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

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

On The 60th Anniversary Of The Death Of Buddy Holly-*Stonesmania- The Rolling Stones When The Earth Was Young- "The London Years Compilation"

Not Fade Away on YouTube 


Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of the Rolling Stones performing "Street Fighting Man". Yes, indeed.

CD Review

The London Years, 3 CD compilation, The Rolling Stones, Abkco Records, 1989

Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock `n' roll pantheon. Still, it is interesting to listen once again to the guys when they were at the height of their musical powers (and as high, most of the time, as Georgia pines). This album from their most creative period from 1964 to 1971, moreover, unlike let us say Bob Dylan who has produced more creative work for longer, is the `golden era" of the Stone Age. While this CD compilation has a fistful (or two) of "greatest hits" from this period and there are no really bad tracks here but the stick outs are "Jumpin' Jack Flash", "Sympathy For The Devil"( as always), "19th Nervous Breakdown", "Little Red Rooster", "Ruby Tuesday "Street Fighting Man" and "You Can't Always Get What You Want". Ain't that the truth on that last one. And on and on. For aficionados you will have all their early hits in one spot, for the novice you get a full sense of their golden age.

Street Fighting Man Lyrics

(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Ev'rywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy
'Cause summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy
But what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Think the time is right for a palace revolution
'Cause where I live the game to play is compromise solution
Well, then what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Said my name is called disturbance
I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants
Well, what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Happy Birthday Keith Richards -*Stonesmania- The Rolling Stones When The Earth Was Young- "Some Girls”

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Beast Of Burden".


CD Review

Some Girls, The Rolling Stones, 1978

Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock `n' roll pantheon. Still, it is interesting to listen once again to the guys when they were at the height of their musical powers (and as high, most of the time, as Georgia pines). This album from the tale end of their most creative period , moreover, unlike let us say Bob Dylan who has produced more creative work for longer, is the `golden era" of the Stone Age. While this CD has a fistful of "greatest hits" from this period some of the songs are distinctly anti-women, intentionally or not, at least the lyrics would not then, and do not today, stand the test for “political correctness”. That includes “Some Girls” and “Beast Of Burden” ( a little). Nevertheless this stuff holds up pretty well, especially “The Girl With Far Away Eye”.

"Beast of Burden"

Ill never be your beast of burden
My back is broad but its a hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me
Ill never be your beast of burden
Ive walked for miles my feet are hurting
All I want is for you to make love to me

Am I hard enough
Am I rough enough
Am I rich enough
Im not too blind to see

Ill never be your beast of burden
So lets go home and draw the curtains
Music on the radio
Come on baby make sweet love to me

Am I hard enough
Am I rough enough
Am I rich enough
Im not too blind to see

Oh little sister
Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, girl
Youre a pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty girl
Pretty, pretty
Such a pretty, pretty, pretty girl
Come on baby please, please, please

Ill tell ya
You can put me out
On the street
Put me out
With no shoes on my feet
But, put me out, put me out
Put me out of misery

Yeah, all your sickness
I can suck it up
Throw it all at me
I can shrug it off
Theres one thing baby
That I dont understand
You keep on telling me
I aint your kind of man

Aint I rough enough, ooh baby
Aint I tough enough
Aint I rich enough, in love enough
Ooh! ooh! please

Ill never be your beast of burden
Ill never be your beast of burden
Never, never, never, never, never, never, never be

I dont need no beast of burden
I need no fussing
I need no nursing
Never, never, never, never, never, never, never be

Happy Birthday Keith Richards *Walk on the Wild Side – Part One- The Rolling Stones, One More Time- The "A Bigger Bang" Tour

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for The Rolling Stones 2005 A Bigger Bang Tour.

DVD Review

Shine A Light, The Rolling Stones and various musicians, directed by Martin Scorsese , 2008

Just when you thought it was safe to move on from the various Rolling Stone reviews in this space here comes another one, this time though through the directorial efforts of Martin Scorsese and the filming of the Stones 2005 international “Bigger Bang” concert tour (and I believe, as of today, their last one). Needless to say the day is long past when anyone, at least anyone that I know, will dispute the title of “the world’s greatest rock band” that has been attached to this group. In the old days an argument could be made, and rightfully so, that Jim Morrison and the Doors on their good nights secured that title but that was then. Moreover, off a viewing of this production it is easy to see why the Stones carry that undisputed title, without hype, even today.

Director Scorsese has made a very good decision to go light on the filler (early Stones interviews, press conferences, etc.) and the technical aspects of putting on such a tour (and the compounded problem of filming it). The center of the documentary is the Stones’ concert from Chicago (a Bill Clinton charity benefit concert) complete with all the classics, Sympathy For The Devil, Satisfaction, Brown Sugar, Girl With The Faraway Eyes, etc. Clearly these sixty-something guys still can rock and one best keep that AARP membership offer at arms length. But, to finish, here is the “skinny”, one must always remember that the Stones started, heart and soul, as a white blues cover band (Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and so on) and so the scene that steals this production is when old Chicago bluesman, Buddy Guy, comes on to fire up Champagne and Reefer. Wow! That was worth the price of admission all by itself.

Happy Birthday Keith Richards -*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-The Rolling Stone's "Street Fighting Man"

Click on the title to link a "YouTube" film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Street Fighting Man".

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.

Markin comment:

According to legend, and perhaps it was merely in his own mind at that, the model for Mick and Keith's street fighting man here was the old time "New Left" revolutionary, Tariq Ali, the 'terror' of the British establishment back in the day. These days though I note that Mr. Ali is front and center in the thick of social-democratic politics, as presented in such journals like "The New Left Review", as they are filtered through the British, and European, prism. How the mighty have fallen, although hardly a unique story from the turbulent 1960s.



Street Fighting Man Lyrics

(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Ev'rywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy
'Cause summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy
But what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Think the time is right for a palace revolution
'Cause where I live the game to play is compromise solution
Well, then what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Said my name is called disturbance
I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants
Well, what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Happy Birthday Keith Richards *Stonesmania- The Rolling Stones Aging Well (Alright, Just Okay) - "Emotional Rescue"

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Emotional Rescue" from their "Emotional Rescue" album.

CD Review

Emotional Rescue, The Rolling Stones, 1980

Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock `n' roll pantheon. Still, it is interesting to listen once again to the guys when they were at the height of their musical powers (and as high, most of the time, as Georgia pines). This album from the tail end of their most creative period , moreover, unlike let us say Bob Dylan who has produced more creative work for longer, is the "golden era" of the Stone Age. The album, however, is a little uneven in spots reflecting, I think, a certain exhaustion of material that they could call their totally their own unless the time when they owned a big chunk of rock 'n'roll in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The age of a more sedate music (at least technically) was approaching and I think there was some confusion about whether to embrace it or “spoof” it. Frankly, nothing jumps out here but "Dance", "Indian Girl", "She So Cold" and the title track "Emotional Rescue" make this album. I do not think anything here qualifies for their "greatest hits" vault.

THE ROLLING STONES lyrics - Emotional Rescue

(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Is there nothing I can say
Nothing I can do
To change your mind
I'm so in love with you
You're too deep in
You can't get out
You're just a poor girl in a rich man's house
Yeah, baby, I'm crying over you
Don't you know promises were never made to keep?
Just like the night, dissolve in sleep
I'll be your savior, steadfast and true
I'll come to your emotional rescue
I'll come to your emotional rescue
Yeah, the other night, crying
Crying baby, yeah I'm crying
Yeah I'm like a child baby
I'm like a child baby
Child yeah, I'm like a child, like a child
Like a child
You think you're one of a special breed
You think that you're his pet Pekinese
I'll be your savior, steadfast and true
I'll come to your emotional rescue
I'll come to your emotional rescue
I was dreaming last night
Last night I was dreaming
How you'd be mine, but I was crying
Like a child, yeah, I was crying
Crying like a child
You will be mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, all mine
You could be mine, could be mine
Be mine, all mine
I come to you, so silent in the night
So stealthy, so animal quiet
I'll be your savior, steadfast and true
I'll come to your emotional rescue
I'll come to your emotional rescue
Yeah, you should be mine, mine, whew
Yes, you could be mine
Tonight and every night
I will be your knight in shining armour
Coming to your emotional rescue
You will be mine, you will be mine, all mine
You will be mine, you will be mine, all mine
I will be your knight in shining armour
Riding across the desert with a fine Arab charger

Happy Birthday Keith Richards Stonesmania- The Rolling Stones Aging Well (Alright, Just Coming Back Again) - "Between The Buttons”

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Ruby Tuesday" from their "Between The Buttons" album.

