Commentary :: Globalization
Hard Times Getting Harder
by Stephen Lendman
Email: lendmanstephen (nospam) sbcglobal.net (unverified!) 18 Sep 2011
economy
Hard Times Getting Harder - by Stephen Lendman
Americans are being hammered economically, politically and socially. Paul Craig Roberts quoted Vladimir Putin calling America "a parasite on the world."
PR manipulators present a virtuous image. Roberts said "Putin understated the burden that America is on the world. How much longer will (it) put up with" our virtuosity?
Death, destruction, and global economic wrecking defines its agenda. Libya at peace became a hellish charnel house. Mainstream Americans suffer greatly in deepening Depression.
Political Washington fattens itself on campaign cash, hanging out to dry struggling millions. Trends analyst Gerald Celente says it's time for direct democracy - "tak(ing) power out of the hands of politicians and put(ting) into the hands of the people."
With their own self-interest at stake, bet on them getting it right. With politicians on the take, they do it only for fat cat contributers, and the bigger the bribe, the more they get.
Depression Defines Today's Economy
Gluskin Sheff chief economist Dave Rosenberg calls what's ongoing "a modern day depression," saying:
A Depression, "simply put, is a very long period of economic malaise and when the economy fails to respond in any meaningful or lasting way to government stimulus programs," or what passes for them with benefits mostly to corporate favorites and super-rich elites.
It's defined by a "series of rolling recessions and modest recoveries over a multi-year period of general economic stagnation as the excesses from the prior asset and credit bubble(s) are completely wrung out of the system."
Using a baseball metaphor, Rosenberg says we're "in the third inning of this current debt deleveraging ball game."
In other words, after three tough years, many more lie ahead for ordinary working households suffering most.
"You know you're in a depression when interest rates go to zero and there is no revival in credit-sensitive spending."
How can there be with banks hoarding nearly $2 trillion in cash. A classic "liquidity trap" occurs when private sector lending dries up.
Depressions usually follow bursting asset bubbles, especially housing ones. Before his August 2007 death, economist Kurt Richebacher warned about them in a 2004 commentary titled, "Property Bubbles: Beware of Property Bubbles."
Citing "economic and financial imbalances," he said America's growth depends "entirely on the continuation of the frenetic housing bubble."
However, "all bubbles end painfully, housing (ones) in particular. They're an especially dangerous asset bubble because of their extraordinary debt intensity."
They cause great harm by extracting wealth (through refinancing) from rising valuations and by "heavily entangl(ing) banks and the whole financial system as lenders."
Thus, property bubbles have historically been the main cause of major financial crises, notably Depressions.
Late 1980s Japan was a striking example. Its stock and property bubbles burst together, but the former got most attention. The "property deflation continued for 13 years (with) calamitous effects on (its) banking system through a horrendous legacy of bad loans."
Japan's "building sector" also suffered and "never recovered from the depression following its (late 1980s) excesses."
Richebacher wondered if America faces the same fate, asking, "Is the US economy in better or worse shape today (in 2004) than in 2000 (as it faced recession)? Is it in a self-sustaining recovery?"
Absolutely not, and he was right, saying "it is in dramatically worse shape" because of years of binge borrowing.
Also because of leveraged asset purchases and soaring imports. The former involves no income creation. The latter destroys it. Moreover, this type borrowing is unproductive dead-weight debt, "yielding to debtors no future flow of income from which to" service it.
As a result, a bad ending is assured. In summer 2007, it arrived with painful, deepening effects. Over three years later, growing millions can explain America's economy better than trained experts by relating their current state.
Rosenberg says Depressions result from "bursting of an asset bubble and a contraction in credit, whereas plain-vanilla recessions are typically caused by inflation and excessive manufacturing inventories."
Moreover, when true unemployment hovers around 23%, and half of those looking did it fruitlessly for six months or longer, "you know you are in something much deeper than a garden-variety recession."
Instead of soup lines in streets, they're "in the mail - 99 weeks of unemployment checks for over 10 million jobless Americans," and many others end up losing them.
In addition, secular change affect attitudes toward debt. Discretionary spending and homeownership plans are altered or curtailed until hard times give way to better ones.
"More fundamentally, in a recession," government stimulus revives economic growth. In Depressions, at best, it's kept from getting worse. Many bucks don't deliver enough bang to spur sustained upward momentum.
"In a recession, everything would be back to a new high nearly three years after" the economy contracted. Currently, "everything" is still below December 2007 levels.
Under normal conditions or garden variety recessions, all the monetary, fiscal and bailout stimulus would revive a "roaring" economy. Because it failed shows Depression conditions exist. That's what bond prices are signaling, with yields approaching Japanese levels. At near zero, it hasn't worked.
Even with current government deficits around 10% of GDP, double Great Depression levels, bucks injected to stimulate bang fell flat.
A decade of credit growth excess created the current mess. No quick fix will end it. Another $5 trillion "has to be extinguished either by paying it down," walking away from it, or having it socialized.
With 10-year Treasuries around 2%, the message not only is something is very wrong but that years are needed to fix it. Even then, only if good, not counterproductive, policies are employed.
At the same time, "epic changes" are occurring in how households allocate budgets, especially regarding discretionary spending and debt at a time they're undergoing a prolonged deleveraging cycle.
Years of credit expansion were fueled by no-doc loans (requiring no documentation), low-doc ones, liar loans, NINJA ones (with no income, jobs or assets), 0% vendor financing, subprime mortgages, risky Alt-A ones, and option ARMs (adjustable rate ones) with negative amortization.
From the mid-1960s through mid-1980s, household debt to income was 70%. In 2002, it was 105%. In 2007, it hit an all-time 140% high, and it's still 120%. It shows years more deleveraging are required to return it to normal levels.
In fact, "for the first time in recorded history, the entire $70 trillion household balance sheet is in a long-term process of shrinking."
It suggests rising savings and weaker private sector growth. It's also deflationary at a time essential commodities are rising, including food, energy, and medical care, key items in every household budget.
Bottom line reality is protracted pain ahead for working households, no matter what policy measures are employed.
Given counterproductive ones proposed and planned (including austerity when stimulus is needed), expect hard times indeed ahead to get harder.
A Final Comment
No wonder America's middle class is disappearing. At its current pace, it won't be long before it's gone.
In his book titled, "How the Economy Was Lost," Paul Craig Roberts said it's gone and won't come back until "free trade myths are buried six feet under."
"America's (19th and) 20th centur(ies) economic success was based on two things. Free trade was not one of them. (It) was based on protectionism (and) British indebtedness."
US economic ascendance eroded by abandoning traditional practices and preaching "free trade" dogma, neoliberalism, globalization, and the disease of offshoring. As a result, "American cities and states lost tax base, and families and communities lost jobs," replaced by fewer lower paying ones.
"The pressure of jobs offshor(ed), together with vast imports, has destroyed the economic prospects for all Americans....Doing a good job, providing a good service, is no longer the corporation's function. Instead," goal one is cutting labor costs, exporting high paid jobs to low wage countries, and hollowing out America for profit.
As bad as it's been it may get worse with millions more white-collar jobs vulnerable to offshoring. They include high paying positions in information technology, accounting, architecture, advanced engineering design, news reporting, stock analysis, and medical and legal services.
In other words, any job, high or low level, performed effectively anywhere will be moved to the lowest paying locales, abandoning America and other higher cost ones.
At the same time, major media scoundrels won't explain it or the truth about America's troubled economy.
Instead, consensus lying reports slow growth but no recession at a time of deepening Depression. In other words, coverup and denial substitutes for hard truths when they're most needed.
In his latest summer review, Gerald Celente says America's "economy is in collapse. Nothing the White House, Congress or the Federal Reserve tries to do to stop the crash" is working.
Everything tried fell flat. Operating on life-support, when the plug finally is pulled "and the money pump stops, the US economy will go down and" take much of the world with it.
It shows financial destruction can be as painful as military might. Either way, ordinary people suffer most, especially when governments they rely on don't help.
That's the state across America and Europe. It's why activism, not apathy, must confront what only will worsen unless effectively addressed.
Of course, responsible leaders are needed to do it. They're, in fact, nowhere in sight, so it's up to voters to clean house for better ones.
Given Americans' choice between bad or worse, it may be beyond reach, but what option is there than to try.
Stephen Lendman lives in Chicago and can be reached at lendmanstephen (at) sbcglobal.net.
Also visit his blog site at sjlendman.blogspot.com and listen to cutting-edge discussions with distinguished guests on the Progressive Radio News Hour on the Progressive Radio Network Thursdays at 10AM US Central time and Saturdays and Sundays at noon. All programs are archived for easy listening.
http://www.progressiveradionetwork.com/the-progressive-news-hour/.
See also:
http://sjlendman.blogspot.com
Showing posts with label hard times in Babylon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hard times in Babylon. Show all posts
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
*Brother (Or Sister), Can You Spare A Dime?- For C.M., North Adamsville Class Of 1964
*Brother (Or Sister), Can You Spare A Dime?- For C.M., North Adamsville Class Of 1964
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CVE72Ae82Tw&feature=related
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Tom Waits performing the classic Great Depression song, Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?.
Banks are failing left and right, being bought up by bigger banks up the food chain enhancing the “too big to fail” syndrome that got us into this economic mess in the first place. Unemployment is way up, and staying steadily up as jobs, working people jobs, have been replaced by computer-generated productivity and factory workers have gone the way of the town crier, the hand-loom weaver, and the lamplighter. Housing values are down on the floor, heading to the basement, with no upswing in sight what with overstocked, unfinished housing and foreclosures glutting the market. A retirement account, the savings for the “golden years,” are subject to the daily twists and turns of the financial markets sensitive to global economic pressures.
And that is the grim news on an average day. Other days ratchet up the doom and gloom from there. And other days just turn off the television, radio, computer, horoscope, tarot cards or however you learn the news of the day. The whys and wherefores of that news, however, is not what this writer wants to comment on though. One of the very few virtues of growing up "dirt poor," 1950s dirt poor in the “golden age” of the post-World War II American economic boom, first in an old jerry-built housing project in old tired working class Adamsville and then across town in an old shack of a house on the wrong side of the tracks on Maple Street near the North Adamsville High School is that even now I am personally inured to the vicissitudes of the economy. Hell, when I was young hard times were the only times. I did not, except by rumor, know there were any other kinds. That came later.
All of the above is by way of making this point. I have been broke more times than I could shake a stick at, both by choice and by the fickleness of fate. The fickleness of fate (and my own stupidity or angst) having a slight edge. I have been flat broke, dead broke, broke six ways to Sunday, and every kind of broke you can think of. At one time I almost make a religion of it, dressing it up in an eloquent moral and philosophical covering. I have been in the clover a few times too, but those have always been very near things.
Let me put it this way. I have leisurely strolled across the Golden Gate Bridge, taking in the sea salt breezes and the spectacular views. I have slept huddled, with a tattered newspaper for a pillow, under the Golden Gate Bridge. I have eaten at restaurants where one does not ask the price, or need to. I have eaten free-for-all stews and watered-down coffee, gladly, from Salvation Army soup lines. I have sat idly on hopeless park benches in nameless forsaken towns, too many nameless forsaken towns. I have sat idly, ice-cubed drink in hand, in a beach chair on some deck watching the surf rise and fall on the rocks at Bar Harbor. I could go on but you get the idea. Here is my accumulated wisdom though-it is much better to have the dough. But just in case the times get even worst than they are now I am keeping in shape. Brother (Or Sister), Can You Spare A Dime?
"Brother, Can You Spare a Dime," lyrics by Yip Harburg, music by Jay Gorney (1931)
They used to tell me I was building a dream, and so I followed the mob,
When there was earth to plow, or guns to bear, I was always there right on the job.
They used to tell me I was building a dream, with peace and glory ahead,
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?
Once I built a railroad, I made it run, made it race against time.
Once I built a railroad; now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once I built a tower, up to the sun, brick, and rivet, and lime;
Once I built a tower, now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Yankee Doodly Dum,
Half a million boots went slogging through Hell,
And I was the kid with the drum!
Say, don't you remember, they called me Al; it was Al all the time.
Why don't you remember, I'm your pal?
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Yankee Doodly Dum,
Half a million boots went slogging through Hell,
And I was the kid with the drum!
Say, don't you remember, they called me Al; it was Al all the time.
Say, don't you remember, I'm your pal?
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CVE72Ae82Tw&feature=related
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Tom Waits performing the classic Great Depression song, Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?.
Banks are failing left and right, being bought up by bigger banks up the food chain enhancing the “too big to fail” syndrome that got us into this economic mess in the first place. Unemployment is way up, and staying steadily up as jobs, working people jobs, have been replaced by computer-generated productivity and factory workers have gone the way of the town crier, the hand-loom weaver, and the lamplighter. Housing values are down on the floor, heading to the basement, with no upswing in sight what with overstocked, unfinished housing and foreclosures glutting the market. A retirement account, the savings for the “golden years,” are subject to the daily twists and turns of the financial markets sensitive to global economic pressures.
