly little worldly fall that once it happened the world moved on and ignored.
Wrote instead of the desperately lonely, a shabby-clothed wino man talking to himself on some forsaken park bench the only voice, not a big voice but a voice that had to be reckoned with, of the stuffed cop swaggering his billy club menacingly to move him on, or else, a woman, unhappy in love, hell maybe jilted at the altar, sitting alone like some Apple Annie in that one Ladies Invited tavern on the corner, the one just off Division where she had met that man the first time and meets all men now, all men with the price of a drink, maybe two, no more, and that eternal price of a by-the-hour flop over on neon hotel, motel, no tell Mitchell Street.
Yeah, a big old world filled with the lonely hearing only their own heartbeats, heard no other heartbeats as they waited out their days. What did T.S. Eliot, the poet and a guy who if strait-laced and Victorian knew what he was talking about call it, oh yeah, measured out their lives in coffee spoons. Nelson wrote of alienated people too, not the Chicago intellectuals who were forever belly-aching about the de-humanization of man (Studs Terkel could quote chapter and verse on these guys and their eternal studies about the plight of man, and they merely made of the same clay) about how we had built a mechanical world from which we had to run but the common clay, the ones who manned the conveyor belts, ran the damn rumbling subways, shoveled the snow, hell, shoveled shit day and night.
Wrote of the night people, not the all night champagne party set until dawn and sleep the day away but of the ones who would show up after midnight in some police precinct line-up, the winos, the jack-rollers, the drifters, the grifters, the midnight sifters, maybe a hooker who had not paid the paddy and thus was subject to the grill. Wrote of the people who inhabit the Nighthawk Diner (artist Edward Hopper’s all shape angles, all dim lights outside, bright fluorescent no privacy, no hiding lights inside, all the lonely people eating their midnight hamburgers fresh off the greased grill, another grill that forlorn hooker knew well), or Tom Waits’ rummies, bummies, stumblers, street-walkers looking for respect all shadows left behind, take your pick), the restless, the sleepless, the shiftless, those who worked the late shift, those who drew the late shift of life, those who worked better under the cover of night in the dark alleyways and sullen sunken doorways.
He wrote big time, big words, about the small-voiced people, big words for people who spoke in small words, spoke small words about small dreams, or no dreams, spoke only of the moment, the eternal only the moment. The next fix, how to get it, worse, how to get the dough to pay the fixer man, he, sending his woman out on the cold damp streets standing under some streetlight waiting for Johnnie and his two minute pleasures, she if she needs a fix, well, she trading blow jobs for smack, so as not to face that “cold turkey” one more day. The next drink, low boy rotgut wines and cheap whiskies, how to get it, the next bet, how to con the barkeeper to put him on the sheet, the next john, how to take him, the next rent due, how to avoid the dun and who after all had time for anything beyond that one moment.
Waiting eternally waiting to get well, you in such bad shape you can’ t get down the stairs, waiting for the fixer man to walk up the stairs and get you well, well beyond what any medical doctor could prescript, better than any mumbo-jumbo priest could absolve, to get some kicks. (Needle, whiskey, sex although that was far down the list by the time that needle was needed or that shot of low-shelf whiskey drove you to your need, again.) Waiting for the fixer man, waiting for the fixer man to fix what ailed them.
So not for Algren the small voice pleasant Midwestern farmers providing breadbaskets to the world talking to kindred about prices of wheat and corn walking the road to their proper Sunday white-clad church after a chaste Saturday red barn dance over at Fred Brown’s, the prosperous small town drugstore owners filling official drug prescriptions hot off some doctor’s pad and selling the under-aged liquor as medicine without prescription for whatever the traffic would bear, or of Miss Millie’s beauty salon where the blue-haired ladies get ready for battle and gossip about how Mister so and so had an affair with Miss so and so from the office and how will Mildred whom of course they would never tell to keep the mills rolling do when the whole thing goes public.
Nor was he inclined to push the air out of the small town banker seeking a bigger voice (calling in checks at a moment’s notice), the newspaper publisher seeking to control the voices or the alderman or his or her equivalent who had their own apparatuses for getting their small voices heard. One suspects that he could have written that stuff, written and hacked away his talent like those who in the pull and push of the writing profession had (have) forsake their muses for filthy lucre. No, he, Nelson Algren, he, to give him his due took dead aim at the refuge of society, the lumpen as he put it in the title of one short story, those sitting on the rim of the world.
And he did good, did good by his art, did good by his honest snarly look at the underside of society, and, damn, by making us think about that quarter turn of fate that separated the prosperous farmer (assuming as we must that he, secretly, was not short-weighting the world), the drugstore owner (assuming as we must that he, secretly, was not dispensing his wares, his potent drugs, out the back door to a craving market) , Miss Millie (assuming as we must that she, secretly, was not running a call girl service on the side), the banker (assuming as we must that he, maybe secretly maybe not, was not gouging rack rents and usurious interest), the newspaper editor (assuming as we must that he, very publicly, in fact was printing all the news fit to print), and the politician (assuming as we must that he, secretly, was not bought and paid for by all of the above, or others) from the denizens of his mean streets. The mean city streets, mainly of Chicago, but that is just detail, just names of streets and sections of town to balance his work where his characters eked out an existence, well, anyway they could, some to turn up face down in some muddy ravine, under some railroad trestle, in some dime flop house, other to sort of amble along in the urban wilderness purgatory.
