Wednesday, January 27, 2016

*****Desperately Seeking Revolutionary Intellectuals-Then, And Now

*****Desperately Seeking Revolutionary Intellectuals-Then, And Now  






From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
Several years ago, I guess about four years now, in the aftermath of the demise of the Occupy movement with the shutting down of its campsites across the country by the police acting in concert with other American governmental bodies I wrote a short piece centered on the need for revolutionary and radical intellectuals, or those who had pretensions to such ideas to take their rightful place on the activist left, on the people’s side, and to stop sitting on the academic sidelines. Or wherever they were hiding out, hiding out maybe as far back in some cases as the Vietnam War days which saw much of the current senior contemporary academia turn from the streets to the ivied-buildings, maybe hiding out in bought and paid for think tanks with their bright-colored “wonk” portfolios like some exiles-in-waiting ready to spring their latest wisdom, maybe posing as public intellectuals although with no serious audience ready to act on their ideas since they were not pushing their agendas beyond the lectern, maybe some in the hard-hearted post 9/11 world having doubts about those long ago youthful impulses that animated "the better angels of their natures" have turned to see the “virtues” of the warfare state and now keep their eyes averted to the social struggles they previously professed to live and die for, or maybe a la Henry David Thoreau retiring to out in some edenic gardens in Big Sur or anywhere Oregon like some 60s radicals did never to be heard from again except as relics when the tourists pass through town.

One of the reasons for that piece was that in the aftermath of the demise of the Occupy movement a certain stock-taking was in order (and which is in 2015 and beyond still in order). A stock-taking at first centered on those young radicals and revolutionaries that I ran into in the various campsites and on the flash mob marches who were disoriented and discouraged when their utopian dreams went up in smoke without a murmur of regret from the masses they professed to be fighting for (and with not a little hostility from that same work-a-day mass hostile to people hanging out and not working, or not doing much of anything, as well but mainly indifference to the fight these idealistic youth were pursuing, really their fight too since that had been pummeled by the main Occupy culprits, the banks who got bailed out, the mortgages companies who sold them a false bill of goods, the corporations more than ready to send formerly good paying jobs off-shore leaving Wal-Mart for the unemployed. Now a few years later it is apparent that they, the youth of Occupy have, mostly, moved back to the traditional political ways of operating via the main bourgeois parties who let the whole thing happen (witness the New York mayor’s race, Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders et. al) or have not quite finished licking their wounds (they couldn’t believe as we elders could have told them after all the anti-Vietnam War actions, including the massive May Day 1971 arrests that the government had no problem crushing their own, their own young if they got out of line).

Although I initially addressed my remarks to the activists still busy out in the streets I also had in mind those intellectuals who had a radical streak but who then hovered on the sidelines and were not sure what to make of the whole experiment although some things seemed very positive like the initial camp comradery, the flow of ideas, some half-baked on their faces but worthy of conversation and testing, the gist for any academic. In short, those who would come by on Sundays and take a lot of photographs and write a couple of lines about what they saw but held back. (I would argue and this may be the nature of the times that the real beneficiaries of Occupy were all those film students and artists, media-types who made the site their class project, or their first professional documentary.) Now in 2015 it is clear as day that the old economic order (capitalism if you were not quite sure what to name it) that we were fitfully protesting against (especially against the banks who led the way downhill and who under the sway of imperialism's imperative made it clear finance capitalism writ large is in charge) has survived another threat to its dominance. The old political order, the way of doing political business now clearly being defended by one Barack Obama and his hangers-on, Democrat and Republican, with might and main is still intact (with a whole ready to take his place come 2016).
The needs of working people although now widely discussed in academia and on the more thoughtful talk shows have not been ameliorated (the increasing gap between the rich, really the very rich, and the poor, endlessly lamented and then forgotten, the student debt death trap, and the lingering sense that most of us will never get very far ahead in this wicked old world especially compared to previous generations). All of this calls for intellectuals with any activist spark to come forth and help analyze and plan how the masses are to survive, how a new social order can be brought forth. Nobody said, or says, that it will be easy but this is the plea. I have reposted the original piece with some editing to bring it up to date.          
******
No, this is not a Personals section ad, although it qualifies as a Help Wanted ad in a sense. On a number of occasions over past several years, in reviewing books especially those by James P. Cannon, a founding member of the American Communist Party in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution of 1917 and when that revolution began to seriously go off the rails followed the politics of the Trotsky-led International Left Opposition  and eventually helped found the Socialist Workers Party in America, I have mentioned elsewhere  that building off of the work of the classical Marxists, including that of Marx and Engels themselves, and later that of Lenin and Trotsky the critical problem before the international working class in the early part of the 20th century was the question of creating a revolutionary leadership to lead imminent uprisings. Armed with Lenin’s work on the theory of the imperialist nature of the epoch and the party question and Trotsky’s on the questions of permanent revolution in less developed capitalist countries and revolutionary timing the tasks for revolutionaries were more than adequately defined. A century later with some tweaking, unfortunately, those same theories and the same need for organization are still on the agenda although, as Trotsky once said, the conditions are overripe for the overthrow of capitalism as it has long ago outlived its progressive character in leading humankind forward.   