And that is the grim news on an average day. Other days ratchet up the doom and gloom from there. And other days just turn off the television, radio, computer, horoscope, tarot cards or however you learn the news of the day. The whys and wherefores of that news, however, is not what this writer wants to comment on though. One of the very few virtues of growing up "dirt poor," 1950s dirt poor in the “golden age” of the post-World War II American economic boom, first in an old jerry-built housing project in old tired working class Adamsville and then across town in an old shack of a house on the wrong side of the tracks on Maple Street near the North Adamsville High School is that even now I am personally inured to the vicissitudes of the economy. Hell, when I was young hard times were the only times. I did not, except by rumor, know there were any other kinds. That came later.
All of the above is by way of making this point. I have been broke more times than I could shake a stick at, both by choice and by the fickleness of fate. The fickleness of fate (and my own stupidity or angst) having a slight edge. I have been flat broke, dead broke, broke six ways to Sunday, and every kind of broke you can think of. At one time I almost make a religion of it, dressing it up in an eloquent moral and philosophical covering. I have been in the clover a few times too, but those have always been very near things.
Let me put it this way. I have leisurely strolled across the Golden Gate Bridge, taking in the sea salt breezes and the spectacular views. I have slept huddled, with a tattered newspaper for a pillow, under the Golden Gate Bridge. I have eaten at restaurants where one does not ask the price, or need to. I have eaten free-for-all stews and watered-down coffee, gladly, from Salvation Army soup lines. I have sat idly on hopeless park benches in nameless forsaken towns, too many nameless forsaken towns. I have sat idly, ice-cubed drink in hand, in a beach chair on some deck watching the surf rise and fall on the rocks at Bar Harbor. I could go on but you get the idea. Here is my accumulated wisdom though-it is much better to have the dough. But just in case the times get even worst than they are now I am keeping in shape. Brother (Or Sister), Can You Spare A Dime?
"Brother, Can You Spare a Dime," lyrics by Yip Harburg, music by Jay Gorney (1931)
They used to tell me I was building a dream, and so I followed the mob,
When there was earth to plow, or guns to bear, I was always there right on the job.
They used to tell me I was building a dream, with peace and glory ahead,
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?
Once I built a railroad, I made it run, made it race against time.
Once I built a railroad; now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once I built a tower, up to the sun, brick, and rivet, and lime;
Once I built a tower, now it's done. Brother, can you spare a dime?
Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Yankee Doodly Dum,
Half a million boots went slogging through Hell,
And I was the kid with the drum!
Say, don't you remember, they called me Al; it was Al all the time.
Why don't you remember, I'm your pal?
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell,
Full of that Yankee Doodly Dum,
Half a million boots went slogging through Hell,
And I was the kid with the drum!
Say, don't you remember, they called me Al; it was Al all the time.
Say, don't you remember, I'm your pal?
Buddy, can you spare a dime?
Monday, October 11, 2010
*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-"Cotton Blue Blues"
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
**********
Winnsboro Cotton Mill Blues
Old man Sargent sitting at the desk,
The damned old fool won't give us no rest.
He'd take the nickels off a dead man's eyes,
To buy a Coca-cola and a Pomo Pie.
cho: I've got the blues,
I've got the blues,
I've got the Winnsboro Cotton Mill blues,
Lordy, lordy, spoolin's hard,
You know and I know, I don't have to tell:
Work for Tom Watson, got to work like hell.
I've got the blues,
I've got the blues,
I've got the Winnsboro Cotton Mill blues,
( Repeat after each verse)
When I die, don't bury me at all,
Just hang me up on the spoolroom wall.
Place a knotter in my hand,
So I can spool in the Promised Land.
When I die, don't bury me deep,
Bury me down on 600 Street,
Place a bobbin in each hand,
So I can dolph in the Promised Land,
**********
Winnsboro Cotton Mill Blues
Old man Sargent sitting at the desk,
The damned old fool won't give us no rest.
He'd take the nickels off a dead man's eyes,
To buy a Coca-cola and a Pomo Pie.
cho: I've got the blues,
I've got the blues,
I've got the Winnsboro Cotton Mill blues,
Lordy, lordy, spoolin's hard,
You know and I know, I don't have to tell:
Work for Tom Watson, got to work like hell.
I've got the blues,
I've got the blues,
I've got the Winnsboro Cotton Mill blues,
( Repeat after each verse)
When I die, don't bury me at all,
Just hang me up on the spoolroom wall.
Place a knotter in my hand,
So I can spool in the Promised Land.
When I die, don't bury me deep,
Bury me down on 600 Street,
Place a bobbin in each hand,
So I can dolph in the Promised Land,
*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-Remembering The Old Songs:THE POOR TRAMP HAS TO LIVE
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
**********
Remembering The Old Songs:
THE POOR TRAMP HAS TO LIVE
by Lyle Lofgren
(Originally published: Inside Bluegrass, November 2006)
Other parts of the world may have nomadic groups, such as gypsies, but the lone homeless tramp belongs to the large open spaces. The rise of the railroads in the 19th century brought new efficiency to migrancy. Anyone with the agility and courage to catch a slow-moving freight car could go anywhere in America without a ticket. If you had charm, you could also cadge a meal from a sympathetic homeowner without even having to chop any wood.
There are lone wanderers, people who can't abide others and who can't sit still, but most of the transients would have preferred to have a home. All kinds of misfortunes could happen to even normal men (women seldom rode the rails) in an era without social safety nets. Unemployment was an important cause, as were financial ruin, injury or sickness, and family difficulties (e.g., young runaways). But the trains also carried alcoholics and criminals on the run, so ordinary people, already afraid of strangers, feared tramps. In response, some who understood the varied causes for migrancy published songs portraying tramps in a positive light. One such broadside, published in the 1880s (reprinted in Norm Cohen's Long Steel Rail: The Railroad in American Folksong), is a high-minded but ponderous 3rd-person plea that includes a chorus:
So if you meet a tramp that bears misfortune's stamp,
If he is worthy of your aid, why freely give.
Give him a hearty grip, wish him luck upon his trip,
And remember that the poor tramp has to live.
At some time during the next 45 years, someone re-wrote (and greatly improved) this song, using mostly new words except for the last line of the chorus. The new version, changed to first person, added details about a railroad injury and the need to sing for spare change. It was first recorded by Walter Morris in 1926, although I learned it from Ernest Stoneman's 1927 cover. Later, when the Great Depression hit, almost everyone was on the move searching for work, and the trains were overwhelmed with migrants. By that time, no one could afford to buy records pleading for help to the tramps.
We still have bums, but you don't hear much about tramps any more, and, as far as the media is concerned, to be a hobo is a hobby. Rail yards are guarded, so freight trains are harder to catch. Drivers are afraid to pick up hitchhikers and there's no place to stow away on an airplane. No wonder our homeless are now sedentary, standing with cardboard signs asking for money but not transportation. It's a bad sign for our future if there's no hope for a ride to a better place.
[CLICK HERE FOR SHEET MUSIC (pdf file)]
Complete Lyrics:
1. I'm a poor old railroad man,
Once a healthy section hand;
And old age is slowly creeping on the way.
Now hard times is coming on
And my last gold dollar is gone,
And this song is what I made to sing and play.
CHORUS:
Now you ofttimes see the stamp
Of a poor unfortunate tramp;
He has no home and has no place to fill.
As you see him pass along
And he sings his little song,
Please remember that the poor tramp has to live.
2. My health broke down out on the track,
With the heavy loads upon my back;
Now I have to make my way the best I can.
We never know when we are young
What may be our future doom.
These words is from a broke-down section hand. CHO.
3. Yes, my health is broken down
And I tramp from town to town;
Sing and play, take whatever you may give.
While I try to play and sing,
Just divide your little change,
And remember that the poor tramp has to live. CHO.
**********
Remembering The Old Songs:
THE POOR TRAMP HAS TO LIVE
by Lyle Lofgren
(Originally published: Inside Bluegrass, November 2006)
Other parts of the world may have nomadic groups, such as gypsies, but the lone homeless tramp belongs to the large open spaces. The rise of the railroads in the 19th century brought new efficiency to migrancy. Anyone with the agility and courage to catch a slow-moving freight car could go anywhere in America without a ticket. If you had charm, you could also cadge a meal from a sympathetic homeowner without even having to chop any wood.
There are lone wanderers, people who can't abide others and who can't sit still, but most of the transients would have preferred to have a home. All kinds of misfortunes could happen to even normal men (women seldom rode the rails) in an era without social safety nets. Unemployment was an important cause, as were financial ruin, injury or sickness, and family difficulties (e.g., young runaways). But the trains also carried alcoholics and criminals on the run, so ordinary people, already afraid of strangers, feared tramps. In response, some who understood the varied causes for migrancy published songs portraying tramps in a positive light. One such broadside, published in the 1880s (reprinted in Norm Cohen's Long Steel Rail: The Railroad in American Folksong), is a high-minded but ponderous 3rd-person plea that includes a chorus:
So if you meet a tramp that bears misfortune's stamp,
If he is worthy of your aid, why freely give.
Give him a hearty grip, wish him luck upon his trip,
And remember that the poor tramp has to live.
At some time during the next 45 years, someone re-wrote (and greatly improved) this song, using mostly new words except for the last line of the chorus. The new version, changed to first person, added details about a railroad injury and the need to sing for spare change. It was first recorded by Walter Morris in 1926, although I learned it from Ernest Stoneman's 1927 cover. Later, when the Great Depression hit, almost everyone was on the move searching for work, and the trains were overwhelmed with migrants. By that time, no one could afford to buy records pleading for help to the tramps.
We still have bums, but you don't hear much about tramps any more, and, as far as the media is concerned, to be a hobo is a hobby. Rail yards are guarded, so freight trains are harder to catch. Drivers are afraid to pick up hitchhikers and there's no place to stow away on an airplane. No wonder our homeless are now sedentary, standing with cardboard signs asking for money but not transportation. It's a bad sign for our future if there's no hope for a ride to a better place.
[CLICK HERE FOR SHEET MUSIC (pdf file)]
Complete Lyrics:
1. I'm a poor old railroad man,
Once a healthy section hand;
And old age is slowly creeping on the way.
Now hard times is coming on
And my last gold dollar is gone,
And this song is what I made to sing and play.
CHORUS:
Now you ofttimes see the stamp
Of a poor unfortunate tramp;
He has no home and has no place to fill.
As you see him pass along
And he sings his little song,
Please remember that the poor tramp has to live.
2. My health broke down out on the track,
With the heavy loads upon my back;
Now I have to make my way the best I can.
We never know when we are young
What may be our future doom.
These words is from a broke-down section hand. CHO.
3. Yes, my health is broken down
And I tramp from town to town;
Sing and play, take whatever you may give.
While I try to play and sing,
Just divide your little change,
And remember that the poor tramp has to live. CHO.
*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-COTTON MILL COLIC-(DAVE McCARN) (1926)
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
***********
COTTON MILL COLIC
(DAVE McCARN) (1926)
Any copyrighted material on these pages is used in "fair use", for the purpose of study, review or critical analysis only, and will be removed at the request of copyright owner(s)
McCarn wrote this song in 1926. Released on record in August 1930, it was soon being sung by striking Piedmont mill workers. It was collected by Alan Lomax in 1939 and appeared in FOLKSONGS OF NORTH AMERICA and OUR SINGING COUNTRY. It's recording history is long and includes versions by Lester Pete Bivins (Decca), the Blue Sky Boys (Capitol) and both Pete & Mike Seeger (Folkways). Probably it is McCarn's best composition; revealing with wry humour the often grim situation of the millhand unable to get straight financially.
Mike Paris, liner notes for "Singers of the Piedmont," Folk Variety/Bear Family Records 15505. 1970s.
Recorded May 19, 1930, Memphis, TN (Vi 40274).
Lyrics as reprinted in liner notes for "Singers of the Piedmont," Folk Variety/Bear Family Records 15505, 1970s.
When you buy clothes on easy terms,
Collectors treat you like measly worms.
One dollar down, then Lord knows,
If you can't make a payment, they'll take your clothes.
When you go to bed you can't sleep,
You owe so much at the end of the week.
No use to colic, they're all that way,
Pecking at your door till they get your pay.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
When you go to work you work like the devil,
At the end of the week you're not on the level.
Payday comes, you pay your rent,
When you get through you've notgot a cent
To buy fat-back meat, pinto beans,
Now and then you get turnip greens.
No use to colic, we're all that way,
Can't get the money to move away.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
Twelve dollars a week is all we get,
How in the heck can we live on that?