Brother Algren gave us characters to chew on, plenty of characters, mostly men, mostly desperate (in the very broadest sense of that word), mostly with some jones to work off, mostly with some fixer man in the background to wreak havoc too. He gave us two classics of the seamy side genre, one, from The Man With The Golden Arm, the misbegotten Frankie Machine, the man with the golden needle arm, the man with the chip on his shoulder, the mid-century(20th century, okay) man ill at ease in his world, ill at ease with the world and looking, looking for some relief, some kicks in that mid-century parlance, and, two, from Walk On The Wild Side, that hungry boy, that denizen of the great white trash night, Dove Linkhorn, who, perhaps more than Frankie spoke to that mid-century angst, spoke to that world gone wrong, for those who had just come up, come up for some place where time stood still to gain succor in the urban swirl, to feast at the table, come up from the back forty lots, the prairie golden harvest wheat fields, the Ozarks, all swamps and ooze, mountain wind hills and hollows, the infested bayous and were ready to howl, howl at the moon to get attention.
I remember reading somewhere, and I have forgotten where now, that someone had noted that Nelson Algren’s writing on Dove Linkhorn’s roots was the most evocative piece on the meaning of the okie–arkie out migration segment of that mid-century America ever written, the tale of the wandering boys, the railroad riders, the jungle camp jumpers, the skid row derelicts. Hell, call it by its right name, the white trash, that lumpen mush. And he or she was right, of course, after I went back and re-read that first section of Walk On The Wild Side where the Linkhorn genealogy back unto the transport ships that brought the first crop of that ilk from thrown out Europe are explored. All the pig thieves, cattle-rustlers, poachers, highwaymen, the -what did some sociologist call them?, oh yeah, “the master-less men,” those who could not or would not be tamed by the on-rushing wheels of free-form capitalism as the system relentlessly picked up steam, the whole damn lot transported. And good riddance.
The population of California after World War II was filled to the brim with such types, the feckless “hot rod” boys, boys mostly too young to have been though the bloodbaths of Europe and Asia building some powerful road machines out of baling wire and not much else, speeding up and down those ocean-flecked highways looking for the heart of Saturday night, looking for kicks just like those Chicago free-flow junkies, those twisted New Orleans whoremasters. Wandering hells angels riding two by two (four by four if they felt like it and who was to stop them) creating havoc for the good citizens of those small towns they descended on, descended on unannounced (and unwelcomed by those same good citizens). In and out of jail, Q, Folsom, not for stealing pigs now, but armed robberies or some egregious felony, but kindred to those lost boys kicked out of Europe long ago. Corner boys, tee-shirted, black leather jacket against cold nights, hanging out with time on their hands and permanent smirks, permanent hurts, permanent hatreds, paid to that Algren observation. All the kindred of the cutthroat world, or better “cut your throat” world, that Dove drifted into was just a microcosm of that small-voiced world.
He spoke of cities, even when his characters came fresh off the farm, abandoned for the bright lights of the city and useless to that short-weighting farmer who now is a prosperous sort, making serious dough as the breadbasket to the world. They, the off-hand hot rod king, the easy hell rider, the shiftless corner boy, had no existence, no outlets for their anger and angst, in small towns and hamlets for their vices, or their virtues, too small, too small for the kicks they were looking for. They needed the anonymous city rooming house, the cold-water flat, the skid- row flop house, the ten- cent beer hall, hell, the railroad jungle, any place where they could just let go with their addictions, their anxieties, and their hunger without having to explain, endlessly explain themselves, always, always a tough task for the small-voiced of this wicked old world. They identified with cities, with city 24/7/365 lights, with Algren’s blessed neon lights, city traffic (of all kinds), squalor, cops on the take, cops not on the take, plebeian entertainments, sweat, a little dried blood, marked veins, reefer madness, swilled drinks, white towers, all night diners (see it always comes back to that lonely, alienated Nighthawk Diner just ask Waits), the early editions (for race results, the number, who got dead that day, the stuff of that world), a true vision of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawk for a candid world.
He spoke of jazz and the blues, as if all the hell in this wicked old world could be held off for a minute while that sound sifted thought the night fog air reaching the rooming house, the flop, the ravine, the beer hall as it drifted out to the river and drowned. Music not upfront but as a backdrop to while the steamy summer nights away, and maybe the frigid lake front winter too. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, he spoke of a small-voiced white world, residents of white slums and pursuers of white- etched dreams and only stick character blacks but his beat, his writing rhythm made no sense without the heat of Trouble In Mind or that cool blast of Charlie Parker, Miles, Dizzie be-bopping, made absolutely no sense, and so it went.