The conclusion that I originally drew from that initial  observation was that the revolutionary socialist movement was not as desperately in need of theoreticians and intellectuals as previously (although having them, and plenty of them, especially those who can write, is always a good thing). It needed leaders steeped in those theories and with a capacity to lead revolutions. We needed a few good day-to-day practical leaders, guys like Cannon, like Debs from the old Socialist Party, like Ruthenburg from the early Communist Party, to lead the fight for state power.
In that regard I have always held up, for the early part of the 20th century, the name Karl Liebknecht the martyred German Communist co-leader (along with Rosa Luxemburg) of the aborted Spartacist uprising of 1919 as such an example. He led the anti-war movement in Germany by refusing to vote for the Kaiser’s war budgets, found himself in jail as a result, but also had tremendous authority among the left-wing German workers when that mattered. In contrast the subsequent leadership of the German Communists in the 1920’s Paul Levi, Henrich Brandler and Ernest Thaelmann did not meet those qualifications. For later periods I have, as mentioned previously, held up the name James P. Cannon, founder of the American Socialist Workers Party (to name only the organization that he was most closely associated with), as a model. Not so Communist Party leaders like William Z. Foster and Earl Browder (to speak nothing of Gus Hall from our generation of '68) or Max Shachtman in his later years after he broke with Cannon and the SWP. That basically carried us to somewhere around the middle of the 20th century. Since I have spent a fair amount of time lately going back to try to draw the lessons of our movement I have also had occasion to think, or rather to rethink my original argument on the need for revolutionary intellectuals. I find that position stands in need of some amendment now.
Let’s be clear here about our needs. The traditional Marxist idea that in order to break the logjam impeding humankind’s development the international working class must rule is still on the historic agenda. The Leninist notions that, since the early part of the 20th century, we have been in the imperialist era and that a ‘hard’ cadre revolutionary party is necessary to lead the struggle to take state power are also in play. Moreover, the Trotskyist understanding that in countries of belated development the working class is the only agency objectively capable of leading those societies to the tasks traditionally associated with the bourgeois revolutions of the 19th century continues to hold true. That said, rather than some tweaking, we are seriously in need of revolutionary intellectuals who can bring these understandings into the 21st century.