I've got a wife and fourteen kids,
We all have to sleep on two bedsteads.
Patches on my britches, holes in my hat,
Ain't had a shave, my wife got fat.
No use to colic, everyday at noon,
The kids get to crying in a different tune.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
They run a few days and then they stand,
Just to keep down the working man.
We can't make it, we never will,
As long as we stay at a lousy mill.
The poor are getting poorer, the rich are getting richer,
If you don't starve, I'm a son of a gun.
No use to colic, no use to rave,
We'll never rest till we're in our grave.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
***********
COTTON MILL COLIC
(DAVE McCARN) (1926)
Any copyrighted material on these pages is used in "fair use", for the purpose of study, review or critical analysis only, and will be removed at the request of copyright owner(s)
McCarn wrote this song in 1926. Released on record in August 1930, it was soon being sung by striking Piedmont mill workers. It was collected by Alan Lomax in 1939 and appeared in FOLKSONGS OF NORTH AMERICA and OUR SINGING COUNTRY. It's recording history is long and includes versions by Lester Pete Bivins (Decca), the Blue Sky Boys (Capitol) and both Pete & Mike Seeger (Folkways). Probably it is McCarn's best composition; revealing with wry humour the often grim situation of the millhand unable to get straight financially.
Mike Paris, liner notes for "Singers of the Piedmont," Folk Variety/Bear Family Records 15505. 1970s.
Recorded May 19, 1930, Memphis, TN (Vi 40274).
Lyrics as reprinted in liner notes for "Singers of the Piedmont," Folk Variety/Bear Family Records 15505, 1970s.
When you buy clothes on easy terms,
Collectors treat you like measly worms.
One dollar down, then Lord knows,
If you can't make a payment, they'll take your clothes.
When you go to bed you can't sleep,
You owe so much at the end of the week.
No use to colic, they're all that way,
Pecking at your door till they get your pay.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
When you go to work you work like the devil,
At the end of the week you're not on the level.
Payday comes, you pay your rent,
When you get through you've notgot a cent
To buy fat-back meat, pinto beans,
Now and then you get turnip greens.
No use to colic, we're all that way,
Can't get the money to move away.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
Twelve dollars a week is all we get,
How in the heck can we live on that?
I've got a wife and fourteen kids,
We all have to sleep on two bedsteads.
Patches on my britches, holes in my hat,
Ain't had a shave, my wife got fat.
No use to colic, everyday at noon,
The kids get to crying in a different tune.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
They run a few days and then they stand,
Just to keep down the working man.
We can't make it, we never will,
As long as we stay at a lousy mill.
The poor are getting poorer, the rich are getting richer,
If you don't starve, I'm a son of a gun.
No use to colic, no use to rave,
We'll never rest till we're in our grave.
I'm a-gonna starve, and everybody will,
'Cause you can't make a living at a cotton mill.
*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-"Blue Harvest Blues"-Mississippi John Hurt
Click on the title to link a YouTube film clip.
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
**********
Blue Harvest Blues
Standing on the mountain : far as I can see
Dark clouds above me : clouds all around poor me
Feeling low and weary : Lord I've got a trouble in mind
Everything that gets me : everybody's so unkind
Harvest time's coming : and will catch me unprepared
Haven't made a dollar : bad luck is all I've had
Lord how can I bear it : Lord what will the harvest bring
Putting up all my money : and I isn't got a doggone thing
I'm a weary traveler : roaming around from place to place
If I don't find something : this will end me in disgrace
Ain't got no mother : father left me long ago
I'm just like an orphan : where my folks is I don't know
Blues around my shoulder : blues are all around my head
With my heavy burden : Lord I wished I was dead
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
**********
Blue Harvest Blues
Standing on the mountain : far as I can see
Dark clouds above me : clouds all around poor me
Feeling low and weary : Lord I've got a trouble in mind
Everything that gets me : everybody's so unkind
Harvest time's coming : and will catch me unprepared
Haven't made a dollar : bad luck is all I've had
Lord how can I bear it : Lord what will the harvest bring
Putting up all my money : and I isn't got a doggone thing
I'm a weary traveler : roaming around from place to place
If I don't find something : this will end me in disgrace
Ain't got no mother : father left me long ago
I'm just like an orphan : where my folks is I don't know
Blues around my shoulder : blues are all around my head
With my heavy burden : Lord I wished I was dead
*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-"Georgia Blues"- Ethel Waters
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
******
Georgia Blues
(Higgins-Overstreet)
Transcribed from vocals by Ethel Waters, recorded 5/1922.
From Ethel Waters 1921 - 1923, The Chronogical Classics, vol. 796.
I feel bad,
I feel sad,
But it won't be very long
Before I'll be feeling glad,
I just sigh,
I could die;
I have got Georgia blues,
And I'm just too mean to cry;
I don't live in Boston;
I wasn't born in Maine;
If I don't go to Georgia,
I will surely go insane.
I've got the Georgia blues,
'Cause I've got bad news;
I'm gonna catch a train,
And I ain't gonna stop until I'm home,
Home again;
I'm not satisfied,
Just must take a ride;
Gee, but I'll be happy
With my baby by my side;
Hear that whistle blow,
Now it's time to go,
'Cause the train is waiting,
Got no time to lose,
A certain party that I know
Offered me a ticket to Chicago.
But he can have it, I don't want it,
'Cause I got the Georgia blues.
I've got those Georgia blues,
'Cause I got bad news
I'm gonna catch a train,
And I ain't gonna stop until I'm home, home,
Home again;
I'm not satisfied,
Just must take a ride;
Gee, but I'll be happy
With my sweet daddy by my side;
Hear that whistle blow,
Now it's time to go,
My train is waiting
Got no time to lose,
A party wanted to marry me, way last spring,
Even bought me a brand new diamond ring,
But he can have it, I don't want it,
'Cause I got the Georgia blues.
******
Georgia Blues
(Higgins-Overstreet)
Transcribed from vocals by Ethel Waters, recorded 5/1922.
From Ethel Waters 1921 - 1923, The Chronogical Classics, vol. 796.
I feel bad,
I feel sad,
But it won't be very long
Before I'll be feeling glad,
I just sigh,
I could die;
I have got Georgia blues,
And I'm just too mean to cry;
I don't live in Boston;
I wasn't born in Maine;
If I don't go to Georgia,
I will surely go insane.
I've got the Georgia blues,
'Cause I've got bad news;
I'm gonna catch a train,
And I ain't gonna stop until I'm home,
Home again;
I'm not satisfied,
Just must take a ride;
Gee, but I'll be happy
With my baby by my side;
Hear that whistle blow,
Now it's time to go,
'Cause the train is waiting,
Got no time to lose,
A certain party that I know
Offered me a ticket to Chicago.
But he can have it, I don't want it,
'Cause I got the Georgia blues.
I've got those Georgia blues,
'Cause I got bad news
I'm gonna catch a train,
And I ain't gonna stop until I'm home, home,
Home again;
I'm not satisfied,
Just must take a ride;
Gee, but I'll be happy
With my sweet daddy by my side;
Hear that whistle blow,
Now it's time to go,
My train is waiting
Got no time to lose,
A party wanted to marry me, way last spring,
Even bought me a brand new diamond ring,
But he can have it, I don't want it,
'Cause I got the Georgia blues.
*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-"One Dime Blues"-Blind Lemmon Jefferson
Click on the title to link a YouTube film clip.
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
**********
BLIND LEMON JEFFERSON ONE DIME BLUES LYRICS
I'm broke and I aint got a dime,
I'm broke and I aint got a dime,
I'm broke and aint got a dime,
Everybody gets in hard luck
sometime.
You want your friend to be bad like
Jesse James ?
You want your friend to be bad like
Jesse James ?
You want your friend to be bad like
Jesse James ?
Just give'm a six shooter and
highway some passenger train.
In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
**********
BLIND LEMON JEFFERSON ONE DIME BLUES LYRICS
I'm broke and I aint got a dime,
I'm broke and I aint got a dime,
I'm broke and aint got a dime,
Everybody gets in hard luck
sometime.
You want your friend to be bad like
Jesse James ?
You want your friend to be bad like
Jesse James ?
You want your friend to be bad like
Jesse James ?
Just give'm a six shooter and
highway some passenger train.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-Blind Alfred Reed's "How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times And Live"
Click on the title to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Bruce Springsteen performing Blind Alfred Reed's "How Can Poor man Stand Such Times And Live".
In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here.
In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
*The Genesis of The Folk Revival - A New Lost City Ramblers Encore
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of The New Lost City Ramblers In Concert.
CD Review
The New Lost City Ramblers: The Early Years, 1958-1962, The New Lost City Ramblers, Smithstonian/Follways, 1991
Recently I was listening to a local talk show here in Boston in which the subject was which way at least part of the American music scene was headed. One of the premises of the show was that roots music, you know, the blues, jazz, and the mountain music presented here in this album was once again going to form the new “in " music. Fair enough. These genres have been mined before for their expressions of Americana and they can be mined in the future for that same purpose. But here is the question that I have that underlies that above-mentioned radio show premise. How is it that “roots” music, and here I want to concentrate on mountain music and other traditions genres, transmitted?
Well, one answer to that question, before the last “dust-up’ a few years ago with the movies “The Song Catcher” and George Clooney’s “Brother, Where Art Thou”, was the folk revival of the early 1960’s. And one of the key groups that consciously sought to find and play that music in its old form was the group under review, The New Lost City Ramblers. Needless to say, having Mike Seeger the legendary Pete’s Seeger's half-brother involved meant that there is going to be a very deep respect for those traditions. And it shows here in this compilation of their work from 1963-73. There is pure mountain music, some ragtime, some elemental jazzy things, some impromptu jug music, a little talking blues, some politics of the liberal FDR kind; in short everything one needs to investigate the music of the folk before the arrival of serious technology changed the regional nature of folk and traditional music forever. Listen here for thoughtful renditions of these types of music and respect for the instrumentation of the times.
HOW CAN A POOR MAN STAND SUCH TIMES AND LIVE ?
Blind Alfred Reed - 1929
There once was a time when everything was cheap,
But now prices nearly puts a man to sleep.
When we pay our grocery bill,
We just feel like making our will --
I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt,
We could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt.
Now we pay three bucks or more,
Maybe get a shirt that another man wore --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, I used to trade with a man by the name of Gray,
Flour was fifty cents for a twenty-four pound bag.
Now it's a dollar and a half beside,
Just like a-skinning off a flea for the hide --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent,
But they see to it that every child is sent.
If we don't send everyday,
We have a heavy fine to pay --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right,
There's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight.
Officers kill without a cause,
They complain about funny laws --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Most all preachers preach for gold and not for souls,
That's what keeps a poor man always in a hole.
We can hardly get our breath,
Taxed and schooled and preached to death --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, it's time for every man to be awake,
We pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak.
When we get our package home,
A little wad of paper with gristle and a bone --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, the doctor comes around with a face all bright,
And he says in a little while you'll be all right.
All he gives is a humbug pill,
A dose of dope and a great big bill --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
We've Got Franklin Delano Roosevelt Back Again Lyrics
WE'VE GOT FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT BACK AGAIN
Just hand me my old Martin for soon I will be startin'
Back to dear old Charleston far away
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected, we'll not be neglected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Back again, back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got legal wine, whiskey, beer and gin
I'll take a drink of brandy and let myself be handy
Good old times are coming back again
You can laugh and tell a joke, you can dance and drink and smoke
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We'll have money in our jeans
We can travel with the queen
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No more breadlines, we're happy to say the donkey won election
day
No more standing in the blowing, snowing rain
He's got things in full swing, we're all working and getting our
pay
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No Depression In Heaven
For fear the hearts of men are failing,
For these are latter days we know
The Great Depression now is spreading,
God's word declared it would be so
I'm going where there's no depression,
To the lovely land that's free from care
I'll leave this world of toil and trouble,
My home's in Heaven, I'm going there
In that bright land, there'll be no hunger,
No orphan children crying for bread,
No weeping widows, toil or struggle,
No shrouds, no coffins, and no death
This dark hour of midnight nearing
And tribulation time will come
The storms will hurl in midnight fear
And sweep lost millions to their doom
My Sweet Farm Girl - Clarence Ashley
Lyrics:
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
She knows I know how to keep her satisfied
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
Pull up the hose; I keep her lawn all wet
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
We eat our breakfast, then we ride on back to town
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I plow her land, and then I sow my seeds
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
She loves her daddy because I'm long and hard
Notes:
Recorded on December 1, 1931 in New York City. Ashley plays guitar and sings, with Gwen Foster on guitar and harmonica. The sexual connotations are rather obvious.