He spoke of love too. Not big flamed love, big heroes taking big falls for some hopeless romance like in olden times but squeezed love, love squeezed out of a spoon, maybe, but love in all its raw places. A guy turning his woman into a whore to feed his endless habit love, and her into a junkie love. A woman taking her man through cold turkey love. A man letting his woman go love, ditto woman her man when the deal went wrong. When the next best thing came by. Not pretty love all wrapped in a bow, but love nevertheless. And sometimes in this perverse old world the love a man has for a woman when, failing cold turkey, he goes to get the fixer man and that fixer man get his woman well, almost saintly and sacramental. Brothers and sisters just read The Last Carousel if you want to know about love. Hard, hard love. Yah, Nelson Algren knew how to give voice, no holds barred, to the small-voiced people.
Click on the headline link to a "YouTube" film clip of Carol Noonan performing "Danny Boy". Yes, I know that is not a classic of the Old West (of America, at least) but I couldn't find anything from the "Big Iro"n CD.
CD Review
Big Iron, Carol Noonan, Noonan Music, 2001
I spent some little time a couple of years ago going over the transformation of the American Old West of cowboys, wild boys, fast guns and faster reputations into the New West populated by characters like Duane, in the series of novels written by Texas writer/bibliophile and flea marketeer, Larry McMurtry. Apparently, the myth of the Old West dies hard though, and for this review I am glad of it.
Why? For singer/songwriter and 'wannabe' cowgirl Carol Noonan (and friends) from ….Maine has given us a potpourri of very nice renditions of some of the old classic Western songs that people of a certain age, my age, grew up with as we absorbed our version of the Old West, via 1950s black and white television, of the likes of Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid and the Lone Ranger and his sidekick, Tonto.
Of course it helps if one has a beautiful voice, some good instruments and some good friends to harmonize with on this self-produced (I believe) CD. All that is left is to pick a few numbers that stand out in an album that is filled with them. “Red River Valley”, “High Noon”, “Streets Of Laredo”, and “Wayward Wind” readily come to mind. That list is "high" Old West, indeed.
The Streets of Laredo arranged & adapted by Arlo Guthrie
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen All wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay
"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy" These words he did say as I proudly stepped by "Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story I'm shot in the breast and I know I must die
"'Twas once in the saddle I used to go ridin' Once in the saddle I used to go gay First lead to drinkin', and then to card-playing I'm shot in the breast and I'm dying today
"Let six jolly cowboys come carry my coffin Let six pretty gals come to carry my pall Throw bunches of roses all over my coffin Throw roses to deaden the clods as they fall
"Oh, beat the drum slowly, and play the fife lowly And play the dead march as you carry me along Take me to the green valley and lay the earth o'er me For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong"
We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly And bitterly wept as we carried him along For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young and handsome We all loved our comrade although he done wrong
Click On To Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Tom Waits Doing "Jersey Girl". Wow. Along with Greg Brown's cover of "Vincent White Lightning 52" (about a local motorcycle bandit, his bike and his Red Molly)this song are the leading candidates for the great, modern working poor/ lumpen proletarian love songs. In my own case, it was a near thing that I might have fallen into that life. It certainly had its attractions. Yes, it was near thing, indeed.
CD Review
Tom Waits Used Songs, Tom Waits, Rhino Records,2001
The name Tom Waits is no stranger to this space, particularly as I have recently reviewed many of his CDs. During that time I have reviewed both the early, more jazzy work that reflected his “night club act” approach and his later gravelly, time-worn, time-tested efforts that I always appreciate in any male singer (note, Bob Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, Howlin’ Wolf, early Rod Stewart, etc.). Here, as a Waits encore, is something of a “greatest hits” CD from the early days.
Got no time for the corner boys, down in the street makin all that noise, Dont want no whores on eighth avenue, cause tonight Im gonna be with you.
Cause tonight Im gonna take that ride, across the river to the jersey side, Take my baby to the carnival, and Ill take you on all the rides, sing sha la La la la la sha la la la.
Down the shore everythings alright, you with your baby on a saturday night, Dont you know that all my dreams come true, when Im walkin down the street With you, sing sha la la la la la sha la la la.
You know she thrills me with all her charms, when Im wrapped up in my Babys arms, my little angel gives me everything, I know someday that shell Wear my ring.
So dont bother me cause I got no time, Im on my way to see that girl of Mine, nothin else matters in this whole wide world, when youre in love with A jersey girl, sing sha la la la la la la.
And I call your name, I cant sleep at night, sha la la la la la
"(Looking For) The Heart of Saturday Night"
Well you gassed her up Behind the wheel With your arm around your sweet one In your Oldsmobile Barrelin' down the boulevard You're looking for the heart of Saturday night
And you got paid on Friday And your pockets are jinglin' And you see the lights You get all tinglin' cause you're cruisin' with a 6 And you're looking for the heart of Saturday night
Then you comb your hair Shave your face Tryin' to wipe out ev'ry trace All the other days In the week you know that this'll be the Saturday You're reachin' your peak
Stoppin' on the red You're goin' on the green 'Cause tonight'll be like nothin' You've ever seen And you're barrelin' down the boulevard Lookin' for the heart of Saturday night
Tell me is the crack of the poolballs, neon buzzin? Telephone's ringin'; it's your second cousin Is it the barmaid that's smilin' from the corner of her eye? Magic of the melancholy tear in your eye.