CD Review

Between The Buttons, The Rolling Stones, 1967

Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock `n' roll pantheon. Still, it is interesting to listen once again to the guys when they were at the height of their musical powers (and as high, most of the time, as Georgia pines). This album from the tail end of their most creative period , moreover, unlike let us say Bob Dylan who has produced more creative work for longer, is the `golden era" of the Stone Age. The album, however, is a little uneven in spots reflecting, I think, a certain exhaustion of material that they could call their totally their own unless the time when they owned a big chunk of rock 'n'roll in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Still “Ruby Tuesday is clarly an early classic, as is "Let's Spend The Night Together". But here is the 'skinny'. For the aficionado get a compilation that will give you these and other, better material in one place. For the novice definitely do that.

Ruby Tuesday Lyrics

She would never say where she came from
Yesterday don't matter if it's gone
While the sun is bright
Or in the darkest night
No one knows
She comes and goes

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still I'm gonna miss you...

Don't question why she needs to be so free
She'll tell you it's the only way to be
She just can't be chained
To a life where nothing's gained
And nothing's lost
At such a cost

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still I'm gonna miss you...

There's no time to lose, I heard her say
Catch your dreams before they slip away
Dying all the time
Lose your dreams
And you may lose your mind.
Ain't life unkind?

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still I'm gonna miss you...

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still I'm gonna miss you...

Happy Birthday Keith Richards *Stonesmania-The Stones Live- The Urban Jungle World Tour, 1989

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Little Red Rooster".

CD Review

RollingStonesFlashpoint: The Urban Jungle World Tour, The Rolling Stones, Virgin Records, 1989

I will repeat here what I have mentioned in other reviews of the early work of The Rolling Stones…. “Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock ‘n’ roll pantheon.”

Previously in this space I have reviewed various Stones compilations that featured one or more combination of their “greatest hits”. In this world tour CD we get those well-known and deservedly-covered hits and a few new pieces composed for the tour but mainly we get The Stones live, which is always a treat when one see the group in person or, as here, through a recording made up of tracks, presumably the best ones, from various stops on this 1989 tour. Stands out here are the Willie Dixon classic made famous by Howlin’ Wolf, "Little Red Rooster”, their “Factory Girl” and “Sympathy For The Devil” and a couple of new (at least to me) tunes, “Highwire” and “Sex Drive”.

Happy Birthday Keith Richards -*Stonesmania- Hot Rocks, Indeed- The Rolling Stones, Once Again

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Street Fighting Man".

CD Review

Hot Rocks 1964-1971, The Rolling Stones, 2CD set, ABKCO Records, 1986

Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock ‘n’ roll pantheon. Still, it is interesting to listen once again to the guys when they were at the height of their musical powers (and as high, most of the time, as Georgia pines). This period from 1964 to 1971, moreover, unlike let us say Bob Dylan who has produced more creative work for longer, is the ‘golden era” of the Stone Age.

While this CD has the rather definitive selection of “greatest hits’ from this period so there are no bad tracks here the stick outs are “Gimme Shelter”( as always), “Street Fighting Man”, “Sympathy For The Devil”, “Under My Thumb” and “Ruby Tuesday”

Happy Birthday Kieth Richards -*Stonesmania- No Beggars At This Banquet- The Rolling Stones, Once Again

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Street Fighting Man" in 1968. Natural choice for a Stones song on this site, right?

CD Review

Beggar’s Banquet, The Rolling Stones, ABKCO Records, 1968

Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock ‘n’ roll pantheon. Still, it is interesting to listen once again to the guys when they were at the height of their musical powers (and as high, most of the time, as Georgia pines). This album from the 1964 to 1971 period, moreover, unlike let us say Bob Dylan who has produced more creative work for longer, is the ‘golden era” of the Stone Age. While this CD has a rather definitive selection of some of “greatest hits" from this period so there are no bad tracks here the stick outs are the super-rock classic “Sympathy For The Devil"(as always), the very epitome of the 1960s quasi-revolutionary style “Street Fighting Man”, the bluesy "No Expectations" and a song that has risen in my estimation over the years, "Factory Girl". Need I say more-no beggars need apply here.

FACTORY GIRL
(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Waiting for a girl who's got curlers in her hair
Waiting for a girl she has no money anywhere
We get buses everywhere
Waiting for a factory girl

Waiting for a girl and her knees are much too fat
Waiting for a girl who wears scarves instead of hats
Her zipper's broken down the back
Waiting for a factory girl

Waiting for a girl and she gets me into fights
Waiting for a girl we get drunk on Friday night
She's a sight for sore eyes
Waiting for a factory girl

Waiting for a girl and she's got stains all down her dress
Waiting for a girl and my feet are getting wet
She ain't come out yet
Waiting for a factory girl

Happy Birthday Keith Richards -The Limits of The Pacifist Message- John Lennon Tribute

DVD REVIEW

Come Together, John Lennon Tribute, Yoko Ono Productions, 2001

I am here to rain on this tribute to the work of John Lennon in New York City in early October 2001 on two counts- musically and politically. As to the music. I make no bones about the fact that, as a product of the Generation of ’68, I grew to adulthood with this music, however, in any choice between The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, in my book the Stones win hands down. The same applies to comparisons to Lennon as an individual artist. John Lennon could write lyrics with the best of them, no question, but here is the real question- which song, for example, better expresses the sense of working class alienation and, more importantly, what to do about it- Lennon’s Working Class Hero or The Stones’ Street Fighting Man?

That said, even taking comparisons between artists out of consideration John Lennon’s work, as witnessed here, has not aged well. This, despite the profuse trade puffing by host Kevin Stacey and other narrators to the contrary. Part of this is because his works are so personal that they are not easily covered. Recently listening to some covers of the The White Album leads me to believe that this is true, as well, for most Beatles songs. Thus, the tribute, as a whole came off rather muzak-like, with the partial exception of Sean Lennon’s work with Rufus Wainwright on That Boy and Nancy Marchant’s rendition of Nowhere Man.

Now to the politics. Yes, we know that John Lennon, sincerely I believe, stood for ‘giving peace a chance’ and for ‘power to the people, right on’ but frankly, those slogans today, as we are in another titanic struggle against the imperial monsters over Iraq and Afghanistan just seems like some much children’s talk. What the narrators held to be Lennon’s profound wisdom on the peace question are things that seemed embarrassingly childish to me back even when they were first uttered. No, it is not enough to just think good thoughts about peace or have peace in our hearts for that to occur as if by magic. We have to go out and struggle for it against some people who will see us in our graves before they give ‘peace a chance’.

And here my friends is the kicker. This tribute was performed in New York City on October 3, 2001 a few weeks after the criminal actions of a bunch of Islamic fanatics wrecked havoc on that city. Perhaps I would have been more impressed by the tribute if one person- host, performer or from the audience- in the whole one and one half hour program had mentioned peace and the desire for it, not in the great by and by, but by actually mentioning opposition to the war in Afghanistan that was being prepared even as they sang and was only a few days from starting. Maybe, in the light of circumstances that couldn’t be done in New York City during those weeks but I will be damned if I will listen to people spout forth about peace when they were not out in the streets with the few of us who were protesting the Afghan war then. Hell, I too was afraid to go out in the streets and face the redneck reaction that was stirred up then. But that is where ‘peaceniks’, if you will, had to be. What would Mr. Lennon have had to say about that? Mrs. Lennon didn’t have anything to say at all.