Battleship Of Maine - Lyrics & Chords
C
Mc Kinley called for volunteers,
Then I got my gun,
F
First Spaniard I saw coming
C
I dropped my gun and run,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Chorus:
C
At war with that great nation Spain,
When I get back to Spain I want to honor my name,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Why are you running,
Are you afraid to die,
The reason that I'm running
Is because I cannot fly,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The blood was a-running
And I was running too,
I give my feet good exercise,
I had nothing else to do,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
When they were a-chasing me,
I fell down on my knees,
First thing I cast my eyes upon
Was a great big pot of peas,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The peas they were greasy,
The meat it was fat,
The boys was fighting Spaniards
While I was fighting that,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
CD Review
The New Lost City Ramblers: The Early Years, 1958-1962, The New Lost City Ramblers, Smithstonian/Follways, 1991
Recently I was listening to a local talk show here in Boston in which the subject was which way at least part of the American music scene was headed. One of the premises of the show was that roots music, you know, the blues, jazz, and the mountain music presented here in this album was once again going to form the new “in " music. Fair enough. These genres have been mined before for their expressions of Americana and they can be mined in the future for that same purpose. But here is the question that I have that underlies that above-mentioned radio show premise. How is it that “roots” music, and here I want to concentrate on mountain music and other traditions genres, transmitted?
Well, one answer to that question, before the last “dust-up’ a few years ago with the movies “The Song Catcher” and George Clooney’s “Brother, Where Art Thou”, was the folk revival of the early 1960’s. And one of the key groups that consciously sought to find and play that music in its old form was the group under review, The New Lost City Ramblers. Needless to say, having Mike Seeger the legendary Pete’s Seeger's half-brother involved meant that there is going to be a very deep respect for those traditions. And it shows here in this compilation of their work from 1963-73. There is pure mountain music, some ragtime, some elemental jazzy things, some impromptu jug music, a little talking blues, some politics of the liberal FDR kind; in short everything one needs to investigate the music of the folk before the arrival of serious technology changed the regional nature of folk and traditional music forever. Listen here for thoughtful renditions of these types of music and respect for the instrumentation of the times.
HOW CAN A POOR MAN STAND SUCH TIMES AND LIVE ?
Blind Alfred Reed - 1929
There once was a time when everything was cheap,
But now prices nearly puts a man to sleep.
When we pay our grocery bill,
We just feel like making our will --
I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt,
We could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt.
Now we pay three bucks or more,
Maybe get a shirt that another man wore --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, I used to trade with a man by the name of Gray,
Flour was fifty cents for a twenty-four pound bag.
Now it's a dollar and a half beside,
Just like a-skinning off a flea for the hide --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent,
But they see to it that every child is sent.
If we don't send everyday,
We have a heavy fine to pay --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right,
There's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight.
Officers kill without a cause,
They complain about funny laws --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Most all preachers preach for gold and not for souls,
That's what keeps a poor man always in a hole.
We can hardly get our breath,
Taxed and schooled and preached to death --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, it's time for every man to be awake,
We pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak.
When we get our package home,
A little wad of paper with gristle and a bone --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, the doctor comes around with a face all bright,
And he says in a little while you'll be all right.
All he gives is a humbug pill,
A dose of dope and a great big bill --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
We've Got Franklin Delano Roosevelt Back Again Lyrics
WE'VE GOT FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT BACK AGAIN
Just hand me my old Martin for soon I will be startin'
Back to dear old Charleston far away
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected, we'll not be neglected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Back again, back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got legal wine, whiskey, beer and gin
I'll take a drink of brandy and let myself be handy
Good old times are coming back again
You can laugh and tell a joke, you can dance and drink and smoke
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We'll have money in our jeans
We can travel with the queen
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No more breadlines, we're happy to say the donkey won election
day
No more standing in the blowing, snowing rain
He's got things in full swing, we're all working and getting our
pay
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No Depression In Heaven
For fear the hearts of men are failing,
For these are latter days we know
The Great Depression now is spreading,
God's word declared it would be so
I'm going where there's no depression,
To the lovely land that's free from care
I'll leave this world of toil and trouble,
My home's in Heaven, I'm going there
In that bright land, there'll be no hunger,
No orphan children crying for bread,
No weeping widows, toil or struggle,
No shrouds, no coffins, and no death
This dark hour of midnight nearing
And tribulation time will come
The storms will hurl in midnight fear
And sweep lost millions to their doom
My Sweet Farm Girl - Clarence Ashley
Lyrics:
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
She knows I know how to keep her satisfied
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
Pull up the hose; I keep her lawn all wet
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
We eat our breakfast, then we ride on back to town
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I plow her land, and then I sow my seeds
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
She loves her daddy because I'm long and hard
Notes:
Recorded on December 1, 1931 in New York City. Ashley plays guitar and sings, with Gwen Foster on guitar and harmonica. The sexual connotations are rather obvious.
Battleship Of Maine - Lyrics & Chords
C
Mc Kinley called for volunteers,
Then I got my gun,
F
First Spaniard I saw coming
C
I dropped my gun and run,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Chorus:
C
At war with that great nation Spain,
When I get back to Spain I want to honor my name,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Why are you running,
Are you afraid to die,
The reason that I'm running
Is because I cannot fly,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The blood was a-running
And I was running too,
I give my feet good exercise,
I had nothing else to do,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
When they were a-chasing me,
I fell down on my knees,
First thing I cast my eyes upon
Was a great big pot of peas,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The peas they were greasy,
The meat it was fat,
The boys was fighting Spaniards
While I was fighting that,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
*They'll Be Coming Around The Mountain-Again- The Music Of Appalachia-The New Lost City Ramblers
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of The New Lost City Ramblers.
CD Review
Outstanding In Their Field, Volume II, 1963-73, The New Lost City Ramblers, Smithstonian/Follways, 1993
Recently I was listening to a local talk show here in Boston in which the subject was which way at least part of the American music scene was headed. One of the premises of the show was that roots music, you know, the blues, jazz, and the mountain music presented here in this album was once again going to form the new “in " music. Fair enough. These genres have been mined before for their expressions of Americana and they can be mined in the future for that same purpose. But here is the question that I have that underlies that above-mentioned radio show premise. How is it that “roots” music, and here I want to concentrate on mountain music and other traditions genres, transmitted?
Well, one answer to that question, before the last “dust-up’ a few years ago with the movies "The Song Catcher" and George Clooney’s "Brother, Where Art Thou", was the folk revival of the early 1960’s. And one of the key groups that consciously sought to find and play that music in its old form was the group under review, The New Lost City Ramblers. Needless to say, having Mike Seeger the legendary Pete’s Seeger's half-brother involved meant that there is going to be a very deep respect for those traditions. And it shows here in this compilation of their work from 1963-73. There is pure mountain music, some ragtime, some elemental jazzy things, some impromptu jug music, a little talking blues, Cajun; in short everything one needs to investigate the music of the folk before the arrival of serious technology changed the regional nature of folk and traditional music forever. Listen here for thoughtful renditions of these types of music and respect for the instrumentation of the times.
HOW CAN A POOR MAN STAND SUCH TIMES AND LIVE ?
Blind Alfred Reed - 1929
There once was a time when everything was cheap,
But now prices nearly puts a man to sleep.
When we pay our grocery bill,
We just feel like making our will --
I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt,
We could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt.
Now we pay three bucks or more,
Maybe get a shirt that another man wore --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, I used to trade with a man by the name of Gray,
Flour was fifty cents for a twenty-four pound bag.
Now it's a dollar and a half beside,
Just like a-skinning off a flea for the hide --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent,
But they see to it that every child is sent.
If we don't send everyday,
We have a heavy fine to pay --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right,
There's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight.
Officers kill without a cause,
They complain about funny laws --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Most all preachers preach for gold and not for souls,
That's what keeps a poor man always in a hole.
We can hardly get our breath,
Taxed and schooled and preached to death --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, it's time for every man to be awake,
We pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak.
When we get our package home,
A little wad of paper with gristle and a bone --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, the doctor comes around with a face all bright,
And he says in a little while you'll be all right.
All he gives is a humbug pill,
A dose of dope and a great big bill --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
We've Got Franklin Delano Roosevelt Back Again Lyrics
WE'VE GOT FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT BACK AGAIN
Just hand me my old Martin for soon I will be startin'
Back to dear old Charleston far away
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected, we'll not be neglected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Back again, back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got legal wine, whiskey, beer and gin
I'll take a drink of brandy and let myself be handy
Good old times are coming back again
You can laugh and tell a joke, you can dance and drink and smoke
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We'll have money in our jeans
We can travel with the queen
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No more breadlines, we're happy to say the donkey won election
day
No more standing in the blowing, snowing rain
He's got things in full swing, we're all working and getting our
pay
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No Depression In Heaven
For fear the hearts of men are failing,
For these are latter days we know
The Great Depression now is spreading,
God's word declared it would be so
I'm going where there's no depression,
To the lovely land that's free from care
I'll leave this world of toil and trouble,
My home's in Heaven, I'm going there
In that bright land, there'll be no hunger,
No orphan children crying for bread,
No weeping widows, toil or struggle,
No shrouds, no coffins, and no death
This dark hour of midnight nearing
And tribulation time will come
The storms will hurl in midnight fear
And sweep lost millions to their doom
My Sweet Farm Girl - Clarence Ashley
Lyrics:
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
She knows I know how to keep her satisfied
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
Pull up the hose; I keep her lawn all wet
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
We eat our breakfast, then we ride on back to town
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I plow her land, and then I sow my seeds
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
She loves her daddy because I'm long and hard
Notes:
Recorded on December 1, 1931 in New York City. Ashley plays guitar and sings, with Gwen Foster on guitar and harmonica. The sexual connotations are rather obvious.
Battleship Of Maine - Lyrics & Chords
C
Mc Kinley called for volunteers,
Then I got my gun,
F
First Spaniard I saw coming
C
I dropped my gun and run,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Chorus:
C
At war with that great nation Spain,
When I get back to Spain I want to honor my name,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Why are you running,
Are you afraid to die,
The reason that I'm running
Is because I cannot fly,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The blood was a-running
And I was running too,
I give my feet good exercise,
I had nothing else to do,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
When they were a-chasing me,
I fell down on my knees,
First thing I cast my eyes upon
Was a great big pot of peas,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The peas they were greasy,
The meat it was fat,
The boys was fighting Spaniards
While I was fighting that,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
CD Review
Outstanding In Their Field, Volume II, 1963-73, The New Lost City Ramblers, Smithstonian/Follways, 1993
Recently I was listening to a local talk show here in Boston in which the subject was which way at least part of the American music scene was headed. One of the premises of the show was that roots music, you know, the blues, jazz, and the mountain music presented here in this album was once again going to form the new “in " music. Fair enough. These genres have been mined before for their expressions of Americana and they can be mined in the future for that same purpose. But here is the question that I have that underlies that above-mentioned radio show premise. How is it that “roots” music, and here I want to concentrate on mountain music and other traditions genres, transmitted?
Well, one answer to that question, before the last “dust-up’ a few years ago with the movies "The Song Catcher" and George Clooney’s "Brother, Where Art Thou", was the folk revival of the early 1960’s. And one of the key groups that consciously sought to find and play that music in its old form was the group under review, The New Lost City Ramblers. Needless to say, having Mike Seeger the legendary Pete’s Seeger's half-brother involved meant that there is going to be a very deep respect for those traditions. And it shows here in this compilation of their work from 1963-73. There is pure mountain music, some ragtime, some elemental jazzy things, some impromptu jug music, a little talking blues, Cajun; in short everything one needs to investigate the music of the folk before the arrival of serious technology changed the regional nature of folk and traditional music forever. Listen here for thoughtful renditions of these types of music and respect for the instrumentation of the times.
HOW CAN A POOR MAN STAND SUCH TIMES AND LIVE ?
Blind Alfred Reed - 1929
There once was a time when everything was cheap,
But now prices nearly puts a man to sleep.
When we pay our grocery bill,
We just feel like making our will --
I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt,
We could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt.
Now we pay three bucks or more,
Maybe get a shirt that another man wore --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, I used to trade with a man by the name of Gray,
Flour was fifty cents for a twenty-four pound bag.
Now it's a dollar and a half beside,
Just like a-skinning off a flea for the hide --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent,
But they see to it that every child is sent.
If we don't send everyday,
We have a heavy fine to pay --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right,
There's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight.
Officers kill without a cause,
They complain about funny laws --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Most all preachers preach for gold and not for souls,
That's what keeps a poor man always in a hole.
We can hardly get our breath,
Taxed and schooled and preached to death --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, it's time for every man to be awake,
We pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak.
When we get our package home,
A little wad of paper with gristle and a bone --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, the doctor comes around with a face all bright,
And he says in a little while you'll be all right.