Makes it kind of quiver down in the core 'Cause you're dreamin' of them Saturdays that came before And now you're stumblin' You're stumblin' onto the heart of Saturday night
Well you gassed her up And you're behind the wheel With your arm around your sweet one In your Oldsmobile Barrellin' down the boulevard, You're lookin' for the heart of Saturday night
Is the crack of the poolballs, neon buzzin? Telephone's ringin'; it's your second cousin And the barmaid is smilin' from the corner of her eye Magic of the melancholy tear in your eye.
Makes it kind of special down in the core And you're dreamin' of them Saturdays that came before It's found you stumblin' Stumblin' onto the heart of Saturday night And you're stumblin' Stumblin onto the heart of Saturday night
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Tom Waits Doing "Tom Traubert's Blues".
CD Reviews
The Early Years, Volume One, Tom Waits,
The inner lives of the denizens of that late night diner in the famous painting by the American realist artist Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (1942). The scorching literary sketches of the rich and famous and the skid row bums provided by the late “Gonzo” journalist Doctor Hunter Thompson, accompanied by the renderings of the artist Ralph Steadman. The jingle-jangle high side lyrics of the legendary folk musician Bob Dylan of the “Blood On The Tracks” period. The reach into the far side of the part of the psyche exhibited by those down at the base of American society in an earlier period by the novelist Nelson Algren in “Walk On The Wild Side”. And that same reach later by the man of the “mean” Los Angeles streets, Charles Bukowski. Wrap them all up in a whiskey-soaked, cigarette-scarred, gravelly, rasping voice and you have the idiosyncratic musician Tom Waits. Placed in that same company as above? Yes, by all means. Not a bad place to be, right?
Although I have been listening to the music of one Tom Waits for decades, every since I heard Jerry Jeff Walker do a cover of his classic song of loneliness, longing and reaching for the elusive promise of Saturday night dreams in “Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night”, I am not familiar with his biography. All I know is that aside from his own far-reaching musical endeavors, as expressed in numerous albums over the years, he has acted in some motion pictures, most notably as a skid row philosopher of sorts in the movie version of William Kennedy’s “Ironweed” (a natural, right?) and has provided the soundtrack music to many movies, most notably the Al Pacino-starring “Sea Of Love”. That Waits soundtrack version of the late 1950’s, early 1960’s classic teenage anthem to longing and love is just the right example of what Brother Waits means musically to this reviewer. Taking that simple song of teenage longing, Waits’ husky-voiced rendition reaches back and turns it into something almost primordial, something that goes back beyond time to our first understandings that we are ‘alone’ in the universe. Enough said.
But so much for all of that because what I really want to mention is the “Waits effect”. Every once in a while I ‘need’ to listen to words and sounds that express the dark, misbegotten side of the human experience. You know, sagas of Gun Street girls, guys talking “Spanish in the halls’, people lost out there on the edge of society and the like. Is there anyone today who can musically put it better? If you need to hear about hope, dope, the rope. Wine, women and song or no wine, no women or no song. About whiskey-caked barroom floors, floozies, boozies, flotsam, jetsam, stale motel rooms, cigarette-infested hotels, wrong gees, jokers, smokers and ten-cent croakers. Drifters, grifters, no good midnight sifters. Life on the fast lane, nowhere lane, some back street alley, perhaps, out in the valley. This, my friends is you address. Listen up. Professor Waits is at the lectern.
Good picks here are "I'm Your Late Night Evening Prostitute" and "When You Ain't Got Nobody". This compilation shows more of Tom's lounge act style and is a little more jazzy than some of his later work.
Tom Waits Lyrics
"Tom Waits I'm Your Late Night Evening Prostitute lyrics"
Well I got here at eight and I'll be here till two I'll try my best to entertain you and Please don't mind me if I get a bit crude I'm your late night evening prostitute So drink your martinis and stare at the moon Don't mind me I'll continue to croon Don't mind me if I get a bit loon I'm your late night evening prostitute And dance, have a good time I'll continue to shine Yes Dance, have a good time Don't mind me if I slip upon a rhyme Well I got here at eight and I'll be here till two I'll try my best to entertain you and Please don't mind me if I get a bit crude I'm your late night evening prostitute I'm your late night evening prostitute
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Tom Waits Doing "Rain Dogs"
CD Reviews
Rain Dogs, Tom Waits, Island Records, 1985
The inner lives of the denizens of that late night diner in the famous painting by the American realist artist Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (1942). The scorching literary sketches of the rich and famous and the skid row bums provided by the late “Gonzo” journalist Doctor Hunter Thompson, accompanied by the renderings of the artist Ralph Steadman. The jingle-jangle high side lyrics of the legendary folk musician Bob Dylan of the “Blood On The Tracks” period. The reach into the far side of the part of the psyche exhibited by those down at the base of American society in an earlier period by the novelist Nelson Algren in “Walk On The Wild Side”. And that same reach later by the man of the “mean” Los Angeles streets, Charles Bukowski. Wrap them all up in a whiskey-soaked, cigarette-scarred, gravelly, rasping voice and you have the idiosyncratic musician Tom Waits. Placed in that same company as above? Yes, by all means. Not a bad place to be, right?