Happy Birthday Keith Richards-From The Archives- The Cultural Contradictions Of The Generation Of '68

Commentary

Those who have followed this space over the past year may have noticed that I have spend some little time going back down memory lane some forty years to that decisive year of 1968, a year to which I have attached the term the 'Generation of ’68'-the generation who fought or fought against the Vietnam war and other issues of that day. Blame the misbegotten elections of 2008 for my preoccupations. I expected to spend more time on that presidential campaign but around June of this year I discovered that it was basically so much “ill wind” abrewing. So onward.

Of course the generic term ‘Generation of ‘68’, like that of our immediate forbears the media-crowned ‘greatest generation’, is as much a metaphor for what we attempted to do in those days on a social, political and cultural level as an actual definable structured phenomena. In the past I have mentioned that we, mainly out of innocence or better still ignorance (sometimes willfully so, as in the early rejection of Marxism as a guide to seeing things) made every mistake in the social, political and cultural book. We have, unfortunately, lived to pay for those essentially youthful mistakes with a forty year ‘blow back’ from the reactionaries who have had a free run of this country ever since.

If today, in December 2008, we have a little breathing room for our old time visions we best think things through better this time because, as it turns out, we are historically only given limited space and time to prove that we are capable of listening to “the better angels of our natures”. That said, as I have been at pains to point out in this space, not all of our long ago efforts should be dismissed out of hand. I nevertheless want to use this entry as a place to examine some of the cultural conceptions that, upon reflection, while they seemed very radical and progressive then seem kind of stale and ‘corny’ today. I intend this as a continuing entry through the next year or so. Feel free to add your "howlers" from the old days. Here’s the grab bag for now.

Back To The Archives, Please.

The Rolling Stones: Sympathy For The Devil, starring The Rolling Stones (1968 members), directed by Jean-Luc Godard, 1968

In an entry elsewhere in this space I noted my early youth allegiance to The Rolling Stones with the following remarks:

“I am not sure exactly when I first hear a Stones song although it was probably “Satisfaction”. However, what really hooked me on them was when I hear them cover the old Willie Dixon blues classic “The Red Rooster”. If you will recall that song was banned, at first, from the radio stations of Boston. Later, I think, and someone can maybe help me out on this, WMEX broke the ban and played it. And no, the song was not about the doings of our barnyard friends. But, beyond that it was the fact that it was banned that made me, and perhaps you, want to hear it at any cost….

That event began my long love affair with the blues. And that is probably why, although American blues also influenced the Beatles, it is the Stones that I favor. Their cover still holds up, by the way. Not as good, as I found out later, as the legendary Howlin' Wolf’s version but good. I have also thought about The Stones influence recently as I have thought about the long ago past of my youth. Compare some works like John Lennon’s “Working Class Hero” and The Stones’ “Street Fighting Man” (yes, I know these are later works) and I believe that you will find that something in the way The Stones presented that angry, defiant sound appealed to my working class alienation.”

Thus when I recently re-watched this Stones-based documentary, self-styled political manifesto and 'new wave' film by one of the cultural hero-directors of the 1960’s I expected to get as excited over its presentation as the first time I saw it. Well, here is the “skinny”. I still love The Stones’ song “Sympathy For The Devil” the production of which forms the core of this film. I do not, however, need to see the creation of this musical rock and roll gem over the course of an hour and one-half interspersed with one thousand and one of Godard’s pre-occupations of the day from Marxism to pornography to racism to Black Nationalist politics. In out youths we accepted anything that was new, different and haphazard as pure as the driven snow. Forty years later this reviewer may be a more little jaded but certainly less self-indulgent, as Godard should have been in directing this film. Some things from the 1960’s age very well like the social commitment to “seek a newer world”. Others are best left in the archives.

Strictly For Aficionados

The “Genuine” Basement Tapes”, Volumes 1-5, Bob Dylan and The Band (1967 members), Alternate Edge Productions, 2002

In a review of Bob Dylan’s “The Freewheeling Bob Dylan” elsewhere in this space I noted:

“In reviewing Bob Dylan’s 1965 classic album “Bringing All Back Home” (you know, the one where he went electric) I mentioned that it seemed hard to believe now that both as to the performer as well as to what was being attempted that anyone would take umbrage at a performer using an electric guitar to tell a folk story (or any story for that matter). I further pointed out that it is not necessary to go into all the details of what or what did not happen with Pete Seeger at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965 to know that one should be glad, glad as hell, that Bob Dylan continued to listen to his own drummer and carry on a career based on electronic music.”

And I am still glad of that fact. What I am less enamored of is the virtual cottage industry that has grown up around various bootleg, basement, cellar, barn, attic or other odd location versions of Dylan’s work, electric or acoustic. This archival material is nice for folk, rock and cultural historians but I would argue that Mr. Bob Dylan’s usually well-produced albums are after over forty years more than enough to listen to without having to get into the minutia of his career. And, somehow, made to feel in the process that one has missed something without this other more esoteric material. In short, these five volumes of practice, outtakes, cuts, etc. done with The Band while he was “hiding” out in rural New York after his motorcycle accident are strictly for aficionados.

That said, for those who insist on getting their little hands on this material here is the “scoop”. From Volume One- “Odds And Ends”. From Volume Two- “Quinn The Eskimo”. From Volume Three-“Tiny Montgomery”, “Santa Fe” and “Sign Of The Cross (excellent)”. From Volume Four- “You Ain’t Going Nowhere”, “Confidential To Me” and “Bring It On Home”. From Volume Five (the album to get if you get just one)-“Four Strong Winds”, Joshua Gone Barbados” “I Forgot To Remember To Forget”, “Bells Of Rhymney”, “Spanish Is The Loving Tongue”, “Cool Water”, “Banks Of The Royal Canal”. These are all covers and very nicely done, if sometimes hard to hear.

Once Again, On Those Damn Tapes

The Basement Tapes, Bob Dylan and The Band (1967 members), CBS Records, 1975

Parts of this review were used in a review of The “Genuine” Basement Tapes. I make most of the same objections here for this set as I did there, except if you need to choose between the two the quality of the production values here is greater than on the former. Although the more I listen to Volume 5 of the “genuine” tapes with that “Joshua Gone Barbados” and hard to hear but mesmerizing cover of “ I Forgot To Remember to Forget” and a couple of others I am starting to waver.

In a review of Bob Dylan’s “The Freewheeling Bob Dylan” elsewhere in this space I noted:

“In reviewing Bob Dylan’s 1965 classic album “Bringing All Back Home” (you know, the one where he went electric) I mentioned that it seemed hard to believe now that both as to the performer as well as to what was being attempted that anyone would take umbrage at a performer using an electric guitar to tell a folk story (or any story for that matter). I further pointed out that it is not necessary to go into all the details of what or what did not happen with Pete Seeger at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965 to know that one should be glad, glad as hell, that Bob Dylan continued to listen to his own drummer and carry on a career based on electronic music.”

And I am still glad of that fact. What I am less enamored of is the virtual cottage industry that has grown up around various bootleg, basement, cellar, barn, attic or other odd location versions of Dylan’s work, electric or acoustic. This archival material is nice for folk, rock and cultural historians but I would argue that Mr. Bob Dylan’s usually well-produced albums are after over forty years more than enough to listen to without having to get into the minutia of his career. And, somehow, left to feel that one has missed something without this other more esoteric material. That same sentiment applies to the virtuoso work of The Band in their heyday. And certainly to their joint work. In short, this two disc set of practice, outtakes, cuts, etc. done with The Band while he was “hiding” out in rural New York after his motorcycle accident are strictly for aficionados.

That said, for those who insist on getting their little hands on this material here is the “scoop”. “Tears Of Rage” ; “You Ain’t Going Nowhere”; “Yazoo Street Scandal” and “Odds and Ends” are what you are getting this CD for. That does not seem like enough given what I mentioned above.

Happy Birthday Keith Richards- *The Hoochie Coochie Man- The Blues of Muddy Waters - Muddy Becomes Muddy

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Muddy Waters in performance mode.

CD Review

Muddy Becomes Muddy

Muddy Waters: First Recording Sessions, 1941-1946, In Chronological Order, Document Records, 1991

I have spent very little ink over the past year as I go through some of the great acoustic and electric blues guitars and performers on the iconic Muddy Waters. I have explained elsewhere some of my reasoning for this as well as other personal preferences that I wanted to highlight first. Nevertheless when all is said and done no one who loves the blues in its various incantations can avoid the influence and importance of Muddy’s work.