All he gives is a humbug pill,
A dose of dope and a great big bill --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
We've Got Franklin Delano Roosevelt Back Again Lyrics
WE'VE GOT FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT BACK AGAIN
Just hand me my old Martin for soon I will be startin'
Back to dear old Charleston far away
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected, we'll not be neglected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Back again, back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got legal wine, whiskey, beer and gin
I'll take a drink of brandy and let myself be handy
Good old times are coming back again
You can laugh and tell a joke, you can dance and drink and smoke
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We'll have money in our jeans
We can travel with the queen
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No more breadlines, we're happy to say the donkey won election
day
No more standing in the blowing, snowing rain
He's got things in full swing, we're all working and getting our
pay
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
Since Roosevelt's been re-elected
Moon liquor's been corrected
We've got Franklin D. Roosevelt back again
No Depression In Heaven
For fear the hearts of men are failing,
For these are latter days we know
The Great Depression now is spreading,
God's word declared it would be so
I'm going where there's no depression,
To the lovely land that's free from care
I'll leave this world of toil and trouble,
My home's in Heaven, I'm going there
In that bright land, there'll be no hunger,
No orphan children crying for bread,
No weeping widows, toil or struggle,
No shrouds, no coffins, and no death
This dark hour of midnight nearing
And tribulation time will come
The storms will hurl in midnight fear
And sweep lost millions to their doom
My Sweet Farm Girl - Clarence Ashley
Lyrics:
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
My sweet farm girl, she's jolly of my pride
She knows I know how to keep her satisfied
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
So early in the morning I cut her grass you bet
Pull up the hose; I keep her lawn all wet
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
I close her fire; I shake her ashes down
We eat our breakfast, then we ride on back to town
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I keep her garden all free from bugs and weeds
I plow her land, and then I sow my seeds
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
I trim her hedges; I clean out her back yard
She loves her daddy because I'm long and hard
Notes:
Recorded on December 1, 1931 in New York City. Ashley plays guitar and sings, with Gwen Foster on guitar and harmonica. The sexual connotations are rather obvious.
Battleship Of Maine - Lyrics & Chords
C
Mc Kinley called for volunteers,
Then I got my gun,
F
First Spaniard I saw coming
C
I dropped my gun and run,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Chorus:
C
At war with that great nation Spain,
When I get back to Spain I want to honor my name,
G7 C
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
Why are you running,
Are you afraid to die,
The reason that I'm running
Is because I cannot fly,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The blood was a-running
And I was running too,
I give my feet good exercise,
I had nothing else to do,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
When they were a-chasing me,
I fell down on my knees,
First thing I cast my eyes upon
Was a great big pot of peas,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
The peas they were greasy,
The meat it was fat,
The boys was fighting Spaniards
While I was fighting that,
It was all about that Battleship of Maine.
*They'll Be Coming Around The Mountain-Again- The Music Of Appalachia
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of The Soggy Mountain Boys Doing "Man Of Constant Sorrow".
CD REVIEW
Man Of Constant Sorrow and Other Timeless Ballads, various artists, Yazoo, 2002
Recently I was listening to a local talk show here in Boston in which the subject was which way at least part of the American music scene was headed. One of the premises of the show was that roots music, you know, the blues, jazz, and the mountain music presented here in this album was once again going to form the new “in " music. Fair enough. These genres have been mined before for their expressions of Americana and they can be mined in the future for that same purpose. But here is the question that I have that underlies that above-mentioned radio show premise. What is it about “roots” music, and here I want to concentrate on mountain music, that reaches out to many generations, social classes and tastes far removed from those craggy coal-laden hills of Appalachia and other isolated regions of the country?
Well one reason for this reviewer, as least, is that confirmed urbanite that he is a little scratch at his “roots” reveals a father who grew up in the coal mining regions of Kentucky and whose extended family mined the coal back into some mists of memory. Scratch your family tree, especially if your family has been here a few generations and you might find some mountain there too. But enough of that as a reason. How about simple lyrics that talk of hard lives, longing, love, death, hard death, tragic death, death by many means not as a strange outside thing but as very personally expressed ways of understanding the world in the land of the hollows and creeks. Add to that the obligatory fiddle, maybe a mandolin, or other handmade musical instrument of choice and you have an idea, or the beginning of an idea, of the appeal of this music today. Hell, some of it in the end is just music to be social on those long lonesome Saturday nights after a hard week of work and (in the beginning) before radio took center stage. We leave off the dissertation with that said.
As always the question on any compilation, especially as here we are dealing with very old tracks from some very old records produced in the 1920’s and 1930’s, is what is worth listening to. Well, my number one choice here is the two-part “The Island Unknown” by Eck Robertson and Family that closes out this CD. Jesus, even to this hardened city boy this is hauntingly beautiful. How about Buell Kazee on “John Hardy”. It has been done a million times but listen to this version of the story, it is a little different. And of course the also well-covered title song “Man Of Constant Sorrow”. This is good stuff. By the way, when your friends come and try to high hat you with their knowledge of the “in” music just run this little CD at them.
Willie Moore
Willie Moore was a king, his age twenty-one,
He courted a damsel fair;
O, her eyes was as bright as the diamonds every night,
And wavy black was her hair.
He courted her both night and day,
'Til to marry they did agree;
But when he came to get her parents consent,
They said it could never be.
She threw herself in Willie Moore's arms,
As oftime had done before;
But little did he think when they parted that night,
Sweet Anna he would see no more.
It was about the tenth of May,
The time I remember well;
That very same night, her body disappeared
In a way no tongue could tell.
Sweet Annie was loved both far and near,
Had friends most all around;
And in a little brook before the cottage door,
The body of sweet Anna was found.
She was taken by her weeping friends,
And carried to her parent's room,
And there she was dressed in a gown of snowy white,
And laid her in a lonely tomb.
Her parents now are left all alone,
One mourns while the other one weeps;
And in a grassy mound before the cottage door,
The body of sweet Anna still sleeps.
[Willie Moore never spoke that anyone heard,
And at length from his friends did part,
And the last heard from him, he'd gone to Montreal,
Where he died of a broken heart.]
This song was composed in the flowery West
By a man you may never have seen;
O, I'll tell you his name, but it is not in full,
His initials are J.R.D.4
A Man Of Constant Sorrow: Soggy Bottom Boys.
(In constant sorrow through his days.)
I am a man of constant sorrow,
I've seen trouble all my day.
I bid farewell to old Kentucky,
The place where I was born and raised.
(The place where he was born and raised )
For six long years I've been in trouble,
No pleasures here on earth I found.
For in this world I'm bound to ramble,
I have no friends to help me now.
(He has no friends to help him now.)
It's fare thee well my old lover.
I never expect to see you again.
For I'm bound to ride that northern railroad,
Perhaps I'll die upon this train.
(Perhaps he'll die upon this train.)
You can bury me in some deep valley,
For many years where I may lay.
Then you may learn to love another,
While I am sleeping in my grave.
(While he is sleeping in his grave.)
Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger
My face, you'll never see no more.
But there is one promise that is given
I'll meet you on God's golden shore.
(He'll meet you on God's golden shore.)
LYRICS AS REPRINTED IN ALAN LOMAX, FOLK SONGS OF NORTH AMERICA, GARDEN CITY, 1960, pp. 271-273:
John Hardy was a brave little man,
He carried two guns ev'ry day.
Killed him a man in the West Virginia land,
Oughta seen poor Johnny gettin' away, Lord, Lord,
Oughta seen poor Johnny gettin' away.
John Hardy was standin' at the barroom door,
He didn't have a hand in the game,
Up stepped his woman and threw down fifty cents,
Says, "Deal my man in the game, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy lost that fifty cents,
It was all he had in the game,
He drew the forty-four that he carried by his side
Blowed out that poor Negro's brains, Lord, Lord....
John Hardy had ten miles to go,
And half of that he run,
He run till he come to the broad river bank,
He fell to his breast and he swum, Lord, Lord....
He swum till he came to his mother's house,
"My boy, what have you done?"
"I've killed a man in the West Virginia Land,
And I know that I have to be hung, Lord, Lord...."
He asked his mother for a fifty-cent piece,
"My son, I have no change."
"Then hand me down my old forty-four
And I'll blow out my agurvatin' [sic] brains, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy was lyin' on the broad river bank,
As drunk as a man could be;
Up stepped the police and took him by the hand,
Sayin' "Johnny, come and go with me, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy had a pretty little girl,
The dress she wore was blue.
She come a-skippin' through the old jail hall
Sayin', "Poppy, I'll be true to you, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy had another little girl,
The dress that she wore was red,
She came a-skippin' through the old jail hall
Sayin' "Poppy, I'd rather be dead, Lord, Lord...."
They took John Hardy to the hangin' ground,
They hung him there to die.
The very last words that poor boy said,
"My forty gun never told a lie, Lord, Lord...."
JOHN HENRY
Some say he's from Georgia,
Some say he's from Alabam,
But it's wrote on the rock at the Big Ben Tunnel,
That he's an East Virginia Man,
That he's an East Virginia man.
John Henry was a steel drivin' man,
He died with a hammah in his han',
Oh, come along boys and line the track
For John Henry ain't never comin' back,
For John Henry ain't never comin' back.
John Henry he could hammah,
He could whistle, he could sing,
He went to the mountain early in the mornin'
To hear his hammah ring,
To hear his hammah ring.
John Henry went to the section boss,
Says the section boss what kin you do?
Says I can line a track, I kin histe a jack,
I kin pick and shovel too,
I kin pick and shovel too.
John Henry told the cap'n,
When you go to town,
Buy me a nine pound hammah
An' I'll drive this steel drill down,
An' I'll drive this steel drill down.
Cap'n said to John Henry,
You've got a willin' mind.
But you just well lay yoh hammah down,
You'll nevah beat this drill of mine,
You'll nevah beat this drill of mine.
John Henry went to the tunnel
And they put him in lead to drive,
The rock was so tall and John Henry so small
That he laid down his hammah and he cried,
That he laid down his hammah and he cried.
The steam drill was on the right han' side,
John Henry was on the left,
Says before I let this steam drill beat me down,
I'll hammah myself to death,
I'll hammah myself to death.
Oh the cap'n said to John Henry,
I bleeve this mountain's sinkin' in.
John Henry said to the cap'n, Oh my!
Tain't nothin' but my hammah suckin' wind,
Tain't nothin' but my hammah suckin' wind.
John Henry had a cute liddle wife,
And her name was Julie Ann,
And she walk down the track and nevah look back,
Goin' to see her brave steel drivin' man,
Goin' to see her brave steel drivin' man.
John Henry had a pretty liddle wife,
She come all dressed in blue.
And the last words she said to him,
John Henry I been true to you,
John Henry I been true to you.
John Henry was on the mountain,
The mountain was so high,
He called to his pretty liddle wife,
Said Ah kin almos' touch the sky,
Said Ah kin almos' touch the sky.
Who gonna shoe yoh pretty liddle feet,
Who gonna glove yoh han',
Who gonna kiss yoh rosy cheeks,
An' who gonna be yoh man,
An' who gonna be yoh man?
Papa gonna shoe my pretty liddle feet,
Mama gonna glove my han',
Sistah gonna kiss my rosy cheeks,
An' I ain't gonna have no man,
An' I ain't gonna have no man.
Then John Henry told huh,
Don't you weep an' moan,
I got ten thousand dollars in the First National Bank,
I saved it to buy you a home,
I saved it to buy you a home.
John Henry took his liddle boy,
Sit him on his knee,
Said that Big Ben Tunnel
Gonna be the death of me,
Gonna be the death of me.
John Henry took that liddle boy,
Helt him in the pahm of his han',
And the last words he said to that chile was,
I want you to be a steel drivin' man,
I want you to be a steel drivin' man.
John Henry ast that liddle boy,
Now what are you gonna be?
Says if I live and nothin' happen,
A steel drivin' man I'll be,
A steel drivin' man I'll be.
Then John Henry he did hammah,
He did make his hammah soun',
Says now one more lick fore quittin' time,
An' I'll beat this steam drill down,
An' I'll beat this steam drill down.
The hammah that John Henry swung,
It weighed over nine poun',
He broke a rib in his left han' side,
And his intrels fell on the groun',
And his intrels fell on the groun'.
All the women in the West
That heard of John Henry's death,
Stood in the rain, flagged the east bound train,
Goin' where John Henry dropped dead,
Goin' where John Henry dropped dead.
John Henry's liddle mother
Was all dressed in red,
She jumped in bed, covered up her head,
Said I didn't know my boy was dead,
Said I didn't know my boy was dead.
They took John Henry to the White House,
And buried him in the san',
And every locomotive come roarin' by,
Says there lays that steel drivin' man,
Says there lays that steel drivin' man.