Although I have been listening to the music of one Tom Waits for decades, every since I heard Jerry Jeff Walker do a cover of his classic song of loneliness, longing and reaching for the elusive promise of Saturday night dreams in “Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night”, I am not familiar with his biography. All I know is that aside from his own far-reaching musical endeavors, as expressed in numerous albums over the years, he has acted in some motion pictures, most notably as a skid row philosopher of sorts in the movie version of William Kennedy’s “Ironweed” (a natural, right?) and has provided the soundtrack music to many movies, most notably the Al Pacino-starring “Sea Of Love”. That Waits soundtrack version of the late 1950’s, early 1960’s classic teenage anthem to longing and love is just the right example of what Brother Waits means musically to this reviewer. Taking that simple song of teenage longing, Waits’ husky-voiced rendition reaches back and turns it into something almost primordial, something that goes back beyond time to our first understandings that we are ‘alone’ in the universe. Enough said.
But so much for all of that because what I really want to mention is the “Waits effect”. Every once in a while I ‘need’ to listen to words and sounds that express the dark, misbegotten side of the human experience. You know, sagas of Gun Street girls, guys talking “Spanish in the halls’, people lost out there on the edge of society and the like. Is there anyone today who can musically put it better? If you need to hear about hope, dope, the rope. Wine, women and song or no wine, no women or no song. About whiskey-caked barroom floors, floozies, boozies, flotsam, jetsam, stale motel rooms, cigarette-infested hotels, wrong gees, jokers, smokers and ten-cent croakers. Drifters, grifters, no good midnight sifters. Life on the fast lane, nowhere lane, some back street alley, perhaps, out in the valley. This, my friends is you address. Listen up. Professor Waits is at the lectern.
This one is filled with great work. The evocative “Gun Street Girl”, the dark “Walking Spanish”, “Hang Down Your Head” and the title track “Rain Dogs” lead this parade.
"Gun Street Girl"
Falling James in the Tahoe mud Stick around to tell us all the tail He fell in love with a Gun Street Girl and Now he's danced in the Birmingham jail.
Took a 100 dollars off a slaughterhouse Joe Brought a bran' new michigan 20 gauge Got all liquored up on that road house corn, Blew a hole in the hood of a yellow corvette Blew a hole in the hood of a yellow corvette. Brought a second hand Nova from a Cuban Chinese Dyed his hair in the bathroom of Texaco With a pawnshop radio, quarter past 4 Well, he left Waukegan at the slammin' of the door He left Waukegan at the slammin' of the door
Chorus: I said John, John he's long gone Gone to Indiana Ain't never coming home I said John, John he's long gone Gone to Indiana, ain't never coming home. Sitting in a sycamore in St. John's Wood Soaking' day old bread in kerosene He was blue as a robin's egg brown as a hog Stayin' out of circulation till the dogs get tire Stayin' out of circulation till the dogs get tired Shadow fixed the toilet with an old trombone He never got up in the morning on a Saturday Sittin' by the Erie with a bull whipped dog Tellin' everyone he saw They went thatta way
Tellin' everyone he saw They went thatta way. Now the rain's like gravel on old tin roof And the Burlinton Northern's pullin' out of the world With a head full of bourbon and a dream in the straw. And a Gun Street Girl was the cause of it all. Riding in the shadow by the St. Joe Ridge He heard the click clack tappin' of a blind man's cane Pullin' into Baker on New Year's Eve With one eye on the pistol the other on the door, With one eye on the pistol the other on the door. Miss Charlotte took her satchel down to King Row And the smuggled in a bran' new pair of alligator shoes. With her fireman's raincoat and her long yellow hair, well They tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire, They tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire.
Chorus I said John, John he's long gone Gone to Indiana Ain't never coming home I said John, John he's long gone Gone to Indiana, ain't never coming home. Bangin' on a table with an old tin cup Sing I'll never kiss a Gun Street Girl again, I'll never kiss a Gun Street Girl again.