I will argue here that this little compilation of early, mainly pre-Chicago electric blues Muddy is a worthy historical document on two counts. First, because it is in chronological order it shows the evolution of Muddy’s style from the traditional country blues sound of the Delta that was becoming passé. Secondly, because some of this pre-Chicago sound is, to this reviewer’s ear at least, better than many of his later pieces. As evidence I would point to the pure jam efforts on the classic “Joe Turner’s Blues” and “Pearlie May Blues”. Then move down to “Mean Spider Blues” and “Come To Me Baby”. None of these are in the league of “Mannish Boy” when he got it going but I think this is worthy Muddy. The argument continues.

Happy Birthday Keith Richards-*Stonesmania-Back To Basics- The Rolling Stones When The Earth Was Young

*Stonesmania-Back To Basics- The Rolling Stones When The Earth Was Young


Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of The Rolling Stones performing "Not Fade Away".

CD Review

High Tide And Green Grass, The Rolling Stones, ABKCO Records, 1986

I will repeat here what I have mentioned in other reviews of the early work of The Rolling Stones…. “Hey, in 2009 no one, including this reviewer, NEEDS to comment on the fact that The Rolling Stones, pound for pound, have over forty plus years earned their place as the number one band in the rock ‘n’ roll pantheon. Still, it is interesting to listen once again to the guys when they were at the height of their musical powers (and as high, most of the time, as Georgia pines)”. This “greatest hits” compilation takes us back to the days, before the heavier rock sound but right up their in competition with the Beatles for the ‘soul’ of the youthful rock fans of the 1960’s. Some of these songs are classic of the rock ‘n’ roll song book others are just faded memories. The cover of “Not Fade Away”,their own “Satisfaction”, “The Last Time” and “19th Nervous Breakdown” will endure as long as people need rock ‘n’ roll to get through the day. “Tell Me” and “Play With Fire” are more for youthful memories.

UNDER MY THUMB
(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Under my thumb
The girl who once had me down
Under my thumb
The girl who once pushed me around

It's down to me
The difference in the clothes she wears
Down to me, the change has come,
She's under my thumb

Ain't it the truth babe?

Under my thumb
The squirmin' dog who's just had her day
Under my thumb
A girl who has just changed her ways

It's down to me, yes it is
The way she does just what she's told
Down to me, the change has come
She's under my thumb
Ah, ah, say it's alright

Under my thumb
A siamese cat of a girl
Under my thumb
She's the sweetest, hmmm, pet in the world

It's down to me
The way she talks when she's spoken to
Down to me, the change has come,
She's under my thumb
Ah, take it easy babe
Yeah

It's down to me, oh yeah
The way she talks when she's spoken to
Down to me, the change has come,
She's under my thumb
Yeah, it feels alright

Under my thumb
Her eyes are just kept to herself
Under my thumb, well I
I can still look at someone else

It's down to me, oh that's what I said
The way she talks when she's spoken to
Down to me, the change has come,
She's under my thumb
Say, it's alright.

Say it's all...
Say it's all...

Take it easy babe
Take it easy babe
Feels alright
Take it, take it easy babe.

When The Blues Was Dues- Martin Scorsese’s Rolling Stone Tribute –“Shine A Light”

DVD Review

Shine A Light. starring The Rolling Stones, directed by Martin Scorsese, Paramount, 2008

… he, manic film director he, hell, famous film director, Martin Scorsese, all Hollywood –awarded, all blank check name your next project, all well known for capturing the mean rumble-stumble-tumble streets of Little Italy corner boy life in front of Mama’s Pizza Parlor, for New Jack City taxi cab saviors, or devils, for be-bop blues Muddy-Howlin’ Wolf- Ike (Tina-less)Turner-Willie Dixon- The Blinds(Blake-Jefferson-Johnson-McTell-Lewis) tributes (kindred to Stone-blessed early day Chess Record Mecca trips) and for a scad of other worthy projects lay heaven-bent in his hotel suite, sweating, sweating like he had just landed his first directing job and his whole career depended on getting the essence of his generation’s music, second wave (first wave Elvis, Chuck, Roy, Jerry Lee and progeny) stone-crazy rock and roll. So he fretted the night before the big theater performance (always a tough venue for camera perspective shots anyway) away thinking about what god crazy impulse made him think he could capture such energy, such performance level, such potential for everything to go off the wheels and wind up like so many rock docks looking like some stoned (weed stoned not depths cousin cocaine stoned) suburban kid’s homemade video. Like some kid in the audience. Jesus.

And they, they the reigning emperors of the known rock universe fought him every inch of the way, cut the lights, brighten the darks, keep those goddam cameras out of our faces, off of our stage, and away from our big- wig event audience. Hey, maybe you should film it from the last row of the balcony and deal with chasing away those kids that snuck in the theater through the back door. Wise guys, he thought, we knew how to deal with these limey river rats back in that Little Italy corner boy night, and no questions asks. And to top it off they didn’t even give him the play list (or rather he, Mick he, okay, it’s his play list and depends on his moods), the potential play list, hell, maybe they were going to do a night of Muddy Waters or Beatles covers for all he knew. He needed, desperately needed, to know whether they were going to burn the stage down opening up with Jumpin’ Jack Flash, Gimme Shelter, or Tumblin’ Dice and then pick up the wreckage or slow and easy rider their way in with As Tears Go By, Far Away Eyes, or Back Street Girl and then burn the place down. Jesus, he thought to himself, this one will age me about ten years.

He, his satanic majesty, he, Mick, Mick Jagger, laugh, Queen (no, not the rock group) benighted, oops, be-knighted on that same pre-show night sat on his hotel suite sofa fretting, fretting about whether he had done enough voice exercises, like his coach, that damn bastard coach had insisted to keep him from sounding like Bob Dylan’s brother, fretting whether that new lame shirt would hold up, fretting whether his slightly arthritic fingers could guitar hold the notes on Shine A Light night, and fretting whether his new diet of soy milk and rice puffs were enough to keep his fighting weight slim body in one piece. Yah and then he fretted, fretted simple stuff like what do you call an ex-president of the United States and the bag of glad-handers he was bringing with him. Fretted whether doing a Muddy tribute with Buddy Guy on Champagne and Reefer would just be taken as an autobiographical note. And fretted too whether Keith might use something, anything, as an excuse to go all crazy-up before the show. Start Me Up alright. Ronny and Charley too, for that matter.

And then he thought maybe he should ask around and get a little something for the head, a little something to put that edge on when he was coming out all black and black satanic on Sympathy For The Devil. And then he thought back, back to the youthful jails, the endless court appearances, the close escapes, the missing days (damn weeks when he was in high dudgeon stoned, sister morphine stoned, or love girl stoned ) and thought better of it. Christ he was probably just going to squeeze out the two hours straight as it was. And on top of that the pressure from Marty (and his maze of a crowd) to do this, do that, put this camera here, put that light there (burning up his bum or some other part of him in the sweaty night) AND he wanted to know the play list. Christ he himself didn’t know it, that was part of keeping the act fresh, of keeping the boys, Keith, Ronny, Charley, those boys, on their toes (to speak nothing of those wacko trumpet players, sexy sax players and that damn bass player)

Showtime. All doubts gone, or put aside for the siege, eyes front he, Mick he, forget Marty he until the film premier, Rasputin-like, Rasputin on speed maybe, drawing the audience in with his first juke moves, feet moving faster than the speed of light, hips playing ring-a-rosy, bounce shirt showing a little skin around the waist (eye-candy for the girls, girls six to sixty, and AARP papa moans about how can he keep so fit and jealous ),every hand moving like some stoned hitchhiker out on the great blue-pink American search night, gesturing about twelve different ways. Ready, set, go. Jumpin’ Jack Flash for the opening, They, Mick, have decided to burn the place down, take no prisoners, and see who is still standing at the end. Mick is on fire, Keith, like some William S Burroughs’ Naked Lunch junkie, like some poor mother’s (mothers’) worst nightmare daughter coming home with (what will the neighbors say), doing some ten thousand year old blues riff, mixed with every sound he has heard since about 1956 solid (solid smoking that cigarette , bans Keith-exempted, okay). Yah, for about the nine hundredth time he and Mick are in synch, check Ronnie, and check steady drum beat Charley, cool as a cucumber Charley. And just for that one moment (okay two hours) for those who went through it the first time back in the day, and for those who were spoon-fed it on their mother’s lap, the audience, knew what it was like when men (hell, women too) played rock and roll for keeps.