It is almost a political truism that each generation of radicals and revolutionaries will find its own ways to cope with the political tasks that confront it. The international working class movement is no exception in that regard. Moreover, although the general outlines of Marxist theory mentioned above hold true such tasks as the updating of the theory of imperialism to take into account the qualitative leap in its globalization is necessary (as is, as an adjunct to that, the significance of the gigantic increases in the size and importance of the ‘third world’ proletariat). Also in need of freshening up is work on the contours of revolutionary political organization in the age of high speed communications, the increased weight that non-working class specific questions play in world politics (the national question which if anything has had a dramatic uptick since the demise of the Soviet Union), religion (the almost universal trend for the extremes of religious expression to rear their ugly heads which needs to be combated), special racial and gender oppressions, and various other tasks that earlier generations had taken for granted or had not felt they needed to consider. All this moreover has to be done in a political environment that sees Marxism, communism, even garden variety reform socialism as failed experiments. To address all the foregoing issues is where my call for a new crop of revolutionary intellectuals comes from.
Since the mid- 20th century we have had no lack of practical revolutionary leaders of one sort or another - one thinks of Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and even Mao in his less rabid moments. We have witnessed any number of national liberation struggles, a few attempts at political revolution against Stalinism, a few military victories against imperialism, notably the Vietnamese struggle. But mainly this has been an epoch of defeats for the international working class. Moreover, we have not even come close to developing theoretical leaders of the statue of Lenin or Trotsky.
As a case in point, recently I made some commentary about the theory of student power in the 1960s and its eventual refutation by the May 1968 General Strike lead by the working class in France. One of the leading lights for the idea that students were the “new” working class or a “new” vanguard was one Ernest Mandel. Mandel held himself out to be an orthodox Marxist (and Trotskyist, to boot) but that did not stop him from, periodically, perhaps daily, changing the focus of his work away from the idea of the centrality of the working class in social struggle, an idea that goes back to the days of Marx himself.

And Mandel, a brilliant well-spoken erudite scholar probably was not the worst of the lot. The problem was that “he was the problem” with his impressionistic theories based on, frankly, opportunistic impulses. Another example, from that same period, was the idea of Professor Regis Debray (in the service of Fidel at the time ) that guerrilla foci out in the hills were the way forward ( a codification of the experience of the Cuban Revolution for which many subjective revolutionary paid dearly with their lives out in bloody nomadic jungles of the American continent). Or the anti-Marxist Maoist notion codifying the experiences of the third Chinese revolution that the countryside (the “third world with its then predominant peasantry now increasingly proletarianized) would defeat the cities (mainly the West but the Soviet Union as well in some circles) that flamed the imagination of many Western radicals in the late 1960s. I could go on with more examples but they only lead to one conclusion- we are, among other things, in a theoretical trough. The late Mandel’s students from the 1960s have long gone on to academia and the professions (and not an inconsiderable few in governmental harness-how the righteous have fallen). Debray’s guerilla foci have long ago buried their dead and gone back to the cities. The “cities” of the world now including to a great extent China had broken the third world countryside though intense globalization. This, my friends, is why today I have my Help Wanted sign out. Any takers?

When Rockabilly Rocked The Be-Bop 1950s Night-With Rock And Roll Ruby In Mind


When Rockabilly Rocked The Be-Bop 1950s Night-With Rock And Roll Ruby In Mind  


 

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin

 

Hey, blame it on Warren Smith and a freshly heard Rock and Roll Ruby via YouTube automatic retro magic. Yeah, Ruby with her dancing slippers on and that beat in her head that she has no way to satisfy except to head out Tex’s Rib House way with Johnny Blaze and over beer and ribs, not necessarily in that order, listen to Tex’s jukebox and when the night air got filmy then jump onto that dance floor and be-bop some moves to beat the band. See Ruby had it bad, had whatever unhappiness or angst that was driving her just then out of control but she had to play it out, get it out of her system. And Johnny was only too proud, at first, to let Ruby do her thing, let Ruby dance to the beat and he could see envy in every gal’s eyes (and lust in every guy’s-with or without a date)  when she moved her dancing slipper feet. Those nights, at first, meant she would come across with a little something for Johnny after Tex’s closed and they headed to Red Rock for exercise of a different kind. Johnny didn’t even mind when one night Ruby took those slippers off and started dancing on the tables and later on top of the bar. Yeah, she came across, came across big time down at old Red Rock, made his ‘49 Hudson jump that night. Then something happened, nothing bad if you thought about it and had had some patience which Johnny had only in short supply. Ruby started going to Tex’s by herself, started dancing after a couple of beers and a few quarters in the jukebox, not looking for company either, Johnny would have raised hell over that but Johnny took a distant second place for long enough for him to see the writing on the wall, see it easier when Louella came sidling up to his car in school one day. Yeah, put Warren Smith down as a candidate, no question.    