Repeat chorus
Walking Spanish Lyrics
He's got himself a homemade special You know his glass is full of sand And it feels just like a jaybird the way it fits into his hand He rolled a blade up in his trick towel They slap their hands against the wall You never trip, you never stumble He's walking Spanish down the hall
Slip him a picture of our Jesus Or give him a spoon to dig a hole What all he done ain't no one's business But he'll need blankets for the cold They dim the lights over on Broadway Even the king has bowed his head And every face looks right up at Mason Man he's walking Spanish down the hall
Litella's screeching for a blind pig Punk Sanders carved it out of wood He never sang when he got hoodwinked They tried it all but he never would Tomorrow morning there'll be laundry But he'll be somewhere else to hear the call Don't say goodbye, he's just leaving early He's walking Spanish down the hall
All St. Barthelemew said Was whispered into the ear of Blind Jack Dawes All Baker told the machine was that he never broke the law Go on and tip your hat up to the Pilate Take off your watch, your rings and all Even Jesus wanted just a little more time When he was walking Spanish down the hall
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Tom Waits Doing "Frank's Wild Years"
CD Reviews
Frank’s Wild Years, Tom Waits
The inner lives of the denizens of that late night diner in the famous painting by the American realist artist Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (1942). The scorching literary sketches of the rich and famous and the skid row bums provided by the late “Gonzo” journalist Doctor Hunter Thompson, accompanied by the renderings of the artist Ralph Steadman. The jingle-jangle high side lyrics of the legendary folk musician Bob Dylan of the “Blood On The Tracks” period. The reach into the far side of the part of the psyche exhibited by those down at the base of American society in an earlier period by the novelist Nelson Algren in “Walk On The Wild Side”. And that same reach later by the man of the “mean” Los Angeles streets, Charles Bukowski. Wrap them all up in a whiskey-soaked, cigarette-scarred, gravelly, rasping voice and you have the idiosyncratic musician Tom Waits. Placed in that same company as above? Yes, by all means. Not a bad place to be, right?
Although I have been listening to the music of one Tom Waits for decades, every since I heard Jerry Jeff Walker do a cover of his classic song of loneliness, longing and reaching for the elusive promise of Saturday night dreams in “Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night”, I am not familiar with his biography. All I know is that aside from his own far-reaching musical endeavors, as expressed in numerous albums over the years, he has acted in some motion pictures, most notably as a skid row philosopher of sorts in the movie version of William Kennedy’s “Ironweed” (a natural, right?) and has provided the soundtrack music to many movies, most notably the Al Pacino-starring “Sea Of Love”. That Waits soundtrack version of the late 1950’s, early 1960’s classic teenage anthem to longing and love is just the right example of what Brother Waits means musically to this reviewer. Taking that simple song of teenage longing, Waits’ husky-voiced rendition reaches back and turns it into something almost primordial, something that goes back beyond time to our first understandings that we are ‘alone’ in the universe. Enough said.
But so much for all of that because what I really want to mention is the “Waits effect”. Every once in a while I ‘need’ to listen to words and sounds that express the dark, misbegotten side of the human experience. You know, sagas of Gun Street girls, guys talking “Spanish in the halls’, people lost out there on the edge of society and the like. Is there anyone today who can musically put it better? If you need to hear about hope, dope, the rope. Wine, women and song or no wine, no women or no song. About whiskey-caked barroom floors, floozies, boozies, flotsam, jetsam, stale motel rooms, cigarette-infested hotels, wrong gees, jokers, smokers and ten-cent croakers. Drifters, grifters, no good midnight sifters. Life on the fast lane, nowhere lane, some back street alley, perhaps, out in the valley. This, my friends is you address. Listen up. Professor Waits is at the lectern.
This one is filled with some very experimental works like “Straight To The Top”and Frank’s Theme” More so than some of his other works this is a concept album, and it works. The high here are the two versions of “Innocent When You Dream”. Know this the song is one of the great modern love songs. Forget Cole Porter, Forget Irving Berlin. Hell, Forget Frank Sinatra. This is what the love story is down at the base of society without the fluff. Kudos, Tom.
Tom Waits » Innocent When You Dream Lyrics
The bats are in the belfry the dew is on the moor where are the arms that held me and pledged her love before and pledged her love before
Chorus
It's such a sad old feeling the fields are soft and green it's memories that I'm stelaing but you're innocent when you dream when you dream you're innocent when you dream
running through the graveyard we laughed my friends and I we swore we'd be together until the day we died until the day we died
Repeat Chorus
I made a golden promise that we would never part I gave my love a locket and then I broke her heart and then I broke her heart
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Tom Waits Doing "Hold On"
CD Reviews
Mule Variations, Tom Waits, Anti, 1999
The inner lives of the denizens of that late night diner in the famous painting by the American realist artist Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (1942). The scorching literary sketches of the rich and famous and the skid row bums provided by the late “Gonzo” journalist Doctor Hunter Thompson, accompanied by the renderings of the artist Ralph Steadman. The jingle-jangle high side lyrics of the legendary folk musician Bob Dylan of the “Blood On The Tracks” period. The reach into the far side of the part of the psyche exhibited by those down at the base of American society in an earlier period by the novelist Nelson Algren in “Walk On The Wild Side”. And that same reach later by the man of the “mean” Los Angeles streets, Charles Bukowski. Wrap them all up in a whiskey-soaked, cigarette-scarred, gravelly, rasping voice and you have the idiosyncratic musician Tom Waits. Placed in that same company as above? Yes, by all means. Not a bad place to be, right?