…and hence this film

Happy Birthday Keith Richards- In The Heat Of the Be-Bop 1960s Rock Night- Ya, We Were All Exiles On Main Street- “The Rolling Stones: Stones In Exile"- A DVD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Howlin' Wolf performing Willie Dixon's classic Little Red Rooster. I am sure that Mick and the boys will gladly take a back seat to Howlin' Wolf on this one.

DVD Review

Rolling Stones: Stones In Exile, The Rolling Stones, directed by Stephen Kijak, 2010

In the old days, the old high school days when such things mattered, my best friend at North Adamsville High School (we actually went back to old North Adamsville Middle School days together), Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley to give his full moniker, spent endless hours arguing over the merits of The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones as the primo rock band of the times. The times being the early 1960s, the time of the edge, just the wee edge of the beginning of the uprisings associated with our generation, the generation of ’68.

I will get into the specifics of that Frankie controversy a little later but for the purposes of this review of a film documentary about the making of the Stones’ 1972 album, Exile on Main Street, the real controversy is over whether this album was their best ever or not. At that point Frankie and I had lost contact so that I will just give as my opinion that for pure blues-ness, pure Stones’ foundational blue-ness, for country rooted-ness, and for musicianship it is hard to argue that any other Stones' album was better. And that opinion, now with the benefit of the documentary footage and current interviews with many of the personalities from Mick Jagger and Keith Richards to the sidemen, hangers-on, gofers, and their manager during this period, Marshall Chess (son of the legendary blues label founder, Leonard Chess), about how it was produced, and what it all meant, still holds up.

I noted in the headline that in the 1960s we, at least those of us who were politically alienated from mainstream Western social norms or at wits end for some other more personal reasons, were all exiles on Main Street. Main Street being a convenient term of art for all that was square, not cool, up-tight, piggish, and a thousand other words we used to separate our youth culture out from the ticky-tack little white house with the picket fence dream that passed for social reality then (and, unfortunately, now, well kind of now). For the Stones this notion of exile, self-imposed exile, not glad-tiding self-imposed exile to hear the lads tell it, had another element. They had to flee England in order to escape from some terrible tax burdens that had accumulated and for which they did not have control over solving (or money to pay). So off to the south of France they go, to live and to produce the new album and in order to get some dough.

Of course, with such well-known edge city crazies as Mick and Keith this was not going to be a Sunday in the park. Along the way they picked up musicians, groupies, hangers-on, bag men, bad guys, dope dealers and everyone with a little cache who could get to France and be around the scene. And that scene included, surprise, surprise, dope of every kind- from pills to smack (heroin, then, as now, not a “cool” drug staple), booze by the buckets full, women, sex, and everything else under the sun. Let’s leave it that the scene was the epitome of the slogan “drug, sex and rock and roll” and along with the expression “live fast, die young and make a good corpse” will get you the flavor of what went on just about right. Oh ya, in case you forgot, it also included an incredible amount of work by Mick and Keith writing material, all members playing riffs until arms got sore, throats died and fingers began to bleed. Not a recipe that your mothers would suggest for making successful careers, of any kind. But just the right recipe to unleash the rock energy built up in one of the great rock bands that every exited, then and AARP and old age home-worthy now.

Take an hour out and look at some serious rock history. Then go up in the attic and dust off the album, or check it out in your CD collection, or download it to your iPOD, or Google it on YouTube but listen to it. Especially the blues-ish stuff like Tumblin' Dice (that will get even grandpa out of his rocking chair); Sweet Virginia; Sweet Black Angel; and the rootsy (Robert Johnson rootsy) Stop Breaking Down.

Now back to serious Frankie business. The Frankie business of figuring out the real places of The Stones and The Beatles in the rock pantheon, for eternity. Back on those hot, steamy, endless summer nights standing (or sitting on the curb) beneath those North Adamsville street lights when that question mattered, mattered as a "universal one" question. I am not sure exactly when I first hear a Stones song, although it was probably Satisfaction, and it was probably up in Frankie’s cluttered bedroom, a place that served as a refuge from my own storm-tossed house what with my mother’s tirades against, well, against anything that I might do, or might think of doing. You know that song, or have heard about it.

However, what really hooked me on The Stones was when they covered the old Willie Dixon blues classic, Little Red Rooster. If you will recall that song was banned, at first, from the radio stations of Boston. Later, I think, and someone can maybe help me out on this, WMEX broke the ban and played it. And no, the song was not about the doings of our barnyard friends. But beyond the implicit sexual theme was the fact that it was banned that made me, and perhaps you, if you are from the generation of ’68, want to hear it at any cost. That says as much about my personality then, and now, as any long-winded statement I could make. And that is what also set Frankie and me apart on this question.

See, Frankie was from no where on the blues. And I mean no where. Although Frankie reigned supreme as the king hell king of our corner boy high school scene (headquartered at the local pizza parlor, Salducci’s, owned by a mad-hatter of a zen pizza-maker, Tonio, who loved Frankie practically like a son for some reason never explained, at least that I could figure out) and was cool in many things, he was pretty square in his music tastes. He never got over Elvis, really, and followed his ever depressing descend into Blue Hawaii-dom (or worst) avidly, and Frankie really believed that Roy Orbison was a demon (there is a story behind that belief which involved the machinations of his girlfriend, Joanne, which need not detain us here). Carl Perkins was another idol, and I need not speak of the fact that he almost cried when they started picking on Jerry Lee Lewis just because he married his cousin, or something. Thus far though we were not that far apart.

But get this. He, king of the be-bop night, no question, a guy whom I talked about universal things to and got a thoughtful talking back to on, took it in strife when guys like Fabian, Booby (oops) Bobby Vee, Conway Twitty (be serious), Bobby Darin, the Everly Brothers, and Rick Nelson, jesus, Rick Nelson led the musical counter-revolution in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Music that made me, on certain days, abandon the transistor radio that was central to my home life peace. (Ya, that Ma thing mentioned previously). So when The Beatles turned up he was kind of nonplussed by them, and I swear he actually said this one night and I will quote his words exactly just in case there are any legal ramifications over it- “They did a nice cover of Twist and Shout”-jesus christ. Even I saw them as a breathe of fresh air then.

Now you get the idea of the musical gap that developed between us. That hearing of Little Red Rooster, moreover, began my long love affair with the blues, although somewhere deep in my psyche, my projects boy psyche, I had that beat in my head way before I could name it. I swear I grabbed every Muddy Waters, Joe Turner, Ike Turner, John Lee Hooker album that I could get my hands on. And then branched out to such esoteric stuff as the work of blues pioneers like Son House, Robert Johnson, and Bukka White (he did Panama Limited and Aberdeen Mississippi Woman on the sweat-dripping National Steel guitar and flipped me out, and still flips me out. Google those on YouTube) and other early country blues boys. Some of this also got mixed in at the time with my budding interest in the folk music scene, the folk protest music scene. And that is probably why, although the blues, particularly the Chicago blues, also influenced The Beatles, it is The Stones that I favor. Their cover on Rooster still holds up, by the way. Not as good, as I found out later, as the legendary Howlin' Wolf's version but good.

I have also thought about the Stones influence more recently as I have thought about the long ago past of my youth. Compare some works like John Lennon's earnest, plaintive Working Class Hero and The Stones' agitated Street Fighting Man (yes, I know these are later works, later than the be-bop corner boy schoolboy night, but they serve to make my point here) and I believe that something in the way The Stones from early on presented that angry, defiant sound appealed to my sense of working class alienation. Let’s leave it as they “spoke” to me and The Beatles didn’t. Frankie, always caught up with some twist (although mainly the Joanne mentioned above) moved to less defiant sounds. But he was the king hell king corner boy, and bailed me out of tough situations, tough girl situations and some other semi-legal things, more times than not so he draws a pass on his vanilla tastes here. Thanks, Frankie.