 

Hell, blame it on Sonny Burgess burning up the world with Red-headed Woman, yah, now that I think of it blame it on him if you had something going with Ruby, or just thought Warren Smith was cute, too cute to slam. Yeah, Sonny got into something he couldn’t handle, caught a flash red-head, caught Rita. But unlike Ruby who after all was just another high school girl working out her teen angst problems on the dance floor, trying to make her body take the beat and put her in paradise. Rita, well, Rita if you don’t want to be too kind was a tramp, worked the dark light tables at Johnny Dee’s, loved to dance and drink, drink an ocean of whatever you wanted to pay for-beer to whiskey and back. Rita would show you that good time just like Ruby, although nothing as kids’ stuff as the back seat of a ’49 Hudson but under silky sheets (or at least clean linens) at the Last Change Motel (she had an arrangement with the manager there so if you wanted at her, and that red-head and slender snow-white body said you did then the Last Chance was where you went around the world). Yeah Rita would do you fine but damn she would eat up your whole paycheck with her wanting ways, with her oceans of booze appetites. The lonesome cowboys of the world found that out, Sonny Boy found that out quick, when he had a few nights dancing up a storm, drinking the oceans, and working the sheets at the Last Chance, found it out the hard way when he had no dough to bring home to the wife and three kids. Yeah, circle Sonny’s name if you want to, nobody will deny you your right.               

 

Hell, even put a circle around a mad dog middle of the night discussion with kindred Peter Paul Markin rekindled from childhood (or rather budding teen-hood) about who was who in the be-bop rock and roll firmament in the mid-1950s.That discussion held out in Pacifica one night when we heading south to Big Sur in Captain Crunch’s converted yellow brick road school bus which Markin had been on for a while in Frisco. I had hitched out there the summer of 1967 to see what was going on, going on with this summer of love business and run into the bus when it was parked in a small park on Russian Hill and I went up and innocently, well maybe not so innocently, for a joint and Markin was the guy I asked who produced a huge blunt in about twelve seconds. So I stayed with the bus all summer before heading back to hometown Olde Saco up in Maine in order to prepare to enter the state university that fall (in order to keep my ass out of the draft, out of the Army which a student deferment granted me although I had been sorely tempted to stay in the West and taken my chances. Markin had stayed out West rather than going back for junior year at Boston University and wound up facing the draft and Vietnam the next year  so I think I made the right decision).  

 

That Pacifica night, stoned out of our minds we had heard on the Captain’s state of the art stereo system (with its own generator system working off the bus battery or something very neat we all thought) Carl Perkin’s Blue Suede Shoes, although Markin later insisted that it was Elvis on the speakers and we got into how we went crazy for that stuff when we heard it even though we were about ten years old at the time. He, as was his habit, argued that some guy named Jimmy Smith had recorded the first rockabilly record at Sam Phillips’ Sun Record studio, Rocking Shakedown, and I, as was my habit then in order not to get gobbled up by Markin’s two thousand at-hand even when stoned facts had argued for Big Red Sims’ Boulder Break-down. Memories of that night had got me thinking about the whole genre and thus this little sketch. (Markin proved right that night, as he did many times before Vietnam and the drugs made him weird which led to his tragic fate a few years later down in Sonora, Mexico, when I later found out that Jimmy Smith had recorded that song, had made it a hit, a one-record wonder hit and so you have it).          

 

Damn, blame it Warren Smith, Sonny Burgess, Markin, or on the retro-fueled Stray Cats but under no circumstances blame it on me for lighting up cyberspace with a bag full of rockabilly gumbo.       

 

The last time that I discussed rockabilly music in this space was a couple of years ago when I was mulling over the work of artists like Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis, when they were young and hungry, from hunger really, and fed into our jailbreak hunger after years of listening to parent Sinatra, Como, Page and the Ink Spots ad infinitum, who got their start at Sam Phillips’ famed Sun Records studio in Memphis. Part of the reason for those thoughts was my effort to trace the roots of rock and roll, the music of my coming of age, and that of my generation, the generation of ’68. Clearly rockabilly was, along with country and city blues from the likes of Robert Johnson, Skip James , Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and pre-Tina Ike Turner (think Rocket 88 among other be-bop stuff) and rhythm and blues from the likes of Big Joe Turner (think, big think and don’t spare anything, Shake, Rattle and Roll) a part of that formative process. The question then, and the question once again today, is which strand dominated the push to rock and roll, if one strand in fact did dominate.