Although I have been listening to the music of one Tom Waits for decades, every since I heard Jerry Jeff Walker do a cover of his classic song of loneliness, longing and reaching for the elusive promise of Saturday night dreams in “Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night”, I am not familiar with his biography. All I know is that aside from his own far-reaching musical endeavors, as expressed in numerous albums over the years, he has acted in some motion pictures, most notably as a skid row philosopher of sorts in the movie version of William Kennedy’s “Ironweed” (a natural, right?) and has provided the soundtrack music to many movies, most notably the Al Pacino-starring “Sea Of Love”. That Waits soundtrack version of the late 1950’s, early 1960’s classic teenage anthem to longing and love is just the right example of what Brother Waits means musically to this reviewer. Taking that simple song of teenage longing, Waits’ husky-voiced rendition reaches back and turns it into something almost primordial, something that goes back beyond time to our first understandings that we are ‘alone’ in the universe. Enough said.
But so much for all of that because what I really want to mention is the “Waits effect”. Every once in a while I ‘need’ to listen to words and sounds that express the dark, misbegotten side of the human experience. You know, sagas of Gun Street girls, guys talking “Spanish in the halls’, people lost out there on the edge of society and the like. Is there anyone today who can musically put it better? If you need to hear about hope, dope, the rope. Wine, women and song or no wine, no women or no song. About whiskey-caked barroom floors, floozies, boozies, flotsam, jetsam, stale motel rooms, cigarette-infested hotels, wrong gees, jokers, smokers and ten-cent croakers. Drifters, grifters, no good midnight sifters. Life on the fast lane, nowhere lane, some back street alley, perhaps, out in the valley. This, my friends is you address. Listen up. Professor Waits is at the lectern.
"Hold On"
They hung a sign up in out town "if you live it up, you won't live it down" So, she left Monte Rio, son Just like a bullet leaves a gun With charcoal eyes and Monroe hips She went and took that California trip Well, the moon was gold, her Hair like wind She said don't look back just Come on Jim
(Chorus)
Oh you got to Hold on, Hold on You got to hold on Take my hand, I'm standing right here You gotta hold on Well, he gave her a dimestore watch And a ring made from a spoon Everyone is looking for someone to blame But you share my bed, you share my name Well, go ahead and call the cops You don't meet nice girls in coffee shops She said baby, I still love you Sometimes there's nothin left to do Oh you got to Hold on, hold on You got to hold on Take my hand, I'm standing right here, you got to Just hold on.
Well, God bless your crooked little heart St. Louis got the best of me I miss your broken-china voice How I wish you were still here with me Well, you build it up, you wreck it down You burn your mansion to the ground When there's nothing left to keep you here, when You're falling behind in this Big blue world Oh you go to Hold on, hold on You got to hold on Take my hand, I'm standing right here You got to hold on Down by the Riverside motel, It's 10 below and falling By a 99 cent store she closed her eyes And started swaying But it's so hard to dance that way When it's cold and there's no music Well your old hometown is so far away But, inside your head there's a record That's playing, a song called Hold on, hold on You really got to hold on Take my hand, I'm standing right here And just hold on.
Pony
I've seen it all boys I've been all over Been everywhere in the Whole wide world I rode the high line With old blind Darby I danced real slow With Ida Jane
I was full of wonder When I left Murfreesboro Now I am full of hollow On Maxwell street... And I hope my Pony I hope my Pony I hope my Pony Knows the way back home
I walked from Natcher To Hushpukena I built a fire by the side Of the road I worked for nothin in a Belzoni saw mill. I caught a Blind out on the B and O Talullah's friendly Belzoni ain't so A 44'll get you 99
And I hope my Pony I hope my Pony I hope my Pony Knows the way back home
I run my race with burnt face Jake Gave him a Manzanita cross I lived on nothin But dreams and train smoke Somehow my watch and chain Got lost. I wish I was home in Evelyn's Kitchen With old Gyp curled around my feet (Chorus)
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Tom Waits Doing "Waltzing Matilda".
CD Review
Anthology Of Tom Waits, Tom Waits, Electra/Asylum Records, 1985
The inner lives of the denizens of that late night diner in the famous painting by the American realist artist Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (1942). The scorching literary sketches of the rich and famous and the skid row bums provided by the late “Gonzo” journalist Doctor Hunter Thompson, accompanied by the renderings of the artist Ralph Steadman. The jingle-jangle high side lyrics of the legendary folk musician Bob Dylan of the “Blood On The Tracks” period. The reach into the far side of the part of the psyche exhibited by those down at the base of American society in an earlier period by the novelist Nelson Algren in “Walk On The Wild Side”. And that same reach later by the man of the “mean” Los Angeles streets, Charles Bukowski. Wrap them all up in a whiskey-soaked, cigarette-scarred, gravelly, rasping voice and you have the idiosyncratic musician Tom Waits. Placed in that same company as above? Yes, by all means. Not a bad place to be, right?