Note: If we were really thinking about comparisons between rock groups the better one is actually not The Beatles vs. The Stones but Stones vs. The Doors. On any given night in the late 1960s when Jim Morrison dug deeply into his psyche and bared his shamanistic soul (and dug, dug deeply, into his medicine bag as well) The Doors were the best rock band in the world. No question. But when you start to list the all-time classic Stones hits from Gimme Shelter to Tumblin’ Dice (like I say the one that will still get even grandpa up and about) and how they stand the test of time The Stones win hands down.


Street Fighting Man Lyrics
Artist(Band):The Rolling Stones
(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Ev'rywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy
'Cause summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy
But what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Think the time is right for a palace revolution
'Cause where I live the game to play is compromise solution
Well, then what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Said my name is called disturbance
I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants
Well, what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No


"Working Class Hero" lyrics- John Lennon

As soon as your born they make you feel small,
By giving you no time instead of it all,
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool,
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years,
Then they expect you to pick a career,
When you can't really function you're so full of fear,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV,
And you think you're so clever and classless and free,
But you're still fucking peasents as far as I can see,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
There's room at the top they are telling you still,
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill,
If you want to be like the folks on the hill,
A working class hero is something to be.
A working class hero is something to be.
If you want to be a hero well just follow me,
If you want to be a hero well just follow me.


The Red Rooster
Howling Wolf

I have a little red rooster, too lazy to crow for day
I have a little red rooster, too lazy to crow for day
Keep everything in the barnyard, upset in every way

Oh the dogs begin to bark,
and the hound begin to howl
Oh the dogs begin to bark, hound begin to howl
Ooh watch out strange kind people,
Cause little red rooster is on the prowl

If you see my little red rooster, please drag him home
If you see my little red rooster, please drag him home
There ain't no peace in the barnyard,
Since the little red rooster been gone

Willie Dixon

Happy Birthday Keith Richards- Not Ready For Prime Time AARP Songs- The Beatles' "When I'm Sixty-Four"

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the Beatles performing When I'm Sixty-Four from the animated movie Yellow Submarine.

Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964 and thus already past sixty-four, comment:

Many of my fellows from the Generation of '68 (a. k. a. baby-boomers) will be, if you can believe this, turning sixty-four this year. So be it.

When I'm Sixty-Four - The Beatles

When I get olded, loosing my hair,
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me the Valentine,
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine

If I stay out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four.

You'll be older too,
And if you say the word I could stay with you.

I could be handy mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday morning go for a ride

Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four.

Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight,
if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck & Dave

Send me a postcard, drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away

Give me your answer, fill in a form,
Mine for evermore,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four.
*******
Ancient dreams, dreamed.

Ya, sometimes, and maybe more than sometimes, a frail, a frill, a twist, a dame, oh hell, let’s cut out the goofy stuff and just call her a woman and be done with it, will tie a guy’s insides up in knots so bad he doesn’t know what is what. Tie up a guy so bad he will go to the chair kind of smiling, okay maybe just half-smiling. Frank (read: future Peter Paul and a million, more or less, other guys) had it bad as a man could have from the minute Ms. Cora walked through the door in her white summer blouse, shorts, and the then de rigueur bandana holding back her hair, also white. She may have been just another blonde, very blonde, frail serving them off the arm in some seaside hash joint but from second one she was nothing but, well nothing but, a femme fatale. I swear, I swear on seven sealed bibles that I yelled, yelled through the womb or some toddler’s crib maybe, at the screen for him to get the hell out of there at that moment. But do you think he would listen, no not our boy. He had to play with fire, and play with it to the end.

Nose flattened cold against the frozen, snow falling front window “the projects” wait on better times, get a leg up, don’t get left behind in the dawning American streets paved with gold dream but for now just hang your hat dwelling, small, too small for three growing boys with hearty appetites and desires to match even then, warm, free-flow oil spigot warm, no hint of madness, or crazes only of sadness, brother kinship sadness, sadness and not understanding of time marching, relentlessly marching as he, that older brother, went off to foreign places, foreign elementary school reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic places and, he, the nose flattened against the window brother, is left to ponder his own place in those kind of places, those foreign-sounding places, when his time comes. If he has a time, has the time for the time of his time, in this red scare (but what knows he of red scare only brother scares), cold war, cold nose, dust particles floating aimlessly in the clogging still air night.

A cloudless day, a cloudless blasted eternal, infernal Korean War day, talk of peace, merciless truce peace and uncles coming home in the air, hot, hot end of June day laying, face up on freshly mown grass near fellowship carved-out fields, fields for slides and swings, diamonded baseball, no, friendlier softball fields the houses are too close, of gimps, glues, cooper-plated portraits of wildly-maned horses, of sweet shaded elms, starting, now that he too, that nose-flattened brother, has been to foreign places, strange boxed rooms filled with the wax and wane of learning, simple learning, in the time of his time, to find his own place in the sun but wondering, constantly wondering, what means this, what means that, and why all the changes, slow changes, fast changes, blip changes, but changes.

Nighttime fears, red-flagged Stalin-named fears, red bomb aimed right at my head unnamed shelter blast fears, named, vaguely named, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg hated stalinite jews killed fears, jews killed our catholic lord fears, and what did they do wrong to get the chair anyway fears against the cubed glass glistening flagless flag-pole rattling dark asphalt school yard night. Alone, and, and, alone with fears, and avoidance, clean, clear stand alone avoidance of old times sailors, tars, sailors’ homes AND deaths in barely readable fine- marked granite-grey lonely seaside graveyards looking out on ocean homelands and lost booty. Dead, and the idea of dead, the mystery of dead, and of sea sailor dead on mains, later stream thoughts of bitch proctoresses, some unnamed faraway crush teacher who crossed my path and such, in lonely what did he do wrong anyway prison cells, smoking, reading, writing of dinosaurs die and other laments. Dead.

Endless walks, endless one way sea street water rat-infested fear seawall walks, rocks, shells, ocean water-logged debris strewn every which way, fetid marsh smells, swaying grasses in light breezes to the right, mephitic swamps oozing mud splat stinks to the left making hard the way, the path, the symbolic life path okay, to uptown drug stores, some forgotten chain-name drug store, passing perfumes, lacquers, counter drugs, ailments cured, hurts fixed and all under a dollar, trinkets ten cents baubles, gee-gads, strictly gee-gads, grabbing, two-handed grabbing, heist-stolen valentines, a metaphor in the making, ribbon and bow ruby-red valentine night bushel, signed, hot blood-signed, weary-feet signed, if only she, about five candidates she, later called two blondes, two brunettes, and a red-head, sticks all, no womanly shape to tear a boy-man up, would give a look his way, his look, his newly acquired state of the minute Elvis-imitation look, on endless sea streets, the white-flecked splash inside his head would be quiet. Man emerging out of the ooze, and hope.


Walks, endless waiting bus stop, old late, forever late, story of a young boy’s life late, diesel-fueled, choking fumed non-stop bus stop walks, no golden age car for jet moves in American Dream wide-fin , high tech automatic drive nights, walks, walks up crooked cheap, low-rent, fifty-year no fix rutted pavement streets, deeply gouged, one-lane snow-drift hassles, you get the picture, pass trees are green, coded, secretly coded even fifty street rutted years later, endless trees are green super-secret-coded except for face blush waiting, waiting against boyish infinite time, infinite first blush of innocent manhood, boyhood times, gone now. For what? For one look, one look, and not a quick no-nonsense, no dice look, no time for ragamuffin boys either that would elude him, elude him forever. Such is life in lowly spots, lowly, lowly spots. And no dance, no coded trees are green dance, either, no high school confidential (hell elementary school either, man), handy man, breathless, Jerry Lee freak-out, at least no potato sack stick dance with coded name trees are green brunette. That will come, that will come. But when?