 

I have gone back and forth on that question over the years. That couple of years ago mentioned above I was clearly under the influence of Big Joe Turner and Howlin’ Wolf and so I took every opportunity to stress the bluesy nature of rock. Recently though I have been listening, and listening very intently, to early Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis and I am hearing more of that be-bop rockabilly rhythm flowing into the rock night. Let me give a comparison. A ton of people have done Big Joe Turner’s classic rhythm and bluish Shake, Rattle, and Roll, including Bill Haley, Elvis, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee. When I listen to that song as performed in their more rockabilly style those versions seem closer to what evolved into rock. So for today, and today only, yes Big Joe is the big daddy, max daddy father of rock but Elvis, Jerry Lee, and Carl are the very pushy sons.

 

And that brings us to the treasure trove of rockabilly music that I think you should listen to, the stuff the big boys came and gave us, gave us at all back forty barns dances, high school last chance dances, and country fair jamborees, the stuff the big boys listened to too to get an idea or two, and maybe helped to create.  I have already done enough writing in praise of the work of Sam Phillips and Sun Records to bring that good old boy rockabilly sound out of the white southern countryside. I noted that for the most part those who succeeded in rockabilly in say 1954, or 55 had to move on to rock to stay current with the youth wave (the disposable income/allowance post- World War II youth wave, mainly girls, who bought those luscious 45 RPM records and put those nickels, dimes and quarters in the jukeboxes and, and, sometimes, pretty please sometimes, let the likes of  cash-lite Josh Breslin up in Olde Saco and P.P. Markin in North Adamsville help them make their selections, okay) and so the rockabilly sound was somewhat transient except for those who consciously decided to stay with that sound.

 

The best example of that, other than those mentioned above, is Red Hot by Bill Riley and His Little Green Men, an extremely hot example by the way. If you listen to his other later material it stays very much in that rockabilly vein. In contrast, take High School Confidential by Jerry Lee Lewis. Jerry Lee might have started out in rockabilly down in that Cajun mishmash Louisiana swamp but this number (and others) is nothing but the heart and soul of rock (and a song, by the way, we all prayed would be played at our junior high school dances to get things, you know what things, going). Case closed.

 

Other stick-outs included Ooby Dooby, Roy Orbison (although he has a ton of better songs later like Moving On); Blue Suede Shoes (the teeth-cutting, max daddy of rockabilly songs), Carl Perkins; Susie-Q (right at that place where rockabilly and blues meet to form rock and a classic come hither song), Dale Hawkins; Party Doll (another great junior high school dance song), Buddy Knox;  Come On, Let’s Go (bringing just a touch of Tex-Mex into the rockabilly mix), Ritchie Valens; and, the national anthem, Summertime Blues by the great and underrated Eddie Cochran.  Enough said  

Present At The Creation-With Bill Haley’s Rock Around The Clock In Mind


Present At The Creation-With Bill Haley’s Rock Around The Clock In Mind





Deep in the dark red scare Cold War night a small breeze was coming to the land. That dark red scare Cold War night was still brewing even after Uncle Joe fell down in his Red Square drunken stupor one night in 1953 and never came back, and still brewing too when Miss Winot in her pristine glory told each and every one of her fourth grade charges, us, that come that Russkie madness, come the Apocalypse, come the big bad ass mega-bombs, that each and every one of her charges should come that thundering god-awful air raid siren duck, quickly and quietly, under his or her desk and then place his or her hands, also quickly and quietly, one over the other on the top of his or her head. Yeah that was what the fresh breeze was up against. Some serious disquiet in the land

Maybe nobody saw the breeze coming although the more I think about the matter somebody, some bodies knew something, not those supposedly in the know about such fresh breeze times, those who are supposed to catch the breezes before they move beyond their power to curtail them. But guys like my friend Bart Webber’s older brother Franklin and his friends, Benny and Jimmy, who were  playing some strange beat rhythm and blues, rockabilly, stuff they called rock and roll up in his room, up his room like some sainted mad monks.