Although I have been listening to the music of one Tom Waits for decades, every since I heard Jerry Jeff Walker do a cover of his classic song of loneliness, longing and reaching for the elusive promise of Saturday night dreams in “Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night”, I am not familiar with his biography. All I know is that aside from his own far-reaching musical endeavors, as expressed in numerous albums over the years, he has acted in some motion pictures, most notably as a skid row philosopher of sorts in the movie version of William Kennedy’s “Ironweed” (a natural, right?) and has provided the soundtrack music to many movies, most notably the Al Pacino-starring “Sea Of Love”. That Waits soundtrack version of the late 1950’s, early 1960’s classic teenage anthem to longing and love is just the right example of what Brother Waits means musically to this reviewer. Taking that simple song of teenage longing, Waits’ husky-voiced rendition reaches back and turns it into something almost primordial, something that goes back beyond time to our first understandings that we are ‘alone’ in the universe. Enough said.
But so much for all of that because what I really want to mention is the “Waits effect”. Every once in a while I ‘need’ to listen to words and sounds that express the dark, misbegotten side of the human experience. You know, sagas of Gun Street girls, guys talking “Spanish in the halls’, people lost out there on the edge of society and the like. Is there anyone today who can musically put it better? If you need to hear about hope, dope, the rope. Wine, women and song or no wine, no women or no song. About whiskey-caked barroom floors, floozies, boozies, flotsam, jetsam, stale motel rooms, cigarette-infested hotels, wrong gees, jokers, smokers and ten-cent croakers. Drifters, grifters, no good midnight sifters. Life on the fast lane, nowhere lane, some back street alley, perhaps, out in the valley. This, my friends is you address. Listen up. Professor Waits is at the lectern.
This "greatest hits" compilation is just what it claims to be (circa 1985). If you need a Waits primer (and you should) you need to listen to the classics here. Tops on my list are “Diamonds On My Windshield”, ‘ Tom Traubert’s Blues” and his incredible paen to deperate young love, evocative of the best of Dylan in “Desolation Row” and some of Nelson Algren’s short stories about the love and longing down in the mean streets’, “Jersey Girl”. Wow.
"Tom Traubert's Blues"
Wasted and wounded, it ain't what the moon did, I've got what I paid for now See you tomorrow, hey Frank, can I borrow a couple of bucks from you To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me
I'm an innocent victim of a blinded alley And I'm tired of all these soldiers here No one speaks English, and everything's broken, and my Stacys are soaking wet To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me
Now the dogs are barking and the taxi cab's parking A lot they can do for me I begged you to stab me, you tore my shirt open, And I'm down on my knees tonight Old Bushmill's I staggered, you'd bury the dagger In your silhouette window light go To go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me
Now I lost my Saint Christopher now that I've kissed her And the one-armed bandit knows And the maverick Chinamen, and the cold-blooded signs, And the girls down by the strip-tease shows, go Waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me
No, I don't want your sympathy, the fugitives say That the streets aren't for dreaming now And manslaughter dragnets and the ghosts that sell memories, They want a piece of the action anyhow Go waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me
And you can ask any sailor, and the keys from the jailor, And the old men in wheelchairs know And Mathilda's the defendant, she killed about a hundred, And she follows wherever you may go Waltzing Mathilda, waltzing Mathilda, You'll go waltzing Mathilda with me
And it's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace, And a wound that will never heal No prima donna, the perfume is on an Old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey And goodnight to the street sweepers, the night watchmen flame keepers And goodnight to Mathilda, too
"Diamonds On My Windshield"
Well these diamonds on my windshield And these tears from heaven Well I'm pulling into town on the Interstate I got a steel train in the rain And the wind bites my cheek through the wing And it's these late nights and this freeway flying It always makes me sing
There's a Duster tryin' to change my tune He's pulling up fast on the right Rolling restlessly by a twenty-four hour moon
And a Wisconsin hiker with a cue-ball head He's wishing he was home in a Wiscosin bed But there's fifteen feet of snow in the East Colder then a welldigger's ass And it's colder than a welldigger's ass
Oceanside it ends the ride with San Clemente coming up Those Sunday desperadoes slip by and cruise with a dry back And the orange drive-in the neon billin' And the theatre's fillin' to the brim With slave girls and a hot spurn bucket full of sin
Metropolitan area with interchange and connections Fly-by-nights from Riverside And out of state plates running a little late
But the sailors jockey for the fast lane So 101 don't miss it There's rolling hills and concrete fields And the broken line's on your mind The eights go east and the fives go north And the merging nexus back and forth You see your sign, cross the line, signalling with a blink
And the radio's gone off the air Gives you time to think And you hear the rumble As you fumble for a cigarette And blazing through this midnight jungle Remember someone that you met And one more block; the engine talks Whispers 'home at last' It whispers 'home at last' Whispers 'home at last' It whispers 'home at last' Whispers 'home at last'
And there are diamonds on my windshield And these tears from heaven Well I'm pulling into town on the Interstate I got me a steel train in the rain And the wind bites my cheek through the wing Late nights and freeway flying Always makes me sing It always makes me sing