City square, no trespass, no standing, standing, low-slung granite buildings everywhere, granite steps leading to granite doors leading to granite gee-gad counters, hated, no name hated, low-head hated, waiting slyly, standing back on heels, going in furtively, coming out ditto, presto coming out with a gold nugget jewel, no carat, no russkie Sputnik panel glitter for his efforts such is the way of young lumped-up crime, no value, no look, just grab, grab hard, grab fast, grab get yours before the getting is over, or before the dark, dark night comes, the dark pitched-night when the world no longer is young, and dreamed dream make no more sense that this bodily theft.

A bridge too far, an unarched, unsteeled, unspanned, unnerved bridge too far. One speed bicycle boy, dungarees rolled up against dog bites and geared meshes, churning through endless heated, sweated, no handkerchief streets, names, all the parts of ships, names, all the seven seas, names, all the fishes of the seas, names, all the fauna of the sea, names. Twelve-year old hard churned miles to go before sleep, searching for the wombic home, for the old friends, the old drifter, grifter, midnight shifter petty larceny friends, that’s all it was, petty and maybe larceny, hard against the named ships, hard against the named seas, hard against the named fishes, hard against the named fauna, hard against the unnamed angst, hard against those changes that kind of hit one sideways all at once like some mack the knife smack devilish thing

Lindo, lindos, beautiful, beautifuls, not some spanish exotic though, maybe later, just some junior league dream fuss though, some future cheerleader football dame though, some sweated night pasty crust and I, too slip-shot, too, well, just too lonely, too lonesome, too long-toothed before my time to do more than endless walks along endless atlantic streets to summon up the courage to glance, glance right at windows, non-exotic atlantic cheerleader windows. Such is the new decade a-borning, a-borning but not for me, no jack swagger, or bobby goof as they run the table on old tricky dick or some tired imitation of him. Me, I’ll take exotics, or lindos, if they every cross my path, my lonely only path

Sweated dust bowl nights, not the sweated exotic atlantic cheerleader glance nights but something else, something not endless walked about, something done, or with the promise of done, for something inside, for some sense of worth in the this moldy white tee shirt, mildewy white shorts, who knows what diseased sneakers, Chuck Taylor sneakers pushing the red-faced Irish winds, harder, harder around the oval, watch tick in hand, looking, looking I guess for immortality, immortality even then. Later, in bobby darin times or percy faith times, who knows, sitting, sitting high against the lion-guarded pyramid statute front door dream, common dreams, common tokyo dreams, all gone asunder, all gone asunder, on this curious fact, no wind, Irish or otherwise. Stopped short. Who would have figured that one?

Main street walked, main street public telephone booth cheap talk walked searching for some Diana greek goddess wholesale on the atlantic streets. Diana, blonde Diana, cashmere-sweatered, white tennis –shoed Diana, million later Dianas although not with tennis shoes, really gym shoes fit for old ladies to do their rant, their lonely rant against the wind. Seeking, or rather courage-seeking, nickel and dime courage as it turns out; nickel and dime courage when home provided no sanctuary for snuggle-eared delights. Maybe a date, a small-time after school soda split sit at the counter Doc’s drugstore date, or slice of pizza and a coke date at Balducci’s with a few nickels juke boxed in playing our song, our future song, a Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall song, and dreams of I Want To Wanted sifting the hot afternoon air, maybe just a swirl at midnight drift, maybe a view of local lore car parked submarine races and mysteries unfurled, ah, to dream, no more than to dream, walking down friendly aisles, arm and arm along with myriad other arm and arm walkers on senior errands. No way, no way and then red-face, alas, red-faced no known even forty years later. Wow.

Multi-colored jacket worn, red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises of glory, cigarette, Winston small-filtered, natch, no romantic Bogie tobacco-lipped unfiltered, hanging from off the lip at some jagged angle, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, in hand, a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. Move out the act onto Boston fresh-mown streets. Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not necessary of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame, and then the abyss on non-fame, non- recognition and no more snarls, gentle or otherwise. A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.


Drunk, whisky drunk, whisky rotgut whisky drunk, in some bayside, altantic bayside, not childhood atlantic bayside though, no way, no shawlie way, bar. Name, nameless, no legion. Some staggered midnight vista street, legs weak from lack of work, brain weak, push on, push on, find some fellaheen relieve for that unsatisfied bulge, that gnawing at the brain or really at the root of the thing. A topsy-turvy time, murder, death, the death of death, the death of fame, murder, killing murder, and then resolve, wrong resolve and henceforth the only out, war, war to the finish, although who could have known that then. Who could have know that tet, lyndon, bobby, hubert, tricky dick war-circus all hell broke loose thing then, or wanted to.

Shaved-head, close anyway, too close to distinguish that head and ten-thousand, no on hundred-thousand other heads, all shave-headed. I fall down to the earth, spitting mud-flecked red clay, spitting, dust, spitting, spitting out the stars over Alabama that portent no good, no earthy good. Except this-if this is not murder, if this is not to slay, then what is? And the die is cast, not truthfully cast, not pure warrior in the night cast but cast. Wild dreams, senseless wild dreams follow, follow in succession. The days of rage, rage against the light, and then the glimmer of the light.

The great Mandela cries, cries to the high heavens, for revenge against the son’s hurt, now that the son has found his way, a strange way but a way. And a certain swagger comes to his feet in the high heaven black Madonna of a night. No cigarette hanging off the lip now, not Winston filter-tipped seductions, no need, and no rest except the rest of waiting, waiting on the days to pass until the next coming, and the next coming after that. Ah, sweet Mandela, turn for me, turn for me and mine just a little. Free at last but with a very, very sneaking feeling that this is a road less traveled for reason, and not for ancient robert frost to guide you… Just look at blooded Kent State, or better, blooded Jackson State. Christ.

Bloodless bloodied streets, may day tear down the government days, tears, tear-gas exploding, people running this way and that coming out of a half-induced daze, a crazed half-induced daze that mere good- will, mere righteousness would right the wrongs of this wicked old world. But stop. Out of the bloodless fury, out of the miscalculated night a strange bird, no peace dove and no flame-flecked phoenix but a bird, maybe the owl of Minerva comes a better sense that this new world a-bornin’ will take some doing, some serious doing. More serious that some wispy-bearded, pony-tailed beat, beat down, beat around, beat up young stalwart acting in god’s place can even dream of.

Chill chili nights south of the border, endless Kennebunkports, Bar Harbors, Calais’, Monktons, Peggy’s Coves, Charlottetowns, Montreals, Ann Arbors, Neolas, Denvers by moonlight, Boulders echos, Dinosaurs dies, salted lakes, Winnemuccas’ flats, golden-gated bridges, malibus, Joshua Trees, pueblos, embarcaderos, and flies. Enough to last a life-time, thank you. Enough of Bunsen burners, Coleman stoves, wrapped blankets, second-hand sweated army sleeping bags, and minute pegged pup tents too. And enough too of granolas, oatmeals, desiccated stews, oregano weed, mushroomed delights, peyote seeds, and the shamanic ghosts dancing off against apache (no, not helicopters, real injuns) ancient cavern wall. And enough of short-wave radio beam tricky dick slaughters south of the border in deep fall nights. Enough, okay.

He said struggle. He said push back. He said stay with your people. He said it would not be easy. He said you have lost the strand that bound you to your people. He said you must find that strand. He said that strand will lead you away from you acting in god’s place ways. He said look for a sign. He said the sign would be this-when your enemies part ways and let you through then you will enter the golden age. He said it would not be easy. He said it again and again. He said struggle. He said it in 1848, he said it in 1917, he said it in 1973. Whee, an old guy, huh.

Greyhound bus station men’s wash room stinking to high heaven of seven hundred pees, six hundred laved washings, five hundred wayward unnamed, unnamable smells, mainly rank. Out the door, walk the streets, walk the streets until, until noon, until five, until lights out. Plan, plan, plan, plain paper bag in hand holding, well, holding life, plan for the next minute, no, the next ten seconds until the deadly impulses subside. Then look, look hard, for safe harbors, lonely desolate un-peopled bridges, some gerald ford-bored antic newspaper-strewn bench against the clotted hobo night snores. Desolation row, no way home.