The Roots Of Urban Folk
*They'll Be Coming Around The Mountain-Again- The Music Of Appalachia
CD REVIEW
Man Of Constant Sorrow and Other Timeless Ballads, various artists, Yazoo, 2002
Recently I was listening to a local talk show here in Boston in which the subject was which way at least part of the American music scene was headed. One of the premises of the show was that roots music, you know, the blues, jazz, and the mountain music presented here in this album was once again going to form the new “in " music. Fair enough. These genres have been mined before for their expressions of Americana and they can be mined in the future for that same purpose. But here is the question that I have that underlies that above-mentioned radio show premise. What is it about “roots” music, and here I want to concentrate on mountain music, that reaches out to many generations, social classes and tastes far removed from those craggy coal-laden hills of Appalachia and other isolated regions of the country?
Well one reason for this reviewer, as least, is that confirmed urbanite that he is a little scratch at his “roots” reveals a father who grew up in the coal mining regions of Kentucky and whose extended family mined the coal back into some mists of memory. Scratch your family tree, especially if your family has been here a few generations and you might find some mountain there too. But enough of that as a reason. How about simple lyrics that talk of hard lives, longing, love, death, hard death, tragic death, death by many means not as a strange outside thing but as very personally expressed ways of understanding the world in the land of the hollows and creeks. Add to that the obligatory fiddle, maybe a mandolin, or other handmade musical instrument of choice and you have an idea, or the beginning of an idea, of the appeal of this music today. Hell, some of it in the end is just music to be social on those long lonesome Saturday nights after a hard week of work and (in the beginning) before radio took center stage. We leave off the dissertation with that said.
As always the question on any compilation, especially as here we are dealing with very old tracks from some very old records produced in the 1920’s and 1930’s, is what is worth listening to. Well, my number one choice here is the two-part “The Island Unknown” by Eck Robertson and Family that closes out this CD. Jesus, even to this hardened city boy this is hauntingly beautiful. How about Buell Kazee on “John Hardy”. It has been done a million times but listen to this version of the story, it is a little different. And of course the also well-covered title song “Man Of Constant Sorrow”. This is good stuff. By the way, when your friends come and try to high hat you with their knowledge of the “in” music just run this little CD at them.
Willie Moore
Willie Moore was a king, his age twenty-one,
He courted a damsel fair;
O, her eyes was as bright as the diamonds every night,
And wavy black was her hair.
He courted her both night and day,
'Til to marry they did agree;
But when he came to get her parents consent,
They said it could never be.
She threw herself in Willie Moore's arms,
As oftime had done before;
But little did he think when they parted that night,
Sweet Anna he would see no more.
It was about the tenth of May,
The time I remember well;
That very same night, her body disappeared
In a way no tongue could tell.
Sweet Annie was loved both far and near,
Had friends most all around;
And in a little brook before the cottage door,
The body of sweet Anna was found.
She was taken by her weeping friends,
And carried to her parent's room,
And there she was dressed in a gown of snowy white,
And laid her in a lonely tomb.
Her parents now are left all alone,
One mourns while the other one weeps;
And in a grassy mound before the cottage door,
The body of sweet Anna still sleeps.
[Willie Moore never spoke that anyone heard,
And at length from his friends did part,
And the last heard from him, he'd gone to Montreal,
Where he died of a broken heart.]
This song was composed in the flowery West
By a man you may never have seen;
O, I'll tell you his name, but it is not in full,
His initials are J.R.D.4
A Man Of Constant Sorrow: Soggy Bottom Boys.
(In constant sorrow through his days.)
I am a man of constant sorrow,
I've seen trouble all my day.
I bid farewell to old Kentucky,
The place where I was born and raised.
(The place where he was born and raised )
For six long years I've been in trouble,
No pleasures here on earth I found.
For in this world I'm bound to ramble,
I have no friends to help me now.
(He has no friends to help him now.)
It's fare thee well my old lover.
I never expect to see you again.
For I'm bound to ride that northern railroad,
Perhaps I'll die upon this train.
(Perhaps he'll die upon this train.)
You can bury me in some deep valley,
For many years where I may lay.
Then you may learn to love another,
While I am sleeping in my grave.
(While he is sleeping in his grave.)
Maybe your friends think I'm just a stranger
My face, you'll never see no more.
But there is one promise that is given
I'll meet you on God's golden shore.
(He'll meet you on God's golden shore.)
LYRICS AS REPRINTED IN ALAN LOMAX, FOLK SONGS OF NORTH AMERICA, GARDEN CITY, 1960, pp. 271-273:
John Hardy was a brave little man,
He carried two guns ev'ry day.
Killed him a man in the West Virginia land,
Oughta seen poor Johnny gettin' away, Lord, Lord,
Oughta seen poor Johnny gettin' away.
John Hardy was standin' at the barroom door,
He didn't have a hand in the game,
Up stepped his woman and threw down fifty cents,
Says, "Deal my man in the game, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy lost that fifty cents,
It was all he had in the game,
He drew the forty-four that he carried by his side
Blowed out that poor Negro's brains, Lord, Lord....
John Hardy had ten miles to go,
And half of that he run,
He run till he come to the broad river bank,
He fell to his breast and he swum, Lord, Lord....
He swum till he came to his mother's house,
"My boy, what have you done?"
"I've killed a man in the West Virginia Land,
And I know that I have to be hung, Lord, Lord...."
He asked his mother for a fifty-cent piece,
"My son, I have no change."
"Then hand me down my old forty-four
And I'll blow out my agurvatin' [sic] brains, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy was lyin' on the broad river bank,
As drunk as a man could be;
Up stepped the police and took him by the hand,
Sayin' "Johnny, come and go with me, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy had a pretty little girl,
The dress she wore was blue.
She come a-skippin' through the old jail hall
Sayin', "Poppy, I'll be true to you, Lord, Lord...."
John Hardy had another little girl,
The dress that she wore was red,
She came a-skippin' through the old jail hall
Sayin' "Poppy, I'd rather be dead, Lord, Lord...."
They took John Hardy to the hangin' ground,
They hung him there to die.
The very last words that poor boy said,
"My forty gun never told a lie, Lord, Lord...."
JOHN HENRY
Some say he's from Georgia,
Some say he's from Alabam,
But it's wrote on the rock at the Big Ben Tunnel,
That he's an East Virginia Man,
That he's an East Virginia man.
John Henry was a steel drivin' man,
He died with a hammah in his han',
Oh, come along boys and line the track
For John Henry ain't never comin' back,
For John Henry ain't never comin' back.
John Henry he could hammah,
He could whistle, he could sing,
He went to the mountain early in the mornin'
To hear his hammah ring,
To hear his hammah ring.
John Henry went to the section boss,
Says the section boss what kin you do?
Says I can line a track, I kin histe a jack,
I kin pick and shovel too,
I kin pick and shovel too.
John Henry told the cap'n,
When you go to town,
Buy me a nine pound hammah
An' I'll drive this steel drill down,
An' I'll drive this steel drill down.
Cap'n said to John Henry,
You've got a willin' mind.
But you just well lay yoh hammah down,
You'll nevah beat this drill of mine,
You'll nevah beat this drill of mine.
John Henry went to the tunnel
And they put him in lead to drive,
The rock was so tall and John Henry so small
That he laid down his hammah and he cried,
That he laid down his hammah and he cried.
The steam drill was on the right han' side,
John Henry was on the left,
Says before I let this steam drill beat me down,
I'll hammah myself to death,
I'll hammah myself to death.
Oh the cap'n said to John Henry,
I bleeve this mountain's sinkin' in.
John Henry said to the cap'n, Oh my!
Tain't nothin' but my hammah suckin' wind,
Tain't nothin' but my hammah suckin' wind.
John Henry had a cute liddle wife,
And her name was Julie Ann,
And she walk down the track and nevah look back,
Goin' to see her brave steel drivin' man,
Goin' to see her brave steel drivin' man.
John Henry had a pretty liddle wife,
She come all dressed in blue.
And the last words she said to him,
John Henry I been true to you,
John Henry I been true to you.
John Henry was on the mountain,
The mountain was so high,
He called to his pretty liddle wife,
Said Ah kin almos' touch the sky,
Said Ah kin almos' touch the sky.
Who gonna shoe yoh pretty liddle feet,
Who gonna glove yoh han',
Who gonna kiss yoh rosy cheeks,
An' who gonna be yoh man,
An' who gonna be yoh man?
Papa gonna shoe my pretty liddle feet,
Mama gonna glove my han',
Sistah gonna kiss my rosy cheeks,
An' I ain't gonna have no man,
An' I ain't gonna have no man.
Then John Henry told huh,
Don't you weep an' moan,
I got ten thousand dollars in the First National Bank,
I saved it to buy you a home,
I saved it to buy you a home.
John Henry took his liddle boy,
Sit him on his knee,
Said that Big Ben Tunnel
Gonna be the death of me,
Gonna be the death of me.
John Henry took that liddle boy,
Helt him in the pahm of his han',
And the last words he said to that chile was,
I want you to be a steel drivin' man,
I want you to be a steel drivin' man.
John Henry ast that liddle boy,
Now what are you gonna be?
Says if I live and nothin' happen,
A steel drivin' man I'll be,
A steel drivin' man I'll be.
Then John Henry he did hammah,
He did make his hammah soun',
Says now one more lick fore quittin' time,
An' I'll beat this steam drill down,
An' I'll beat this steam drill down.
The hammah that John Henry swung,
It weighed over nine poun',
He broke a rib in his left han' side,
And his intrels fell on the groun',
And his intrels fell on the groun'.
All the women in the West
That heard of John Henry's death,
Stood in the rain, flagged the east bound train,
Goin' where John Henry dropped dead,
Goin' where John Henry dropped dead.
John Henry's liddle mother
Was all dressed in red,
She jumped in bed, covered up her head,
Said I didn't know my boy was dead,
Said I didn't know my boy was dead.
They took John Henry to the White House,
And buried him in the san',
And every locomotive come roarin' by,
Says there lays that steel drivin' man,
Says there lays that steel drivin' man.
The Roots Of Urban Folk
*They'll Be Coming Around The Mountain-Again- The Music Of Appalachia
Monday, May 25, 2009
*Poet's Corner- On The Edge With Charles Bukowski
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Charles Bukowski Reciting "The Man With The Beautiful Eyes".
Guest Commentary
This guy speaks for himself. I need add nothing here.
BEER
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
AS CRAZY AS I EVER WAS
from: Love is A Dog From Hell
drunk and writing poems
at 3 a.m.
what counts now
is one more
tight pussy
before the light
tilts out
drunk and writing poems
at 3:15 a.m.
some people tell me that I'm
famous.
what am I doing alone
drunk and writing poems at
3:18 a.m.?
I'm as crazy as I ever was
they don't understand
that I haven't stopped hanging out of 4th floor
windows by my heels-
I still do
right now
sitting here
writing this down
I am hanging by my heels
floors up:
68, 72, 101,
the feeling is the
same:
relentless
unheroic and
necessary
sitting here
drunk and writing poems
at 3:24 a.m.
ANOTHER BED
from: Love is a Mad Dog from Hell
another bed
another women
more curtains
another bathroom
another kitchen
other eyes
other hair
other
feet and toes.
everybodys looking.
the eternal search.
you stay in bed
she gets dressed for work
and you wonder what happened
to the last one
and the one after that...
it's all so comfortable-
this love making
this sleeping together
the gentle kindness...
after she leaves you get up and use her
bathroom,
it's all so intimate and strange.
you go back to bed and
sleep another hour.
when you leave its with sadness
but you'll se her again
whether it works or not.
you drive down to the shore and sit
in your car. it's almost noon.
-another bed, other ears, other
ear rings, other mouths, other slippers, other
dresses
colors, doors, phone numbers.
you were once strong enough to live alone.
for a man nearing sixty you should be more
sensible.
you start the car and shift,
thinking, I'll phone Jeanie when I get in,
I haven't seen her since Friday.
SHE SAID
from: War All the Time
what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we dont have napkins like
that
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station?do you drive around with
some
young thing?
you're
dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?
when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.
why don't you
put your toothbrush
back
in the rack?
you should always
dry your razor
sometimes
I think
you hate
my cat.
Martha says
you were
downstairs
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.
you shouldn't wear
those
$100 shoes in
the garden
and you don't keep
track
of what you
plant out there
that's
dumb
you must always
set the cat's bowl back
in
the same place.
don't
bake fish
in a frying
pan...
I never saw
anybody
harder on the
brakes of their
car
than you.
let's go
to a
movie.
listen what's
wrong with you?
you act
depressed.
THE ALIENS
from The Last Night Of The Earth Poems
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there
and I am
here.
BAD TIMES AT THE 3RD AND VERMONT HOTEL
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just Makes Sense
Alabam was a sneak and a theif and he came to my
room when I was drunk and
each time I got up he would shove me back
down.
you prick, I tole him, you know I can take you!
he just shoved me down
again.