So some guys knew, gals too don’t forget after all they had to dig the beat, dig the guys who dug the beat, the beat of  out of some Africa breeze mixed with forbidden sweated Southern lusts if the thing was going to work out. And it wasn’t all dead-ass “white negro” hipsters either who dug the beat, the guys eulogized by Norman Mailer or all about the break-out “beats” tired of the cool cold jazz that was turning in on itself, getting too technical, and losing the search for the high white note. Wasn’t all about the fellahin of this good green earth, of all descriptions, who whiled away the nights searching their radio dials for something that that they could swing to while reefer high or codeine low. It was too about proper well-dressed middle class kids who were trying to break out of the cookie-cutter existence they found themselves in so it wasn’t always who you might suspect that got hip, got that back-beat and those piano riffs etched into their brains.

And then it came, came to us in our turn, came like some Kansas whirlwind, came like the ocean churning up the big waves crashing to a defenseless shoreline, came if the truth be known like the “second coming” long predicted and not just by mad man poet Yeats and his Easter, 1916 mind proclaiming a terrible beauty is born, and the brethren, us, were waiting, waiting like we had been waiting all our short spell lives.

Came one time, came big as 1954 turned to 1955 and a guy, get this, dressed not in sackcloth or hair-shirt but in a sport’s jacket, a Robert Hall sport’s jacket from the off the rack look of it picked up from when he and the boys were “from hunger,” playing for coffee and crullers on the low life circuit in back alley bars,  a guy a little on the heavy side with a little boy’s regular curl in his hair and blasted the whole blessed world to smithereens. Blasted every living breathing teenager, boy or girl, out of his or her lethargy, got the blood flowing. The guy Bill Haley, goddam an old lounge lizard band guy who decided to move the beat forward from cool ass be-bop jazz and sweet romance popular music and make everybody, every kid jump, yeah Big Bill Haley and his Comets, the song Rock Around The Clock.         

 Came in other forms, hey remember this rock and roll was an ice-breaker with a beat you didn’t  have to dance close to with your partner and get all tied up in knots forgetting when to twirl, when to whirl, when to do a split but kind of free form for the guys with two left feet who could survive, maybe not survive the big one if the Russkies decided to go over the top with the bomb, but that school dance and for your free-form efforts maybe that she your eyeballs were getting sore over would consent to the last chance  last dance that you waited around for in case she was so impressed she might want to go with you some place later. But before that “some place later” you had to negotiate and the only way to do that was to bust up a slow one, a dreamy one to get her in the mood and hence people have been singing songs from time immemorial to get people in the mood, this time the rage Earth Angel would do the trick. Do the trick as long as you navigated those toes of hers, left her with two feet and standing. Dance slow, very slow brother.   

Here is the funny thing, funny since we were present at the creation, present in spite of every command uttered by Miss Winot against it, declaring the music worse than that Russkie threat if you believed her. We were just too young to deeply imbibe the full measure of what we were hearing. See this music, music we started calling rock and roll once somebody gave it a name, super DJ impresario Alan Freed as we found out later after we had already become “children of rock and roll”, was meant, was blessedly meant to be danced to which meant in that boy-girl age we who didn’t even like the opposite sex as things stood then were just hanging by our thumbs.

Yeah, was meant to be danced to at “petting parties” in dank family room basements by barely teenage boys and girls. Was meant to be danced to at teenage dance clubs where everybody was getting caught up on learning the newest dance moves and the latest “cool” outfits to go along with that new freedom. Was meant to serve as a backdrop at Doc’s Drugstore’s soda fountain where Doc had installed a jukebox complete with all the latest tunes as boys and girls shared a Coke sipping slowly with two straws hanging out in one frosted glass. Was meant to be listened to by corner boys at Jack Slack’s bowling alley where Jack eventually had set up a small dance floor so kids could dance while waiting for lanes to open.  Was meant to be listened to as the sun went down in the west at the local drive-in while the hamburgers and fries were cooking and everybody was waiting for darkness to fall so the real night could begin, the night of dancing in dark corners and exploring the mysteries of the universe, or at least of some Miss Sarah Brown.  Was even meant to be listened to on fugitive transistor radios in the that secluded off-limits to adults and little kids where teens, boys and girls, mixed and matched in the drive-in movie night.             