A smoky sunless bar, urban style right in the middle of high Harvard civilization, belting out some misty time Hank Williams tune, maybe Cold, Cold Heart from father home times. Order another deadened drink, slightly benny-addled, then in walks a vision. A million time in walks a vision, but in white this time. Signifying? Signifying adventure, dream one-night stands, lost walks in loaded woods, endless stretch beaches, moonless nights, serious caresses, and maybe, just maybe some cosmic connection to wear away the days, the long days ahead. Ya that seems right, right against the oil-beggared time, right.

Lashed against the high end double seawall, bearded, slightly graying against the forlorn time, a vision in white not enough to keep the wolves of time away, the wolves of feckless petty larceny times reappear, reappear with a vengeance against the super-rational night sky and big globs of ancient hurts fester against some unknown enemy, unnamed, or hiding out in a canyon under an assumed name. Then night, the promise of night, a night run up some seawall laden streets, some Grenada night or maybe Lebanon sky boom night, and thoughts of finite, sweet flinty finite haunt his dreams, haunt his sleep. Wrong number, brother. Ya, wrong number, as usual.

White truce flags neatly placed in right pocket. Folded aging arms showing the first signs of wear-down, unfolded. One more time, one more war-weary dastardly fight against Persian gulf oil-driven time, against a bigger opponent, and then the joys of retreat and taking out those white flags again and normalcy. The first round begins. He holds his own, a little wobbly. Second round he runs into a series of upper-cuts that drive him to the floor. Out. Awake later, seven minutes, hours, eons later he takes out the white flags now red with his own blood. He clutches them in his weary hands. The other he said struggle, struggle. Ya, easy for you to say.

Desperately clutching his new white flags, his 9/11 white flags, exchanged years ago for bloodied red ones, white flags proudly worn for a while now, he wipes his brow of the sweat accumulated from the fear he has been living with for the past few months. Now ancient arms folded, hard-folded against the rainless night, raining, he carefully turns right, left, careful of every move as the crowd comes forward. Not a crowd, no, a horde, a beastly horde, and this is no time to stick out with white flags (or red, for that matter). He jumps out of the way, the horde passes brushing him lightly, not aware, not apparently aware of the white flags. Good. What did that other guy say, oh yes, struggle.

One more battle, one more, please one more, one fight against the greed tea party night. He chains himself, well not really chains, but more like ties himself to the black wrought-iron fence in front of the big white house with his white handkerchief. Another guy does the same, except he uses some plastic hand-cuff-like stuff. A couple of women just stand there, hard against that ebony fence, can you believe it, just stand there. More, milling around, disorderly in a way, someone starts om-ing, om-ing out of Allen Ginsberg Howl nights, or at least Jack Kerouac Big Sur splashes. The scene is complete, or almost complete. Now, for once he knows, knows for sure, that it wasn’t Ms. Cora whom he needed to worry about, and that his child dream was a different thing altogether. But who, just a child, could have known that then.

Happy Birthday Keith Richards-On The (Ouch!) Anniversary Of The First Beatles Album-Yah, Yah, -Stones Or Beatles?

Happy Birthday Keith Richards-On The (Ouch!) Anniversary Of The First Beatles Album-Yah, Yah, -Stones Or Beatles?


Peter Paul Markin, Class Of 1964, comment:

The Stones or Beatles?

This entry was originally posted on oue class website in March 2008.

I have been posing some questions to my class, the Class of 1964, on this and the North Quincy Alumni site. The following question is one such example. However, it occurred to me that other classes might be able to answer it as well. After all we all bled Raider red, right? I will occasionally pose other questions of general interest.

******

I propose to use this Message Board space to pose certain questions to my fellow classmates to which I am interested in getting answers. Thus, I will be periodically throwing a question out and would appreciate an answer. No, I do not want to ask personal family questions. After forty years this space is hardly the place to air our 'dirty' little secrets. I do not want to talk religion. That is everyone's private affair. Nor I do not want to talk politics, although those who might remember me know that I am a "political junkie" from way back. In fact I mean to get my self into some twelve-step rehab program as soon as this current presidential campaign is over, if it ever is. What I want to do is ask questions like that posed below. Join me.

"Manchurian Candidate" McCain vs. The Huckster? Boring. Ms. Hillary vs. Obama "The Charma"? Ho, hum. Three dollar gas at the pump. Oh, well. (Remember this was originally written in March. AJ)? What has my blood boiling is a question that I am desperate, after forty years, to know about my classmates from 1964. In your callow youth, back in the mist of time, did you prefer The Rolling Stones or the Beatles? The question was posed in the canned Q&A section on my profile page (on the Classmates site) but I feel the issue warrants a full airing out.

I make no bones about my preference for The Rolling Stones and will motivate that below but here let me just set the parameters of the discussion. I am talking about the stuff they and the Beatles did when we were in high school. I do not mean the later material like the Beatles' "Sergeant Pepper" or The Stones' "Gimme Shelter". And no, I do not want to hear about how you really swooned over Bobby Darin or Bobby Dee. Answer the question asked, please.

I am not sure exactly when I first hear a Stones song although it was probably "Satisfaction". However, what really hooked me on them was when they covered the old Willie Dixon blues classic "Little Red Rooster". If you will recall that song was banned, at first, from the radio stations of Boston. Later, I think, and someone can maybe help me out on this, WMEX broke the ban and played it. And no, the song was not about the doings of our barnyard friends. But beyond the sexual theme was the fact that it was banned that made me, and perhaps you, want to hear it at any cost. That says as much about my personality then, and now, as any long-winded statement I could make.

That event began my long love affair with the blues. And that is probably why, although the blues, particularly the Chicago blues, also influenced the Beatles, it is The Stones that I favor. Their cover still holds up, by the way. Not as good, as I found out later, as the legendary Howlin' Wolf's version but good. I have also thought about the Stones influence recently as I have thought about the long ago past of my youth.

Compare some works like John Lennon's plaintive "Working Class Hero" and The Stones' agitated "Street Fighting Man" (yes, I know these are later works but they serve to make my point here) and I believe that something in the way The Stones from early on presented that angry, defiant sound appealed to my sense of working class alienation. But enough. I will close with this. I have put my money where my mouth is with my preference. When the Stones toured Boston at Fenway Park in the summer of 2005 I spend many (too many) dollars to get down near the stage and watch old Mick and friends rock. Beat that.

Street Fighting Man Lyrics
Artist(Band):The Rolling Stones
(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Ev'rywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy
'Cause summer's here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy
But what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Think the time is right for a palace revolution
'Cause where I live the game to play is compromise solution
Well, then what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

Hey! Said my name is called disturbance
I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants
Well, what can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock 'n' roll band
'Cause in sleepy London town
There's just no place for a street fighting man
No

"Working Class Hero" lyrics- John Lennon

As soon as your born they make you feel small,
By giving you no time instead of it all,
Till the pain is so big you feel nothing at all,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
They hurt you at home and they hit you at school,
They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool,
Till you're so fucking crazy you can't follow their rules,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
When they've tortured and scared you for twenty odd years,
Then they expect you to pick a career,
When you can't really function you're so full of fear,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV,
And you think you're so clever and classless and free,
But you're still fucking peasents as far as I can see,
A working class hero is something to be,
A working class hero is something to be.
There's room at the top they are telling you still,
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill,
If you want to be like the folks on the hill,
A working class hero is something to be.
A working class hero is something to be.
If you want to be a hero well just follow me,
If you want to be a hero well just follow me.


The Red Rooster
Howling Wolf

I have a little red rooster, too lazy to crow for day
I have a little red rooster, too lazy to crow for day
Keep everything in the barnyard, upset in every way

Oh the dogs begin to bark,
and the hound begin to howl
Oh the dogs begin to bark, hound begin to howl
Ooh watch out strange kind people,
Cause little red rooster is on the prowl

If you see my little red rooster, please drag him home
If you see my little red rooster, please drag him home
There ain't no peace in the barnyard,
Since the little red rooster been gone

Willie Dixon