I finally caught him a good one, right over the
temple
and he backed off and
left.
it was a couple of days later
I got even: I fucked his
girl.
then I went down and knocked on his
door.
well, Alabam, I fucked your women and now I'm going to
kick you all the way to
hell!
the poor guy started crying, he put his hands over his
face and just cried
I stood there and watched
him.
then i left him there, i went back to
my room.
we were all alkies and none of us had jobs, all we had
was each other.
even then, my so-called women was in some bar or
somewhere, i hadn't seen her in a couple of
days.
I had a bootle of port
left.
i uncorked it and took it down to Alabam's
room.
said, how about a drink,
Rebel?
he looked up, stood up, went for two glasses.
THOSE GIRLS WE FOLLOWED HOME
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just MAkes Sense
in junior high the two prettiest girls were
Irene and Louise,
they were sisters;
Irene was a year older, a little taller
but it was difficult to choose between
them;
they were not only pretty but they were
astonishingly beautiful
so beautiful
that the boys stayed away from them;
they were terrified of Irene and
Louise
who weren't aloof at all;
even friendlier than most
but
who seemed to dress a bit
differently than the other girls;
they always wore high heels'
silk stockings,
blouses,
skirts,
new outfits
each day;
and'
one afternoon
my buddy, Baldy, and i followed them
home from school;
you see, we were kind of
the bad guys on the grounds
so it was
more or less
expected,
and
it was soomething:
walking along ten or twelve feet behind them;
we didnt say anything
we just followed
watching
their voultuous swaying,
the balance of the
haunches.
we liked it so much that we
followed them home from school
every
day.
when they'd go into their house
we'd stand outside on the sidewalk
smoking cigarettes and talking.
"someday". I told Baldy.
"they are going to invite us inside their
house and they are going to
fuck us."
"you really think so?"
"sure."
now
50 years later
I can tell you
they never did
-never mind all the stories we
told the guys;
yes, it's a dream that
keepds you going
then and
now.
Guest Commentary
This guy speaks for himself. I need add nothing here.
BEER
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
AS CRAZY AS I EVER WAS
from: Love is A Dog From Hell
drunk and writing poems
at 3 a.m.
what counts now
is one more
tight pussy
before the light
tilts out
drunk and writing poems
at 3:15 a.m.
some people tell me that I'm
famous.
what am I doing alone
drunk and writing poems at
3:18 a.m.?
I'm as crazy as I ever was
they don't understand
that I haven't stopped hanging out of 4th floor
windows by my heels-
I still do
right now
sitting here
writing this down
I am hanging by my heels
floors up:
68, 72, 101,
the feeling is the
same:
relentless
unheroic and
necessary
sitting here
drunk and writing poems
at 3:24 a.m.
ANOTHER BED
from: Love is a Mad Dog from Hell
another bed
another women
more curtains
another bathroom
another kitchen
other eyes
other hair
other
feet and toes.
everybodys looking.
the eternal search.
you stay in bed
she gets dressed for work
and you wonder what happened
to the last one
and the one after that...
it's all so comfortable-
this love making
this sleeping together
the gentle kindness...
after she leaves you get up and use her
bathroom,
it's all so intimate and strange.
you go back to bed and
sleep another hour.
when you leave its with sadness
but you'll se her again
whether it works or not.
you drive down to the shore and sit
in your car. it's almost noon.
-another bed, other ears, other
ear rings, other mouths, other slippers, other
dresses
colors, doors, phone numbers.
you were once strong enough to live alone.
for a man nearing sixty you should be more
sensible.
you start the car and shift,
thinking, I'll phone Jeanie when I get in,
I haven't seen her since Friday.
SHE SAID
from: War All the Time
what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we dont have napkins like
that
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station?do you drive around with
some
young thing?
you're
dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?
when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.
why don't you
put your toothbrush
back
in the rack?
you should always
dry your razor
sometimes
I think
you hate
my cat.
Martha says
you were
downstairs
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.
you shouldn't wear
those
$100 shoes in
the garden
and you don't keep
track
of what you
plant out there
that's
dumb
you must always
set the cat's bowl back
in
the same place.
don't
bake fish
in a frying
pan...
I never saw
anybody
harder on the
brakes of their
car
than you.
let's go
to a
movie.
listen what's
wrong with you?
you act
depressed.
THE ALIENS
from The Last Night Of The Earth Poems
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there
and I am
here.
BAD TIMES AT THE 3RD AND VERMONT HOTEL
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just Makes Sense
Alabam was a sneak and a theif and he came to my
room when I was drunk and
each time I got up he would shove me back
down.
you prick, I tole him, you know I can take you!
he just shoved me down
again.
I finally caught him a good one, right over the
temple
and he backed off and
left.
it was a couple of days later
I got even: I fucked his
girl.
then I went down and knocked on his
door.
well, Alabam, I fucked your women and now I'm going to
kick you all the way to
hell!
the poor guy started crying, he put his hands over his
face and just cried
I stood there and watched
him.
then i left him there, i went back to
my room.
we were all alkies and none of us had jobs, all we had
was each other.
even then, my so-called women was in some bar or
somewhere, i hadn't seen her in a couple of
days.
I had a bootle of port
left.
i uncorked it and took it down to Alabam's
room.
said, how about a drink,
Rebel?
he looked up, stood up, went for two glasses.
THOSE GIRLS WE FOLLOWED HOME
from: You Get So Alone At Times that It Just MAkes Sense
in junior high the two prettiest girls were
Irene and Louise,
they were sisters;
Irene was a year older, a little taller
but it was difficult to choose between
them;
they were not only pretty but they were
astonishingly beautiful
so beautiful
that the boys stayed away from them;
they were terrified of Irene and
Louise
who weren't aloof at all;
even friendlier than most
but
who seemed to dress a bit
differently than the other girls;
they always wore high heels'
silk stockings,
blouses,
skirts,
new outfits
each day;
and'
one afternoon
my buddy, Baldy, and i followed them
home from school;
you see, we were kind of
the bad guys on the grounds
so it was
more or less
expected,
and
it was soomething:
walking along ten or twelve feet behind them;
we didnt say anything
we just followed
watching
their voultuous swaying,
the balance of the
haunches.
we liked it so much that we
followed them home from school
every
day.
when they'd go into their house
we'd stand outside on the sidewalk
smoking cigarettes and talking.
"someday". I told Baldy.
"they are going to invite us inside their
house and they are going to
fuck us."
"you really think so?"
"sure."
now
50 years later
I can tell you
they never did
-never mind all the stories we
told the guys;
yes, it's a dream that
keepds you going
then and
now.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
*"Hard Times Come Again No More"- The Songs Of The "First Wave" Great Depression Of The 1930's- In Honor Of "Apple Annie" and "Pencil Slim"
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Kate And Anna McGarrigle, Friends And Family Performing Stephen Foster's "Hard Times Come Again No More".
CD REVIEWS
Hard Times Come Again No More: Early American Rural Songs Of Hard Times And Hardships, various artists, Volumes One and Two, Yazoo Records, 1998
This review covers both volumes of this two-part CD set.
Yes, I am aware that the 1930’s Great Depression was not the first depression that this country had faced but it was the first in which the United States, as a world power anointed by its successes in World War I, created worldwide economic chaos in its wake. However we will leave aside economic history and concentrate on today’s impeding great depression, as the daily news most painfully reminds us seems to be coming. Today I want to discuss what to do about that eventually in the short haul. Obviously, in the long haul we have to fight for a more rational system based on production (and distribution) for need, not for profit. In the meantime what are all of our fellow unemployed to do- right now! Well, now we do have to look back at history, and at least with a little tongue-in-cheek. Back in the 1930’s its seems that on every corner of every town and village one found an “Apple Annie” selling her apples for a nickel to survive or a “Pencil Slim” hawking his pencils for spare change. Tough times indeed. And to while away that long lonely, sometimes empty-handed, vigil many times they sang songs to get attention.
This brings us to the two volume CD set under review that contains some forty-six songs, almost solely from the rural southern part of the United States. The set features themes of hard times, harder times and then the merely desperate ones. For poor blacks and whites alike. The milieu covered in this set appears to be away from the Mississippi Delta that created the country blues and rather are songs from places like Arkansas (that takes a beating in a couple of songs here that will not sit well with Chamber of Commerce-types), North Carolina and Georgia. The jobs, or lack of jobs complained of, run from small unsuccessful tenant farming and sharecropping fighting off the boll weevil and, as several songs make clear, the Boll Weevil landlord or his agents to cheap labor in the textile mills. The instruments used, to my ear, include simple guitar (especially whatever odd-stringed one , as usual, Joe Williams has concocted on “Providence Helps The Poor People”), fiddles galore (a staple of country music and a real plus when, as here, some of the vocals, are reedy), mandolin, washboard, harmonica and whatever else could make noise cheaply with what was at hand.
Clearly with forty- six songs to choose from the quality, even on a Yazoo production that prides itself on both inclusiveness and getting the best sounds possible (and excellent liner notes as well), is uneven. However the following stand out here; obviously the Joe Williams tune mentioned above; Sleepy John Estes on “Down South Blues”; Blind Blake on “No Dough Blues”; Blind Lemon Jefferson on the classic “One Dime Blues” (if you could have put his voice together with Etta Baker’s guitar version you would have an incredible sound on that one); Mississippi John Hurt on “Blue Harvest Blues”; and The Graham Brothers on the title track “Hard Times Come Again No More” (an old Stephen Foster tune from the 1840’s so there is nothing new about hard times).
All of those names above have been mentioned before in this space and reflect their then emergence as country performers. However there is a second layer of performers here that intrigue me and bear further listening. Of that group The Bentley Boys on the now well-known “Down On Penny’s Farm” sticks out (a song, by the way, that Bob Dylan used as an idea for his early “Talking New York Blues”). Another is Blind Alfred Reed on “How Can A Poor Man Stand” as is the great guitarist Barbecue Bob on “We Sure Got Hard Times”. There are not many women on these CDs but Samantha Bumgarner is fine on “Georgia Blues”. The real sleeper on this whole compilation however is Elder Curry & His Congregation whooping it up on a gospelly “Hard Times”. Okay, so now you have the songs that you can sing on those lonely street corners. Now all you need is some apples or pencils. Hard times come again no more, indeed.
HOW CAN A POOR MAN STAND SUCH TIMES AND LIVE ?
Blind Alfred Reed - 1929
There once was a time when everything was cheap,
But now prices nearly puts a man to sleep.
When we pay our grocery bill,
We just feel like making our will --
I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt,
We could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt.
Now we pay three bucks or more,
Maybe get a shirt that another man wore --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, I used to trade with a man by the name of Gray,
Flour was fifty cents for a twenty-four pound bag.
Now it's a dollar and a half beside,
Just like a-skinning off a flea for the hide --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent,
But they see to it that every child is sent.
If we don't send everyday,
We have a heavy fine to pay --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right,
There's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight.
Officers kill without a cause,
They complain about funny laws --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Most all preachers preach for gold and not for souls,
That's what keeps a poor man always in a hole.
We can hardly get our breath,
Taxed and schooled and preached to death --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, it's time for every man to be awake,
We pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak.
When we get our package home,
A little wad of paper with gristle and a bone --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, the doctor comes around with a face all bright,
And he says in a little while you'll be all right.
All he gives is a humbug pill,
A dose of dope and a great big bill --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Hard Times Come Again No More
(Stephen Collins Foster)
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count it's many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary
Hard times, hard times come again no more
Many days you have lingered
Around my cabin door
Oh hard times come again no more
While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay
There are frail forms fainting at the door
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say;
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
There's a pale sorrowed maiden who toils her life away
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
CD REVIEWS
Hard Times Come Again No More: Early American Rural Songs Of Hard Times And Hardships, various artists, Volumes One and Two, Yazoo Records, 1998
This review covers both volumes of this two-part CD set.
Yes, I am aware that the 1930’s Great Depression was not the first depression that this country had faced but it was the first in which the United States, as a world power anointed by its successes in World War I, created worldwide economic chaos in its wake. However we will leave aside economic history and concentrate on today’s impeding great depression, as the daily news most painfully reminds us seems to be coming. Today I want to discuss what to do about that eventually in the short haul. Obviously, in the long haul we have to fight for a more rational system based on production (and distribution) for need, not for profit. In the meantime what are all of our fellow unemployed to do- right now! Well, now we do have to look back at history, and at least with a little tongue-in-cheek. Back in the 1930’s its seems that on every corner of every town and village one found an “Apple Annie” selling her apples for a nickel to survive or a “Pencil Slim” hawking his pencils for spare change. Tough times indeed. And to while away that long lonely, sometimes empty-handed, vigil many times they sang songs to get attention.