Yeah, we were just a little too young for all that even if we can legitimately claim to have been present at the creation. But we would catch up, catch up with a vengeance.

Down In The Delta Muds-With County Blues Man Son House In Mind


Down In The Delta Muds-With County Blues Man Son House In Mind



By Jack Callahan

No question the country blues guys, and here I am talking about the guys because you know down in the Mister James Crow South where the blues came into royalty out of the sweats of Mister’s planation, out of the Saturday night juke joint sweats of another kind, it was the guys who bore the brunt of the blues tradition although the blues women, your Bessie and a ton of other Smiths, Memphis Minnie, Sweet Maybelline, Little Ida Simms got the big crowds in the cities and on the circuit, carried a ton of baggage with them. Sang of those temptations until their voices got sore. Talked code words about Captain this and Mister that and their sweated suns which they would not utter short of a strange fruit tree, talked about a two-timing woman who you just spent your last dime on going off with your best friend, talked about taking the measure of that best friend out of his hide if he ever caught up with him, or her, talked being on the low-down, the old style low-down, talked about Mister’s prison too his James Crow prisons all wrapped up in a bow.

 

 

The guys who came out of the muds, out of that silted delta mud oozed out of the south-flowing Big Muddy flowing to the sunless seas, the guys who made the first “race records” that got recorded back in the 1920s, maybe slightly earlier and who to a man had sorrow stories, or created sorrow. Yeah down in the muds a blues guy like Son House did every kind of thing to keep himself afloat, and got the miseries too. Of course it always, always involved, and this is no kidding in his case women, booze, a jack-roll fight over some woman or the thought of some woman, and fighting off the devil in horror of the lord in the sweated sulky night.   

Now I would have taken all of this story-telling about wine, women and song with the grain of salt, would have dismissed it out of hand like a lot of stuff you hear in the urban legend night about stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with cities, would have brought it down to the level of some old-timer legend except I actually saw this incident I want to tell you about. Want to tell you about Son’s burden, about that fight with the devil that he lost more than won happen when I was a kid, a kid back in the 1960s and I got caught up with the big folk explosion that carried a lot of us along who were looking for roots music and if the blues, the muddy Delta blues ain’t roots music then nothing in America is. 

Of course the day to day folk stuff, the hanging out at coffeehouses, hanging out at midnight Hayes-Bickford where for the price of a cup of dissolute coffee you could listen to guys and gals pound their energies out to the winos and weirdos who populated the place checking out the next big thing as he or she tried to hone her art was over in Harvard Square in Cambridge, one of Meccas. But if you wanted to immerse yourself in the bigger picture then you had to head for Newport down in Rhode Island about fifty miles from where I grew up in Carver. And the bigger picture in say 1962, 1963 was the “discovery” of a lot of old-time country blues guys by folk aficionados who headed South looking for those damn roots that they would hear about when some white guys like Dave Van Ronk or Geoff Muldaur would play something they heard from somebody who had “gone South” to dig it out. In the process finding these old-time guys that guys like Harry Smith and the Lomaxes, father and son, had recorded early on and who then fell under the radar. And while they had fallen under the radar some of them, the younger ones who had stayed in the South and had not gone to Detroit or Chicago with the migration, were still very much alive. Not only alive but with some skills still left and they were brought up to Newport to thrill the young urban mainly college students who were crazy for the blues they had heard on records or like I said the folk performers who were doing covers of their work. There were some very famous sessions where guys like Son House, Bukka White, Skip James and Mississippi John Hurt would, sweating pouring out of them with those ancient National steel guitars, duel among themselves for the honor of being the king of the country blues. And those sessions were great, a great karmic energy time which you can actually still see on YouTube if you have the inclination.

But there was also a session that I attended, kind of fell into when I heard that one of the younger guys who had headed north and got wrapped up in the electric blues, Howlin’ Wolf, was playing in one of the small studios set aside to produce stuff with some sidemen and the idea was they would record the stuff live and see what happened. Well there were maybe twelve or fifteen of us, people kept coming in and out so an exact number was hard to put a finger except a couple of guys sitting there in awe (beside me) were James Montgomery and Big Bill Timmons, when Wolf got his head of steam up to do How Many More Years practically eating the harmonica on the piece.