This brings us to the two volume CD set under review that contains some forty-six songs, almost solely from the rural southern part of the United States. The set features themes of hard times, harder times and then the merely desperate ones. For poor blacks and whites alike. The milieu covered in this set appears to be away from the Mississippi Delta that created the country blues and rather are songs from places like Arkansas (that takes a beating in a couple of songs here that will not sit well with Chamber of Commerce-types), North Carolina and Georgia. The jobs, or lack of jobs complained of, run from small unsuccessful tenant farming and sharecropping fighting off the boll weevil and, as several songs make clear, the Boll Weevil landlord or his agents to cheap labor in the textile mills. The instruments used, to my ear, include simple guitar (especially whatever odd-stringed one , as usual, Joe Williams has concocted on “Providence Helps The Poor People”), fiddles galore (a staple of country music and a real plus when, as here, some of the vocals, are reedy), mandolin, washboard, harmonica and whatever else could make noise cheaply with what was at hand.
Clearly with forty- six songs to choose from the quality, even on a Yazoo production that prides itself on both inclusiveness and getting the best sounds possible (and excellent liner notes as well), is uneven. However the following stand out here; obviously the Joe Williams tune mentioned above; Sleepy John Estes on “Down South Blues”; Blind Blake on “No Dough Blues”; Blind Lemon Jefferson on the classic “One Dime Blues” (if you could have put his voice together with Etta Baker’s guitar version you would have an incredible sound on that one); Mississippi John Hurt on “Blue Harvest Blues”; and The Graham Brothers on the title track “Hard Times Come Again No More” (an old Stephen Foster tune from the 1840’s so there is nothing new about hard times).
All of those names above have been mentioned before in this space and reflect their then emergence as country performers. However there is a second layer of performers here that intrigue me and bear further listening. Of that group The Bentley Boys on the now well-known “Down On Penny’s Farm” sticks out (a song, by the way, that Bob Dylan used as an idea for his early “Talking New York Blues”). Another is Blind Alfred Reed on “How Can A Poor Man Stand” as is the great guitarist Barbecue Bob on “We Sure Got Hard Times”. There are not many women on these CDs but Samantha Bumgarner is fine on “Georgia Blues”. The real sleeper on this whole compilation however is Elder Curry & His Congregation whooping it up on a gospelly “Hard Times”. Okay, so now you have the songs that you can sing on those lonely street corners. Now all you need is some apples or pencils. Hard times come again no more, indeed.
HOW CAN A POOR MAN STAND SUCH TIMES AND LIVE ?
Blind Alfred Reed - 1929
There once was a time when everything was cheap,
But now prices nearly puts a man to sleep.
When we pay our grocery bill,
We just feel like making our will --
I remember when dry goods were cheap as dirt,
We could take two bits and buy a dandy shirt.
Now we pay three bucks or more,
Maybe get a shirt that another man wore --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, I used to trade with a man by the name of Gray,
Flour was fifty cents for a twenty-four pound bag.
Now it's a dollar and a half beside,
Just like a-skinning off a flea for the hide --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, the schools we have today ain't worth a cent,
But they see to it that every child is sent.
If we don't send everyday,
We have a heavy fine to pay --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Prohibition's good if 'tis conducted right,
There's no sense in shooting a man 'til he shows flight.
Officers kill without a cause,
They complain about funny laws --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Most all preachers preach for gold and not for souls,
That's what keeps a poor man always in a hole.
We can hardly get our breath,
Taxed and schooled and preached to death --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Oh, it's time for every man to be awake,
We pay fifty cents a pound when we ask for steak.
When we get our package home,
A little wad of paper with gristle and a bone --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Well, the doctor comes around with a face all bright,
And he says in a little while you'll be all right.
All he gives is a humbug pill,
A dose of dope and a great big bill --
Tell me how can a poor man stand such times and live?
Hard Times Come Again No More
(Stephen Collins Foster)
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count it's many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary
Hard times, hard times come again no more
Many days you have lingered
Around my cabin door
Oh hard times come again no more
While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay
There are frail forms fainting at the door
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say;
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
There's a pale sorrowed maiden who toils her life away
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh, hard times come again no more
Chorus
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The Working Class Buries One Of Its Own
Commentary
This space is usually devoted to ‘high’ politics and the personal is usually limited to some experience of mine that has a direct political point. Sometimes, however, a story is so compelling and makes the point in such a poignant manner that no political palaver is necessary. Let me tell the tale. But first, as always, let us have a little historical context for this commentary.
In the 20th century January was traditionally the month to honor fallen working class leaders such as Lenin, Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg. That tradition still goes on, however, more in the European working class movement than here. January can and should, however, also be a time to honor other working class people, those down at the base, as well. Over the last year I have posted a couple of such stories (See Hard Times in Babylon and An Uncounted Casualty of War in the May 2007 archives.) Here in its proper place is another about a fallen daughter of the class who died this January.
In An Uncounted Casualty of War (hereafter, Uncounted), written last May, I noted that I had then recently returned to the old working class neighborhood where I grew up. Maybe it is age, maybe it is memory, maybe it is the need at this late date to gain a sense of roots but that return has haunted me ever since. I have gone back a couple of times since then to hear more of what had happened to those in the old neighborhood from a woman who continues to live there and had related the above story to me. This one is about the fate of my childhood friend Kenny's (the subject of the Uncounted commentary) mother Margaret. Read it and weep.
As I mentioned in Uncounted our little family started life in the housing projects, at that time not the notorious hell holes of crime and deprivation that they later became but still a mark of being low, very low, on the social ladder at a time when others were heading to the Valhalla of the newly emerging suburbs. By clawing and scratching my parents saved enough money to buy an extremely modest single-family house. The house was in a neighborhood that was, and is, one of those old working class neighborhoods where the houses are small, cramped and seedy, the leavings of those who have moved on to bigger and better things.
The neighborhood nevertheless reflected the desire of the working poor in the 1950’s, my parents and others, to own their own homes and not be shunted off to decrepit apartments or dilapidated housing projects, the fate of those just below them on the social ladder. That is where I met Kenny and through him his family, including his mother Margaret. She seemed like a nice woman although I never got to know her well.
As I also mentioned in Uncounted in my teens I had lost track of Kenny who as he reached maturity took the death of a friend who died in Vietnam very hard. Harder than one can even imagine. The early details are rather sketchy but they may have involved drug use. The overt manifestations were acts of petty crime and then anti-social acts like pulling fire alarms and walking naked down the street. At some point Kenny was diagnosed as schizophrenic. I make no pretense of having adequate knowledge about the causes of mental illnesses but someone I trust has told me that such a traumatic event as his friend’s death can trigger the condition in young adults. In any case, the institutionalizations inevitably began. And later the halfway houses and all the other forms of control for those who cannot survive on the mean streets of the world on their own. Apparently, with drugs and therapy, there were periods of calm but for over three decades poor Kenny struggled with his inner demons. In the end the demons won and he died a few years ago while in a mental hospital.
Needless to say Kenny’s problems were well beyond his mother and father’s ability to comprehend or control. His father, like mine, had limited education and meager work prospects. In short, there were no private resources for Kenny and he and they were thus consigned to public institutionalization schemes. The shame of this, among other things, led to his father’s early death many, many years ago. His mother, strong Irish Catholic working class woman that she was, shouldered the burden by herself until Kenny’s death. The private and public horrors and humiliations that such care entailed must have taken a toll on her most of us could not stand. Apparently in the end it got to her as well as she let her physical appearance go down, became more reclusive and turned in on herself reverting in conversation to dwelling on happier times as a young married woman in the mid-1940’s.
Kenny’s woes, however, as I recently found out were only part of this sad story. Kenny had two older brothers whom I did not really know well because they were not around. Part of that reason was they were in and out of trouble or one sort or another and were not around the neighborhood much. My neighborhood historian related to me that at some point both sons had dropped out of sight and had not been seen by their mother for over thirty years. They are presumed to be dead or that is the story Margaret told my historian. In any case, since Kenny’s death Margaret’s health, or really her will to live went down hill fairly rapidly. Late last year she was finally placed in a nursing home where she died this month. Only a very few attended her funeral and her memory is probably forgotten by all except my historian friend and myself in this poor commentary.
I am a working class political person. That is the great legacy that my parents left me, intentionally or not. Are there any great political lessons to be learned here? No, but I swear that when we build the new society that this country and this world needs we will not let the Kennys of the world be shunted off to the side. And we will not let the Margarets of the world, our working class mothers, die alone and forgotten. As for Kenny and Margaret may they rest in peace.
This space is usually devoted to ‘high’ politics and the personal is usually limited to some experience of mine that has a direct political point. Sometimes, however, a story is so compelling and makes the point in such a poignant manner that no political palaver is necessary. Let me tell the tale. But first, as always, let us have a little historical context for this commentary.
In the 20th century January was traditionally the month to honor fallen working class leaders such as Lenin, Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg. That tradition still goes on, however, more in the European working class movement than here. January can and should, however, also be a time to honor other working class people, those down at the base, as well. Over the last year I have posted a couple of such stories (See Hard Times in Babylon and An Uncounted Casualty of War in the May 2007 archives.) Here in its proper place is another about a fallen daughter of the class who died this January.
In An Uncounted Casualty of War (hereafter, Uncounted), written last May, I noted that I had then recently returned to the old working class neighborhood where I grew up. Maybe it is age, maybe it is memory, maybe it is the need at this late date to gain a sense of roots but that return has haunted me ever since. I have gone back a couple of times since then to hear more of what had happened to those in the old neighborhood from a woman who continues to live there and had related the above story to me. This one is about the fate of my childhood friend Kenny's (the subject of the Uncounted commentary) mother Margaret. Read it and weep.
As I mentioned in Uncounted our little family started life in the housing projects, at that time not the notorious hell holes of crime and deprivation that they later became but still a mark of being low, very low, on the social ladder at a time when others were heading to the Valhalla of the newly emerging suburbs. By clawing and scratching my parents saved enough money to buy an extremely modest single-family house. The house was in a neighborhood that was, and is, one of those old working class neighborhoods where the houses are small, cramped and seedy, the leavings of those who have moved on to bigger and better things.
The neighborhood nevertheless reflected the desire of the working poor in the 1950’s, my parents and others, to own their own homes and not be shunted off to decrepit apartments or dilapidated housing projects, the fate of those just below them on the social ladder. That is where I met Kenny and through him his family, including his mother Margaret. She seemed like a nice woman although I never got to know her well.
As I also mentioned in Uncounted in my teens I had lost track of Kenny who as he reached maturity took the death of a friend who died in Vietnam very hard. Harder than one can even imagine. The early details are rather sketchy but they may have involved drug use. The overt manifestations were acts of petty crime and then anti-social acts like pulling fire alarms and walking naked down the street. At some point Kenny was diagnosed as schizophrenic. I make no pretense of having adequate knowledge about the causes of mental illnesses but someone I trust has told me that such a traumatic event as his friend’s death can trigger the condition in young adults. In any case, the institutionalizations inevitably began. And later the halfway houses and all the other forms of control for those who cannot survive on the mean streets of the world on their own. Apparently, with drugs and therapy, there were periods of calm but for over three decades poor Kenny struggled with his inner demons. In the end the demons won and he died a few years ago while in a mental hospital.
Needless to say Kenny’s problems were well beyond his mother and father’s ability to comprehend or control. His father, like mine, had limited education and meager work prospects. In short, there were no private resources for Kenny and he and they were thus consigned to public institutionalization schemes. The shame of this, among other things, led to his father’s early death many, many years ago. His mother, strong Irish Catholic working class woman that she was, shouldered the burden by herself until Kenny’s death. The private and public horrors and humiliations that such care entailed must have taken a toll on her most of us could not stand. Apparently in the end it got to her as well as she let her physical appearance go down, became more reclusive and turned in on herself reverting in conversation to dwelling on happier times as a young married woman in the mid-1940’s.
Kenny’s woes, however, as I recently found out were only part of this sad story. Kenny had two older brothers whom I did not really know well because they were not around. Part of that reason was they were in and out of trouble or one sort or another and were not around the neighborhood much. My neighborhood historian related to me that at some point both sons had dropped out of sight and had not been seen by their mother for over thirty years. They are presumed to be dead or that is the story Margaret told my historian. In any case, since Kenny’s death Margaret’s health, or really her will to live went down hill fairly rapidly. Late last year she was finally placed in a nursing home where she died this month. Only a very few attended her funeral and her memory is probably forgotten by all except my historian friend and myself in this poor commentary.
I am a working class political person. That is the great legacy that my parents left me, intentionally or not. Are there any great political lessons to be learned here? No, but I swear that when we build the new society that this country and this world needs we will not let the Kennys of the world be shunted off to the side. And we will not let the Margarets of the world, our working class mothers, die alone and forgotten. As for Kenny and Margaret may they rest in peace.
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