Wolf was a perfectionist, a serious professional musician, and something in the performance did not sit well with him so he wanted a retake. Just as they started up again, Smokey Jim as it turned out blowing a big high white note sexy sax to key the thing, Son House came walking in a little raggedy, a sway that did not go with sobriety, and the deep red of his eyes betrayed him. Whiskey drunk, whiskey sorrows for sure. He started to sing along slightly off-kilter in that measured moaning voice of his when he was sinning and then Wolf stopped himself in his tracks and started berating the legendary bluesman (legendary to all our young white urban mostly student devotees eyes) for being nothing but a worn out drunk who needed to get the hell out of the room if he knew what was good for him. Started talking some Booker T. race pride stuff way before Malcolm came fiercely on our horizons (we were still King boys and girls then in one person, one vote days). Some guy, some friend of Wolf’s came and escorted him out.  Gave him the boot really.

What did we know of that Son House whose Dead Letter Blues was all the craze in Cambridge who had had a life-long struggle with booze, that it had at one point killed his career. Here’s the big point though one time in the Village a couple of years later he told us, red in the eye that night too that he had had a life-long struggle with the devil he called it, the booze, and the devil won more often than not. Said it more in sorrow that anger although he was just rambling along about his life, about the women who had left him, some two-timing, some tired of the beatings, some just tired of the smell of booze, about the preacher man declaiming in front of his congregation that rolled their eyes when he would talk about this struggle between good and evil. And his story wasn’t that unusual as we started getting the background of these guys. James Crow, woman, booze, the Captain, the Mister, some back alley street-fighting, name it.  Yeah, they carried some serious baggage.                

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

*****In The Beginning Was... The Jug- The Jim Kweskin Jug Band

*****In The Beginning Was... The Jug- The Jim Kweskin Jug Band



 
Who knows how it happened, how the jug bug craze got started in the folk minute of the 1960s, maybe it happened just like in the 1920s and early 1930s when “jug” got a boost by the likes of the Memphis Jug Band, The Mississippi Sheiks, and about twelve other state-named Sheik groupings using home-made weapons, uh, instruments, picked up from here and there, a jug here, a triangle there, fashion a kazoo of wood or grab a metal one at Woolworth's 5&10 there (got you on that one folkies, right, but they along with Sears & Roebuck's catalogue and maybe Marshall Fields' too sold all manner of musical instruments and before the folk boom of the 1960s when with disposable income [read: allowances and parents of means ready to indulge a few fantasies through their kids] which allowed kids to buy instruments from music stores a lot of guys, guys like Hobart Smith, Homer Jones and Matthew Arnold got their instruments handed down to them or some desperate mother or father like Guy Davis,' Son House's, Cliff Mathers', and Slim Parsons' ordered straight from the catalogue not the finest instruments but those guys spoke highly of their first store-bought instruments even when they could afford better when they made their marks), pluck a worn out grandmother's washtub there and come up with some pretty interesting sounds. Yeah, once you listen to the old stuff on YouTube these days where the Memphis Jug Band has a whole video file devoted to their stuff, same with a lot of the others, you could see where that period might have been the start of the big first wave.

Maybe though back in the 1960s somebody, a few musicians, got together and figured here was something that folk-crazed kids, a very specific demographic not to be confused with all of the generation of ’68 post-war baby boomers coming of age rock and roll jail break-out but those who were sick unto death of the vanilla rock and roll that was being passed out about 1960 or so, get this, music that more than one mother, including my mother, thought was “nice” and that was the kiss of death to that kind of music after the death of classic Elvis/Chuck/Bo/Jerry Lee rock for a while before the Brits came over the pond to stir things up and the West Coast acid-eaters ate enough of the drug to sink the Golden Gate Bridge or at least the park and headed east in the Second Coming of rock and roll (not to be confused with the Christian second coming which would signify the end of the world as we know it or with Yeats' mystical version with the seven-headed dragon staring you in the face so stay away from those who want to travel that route) so they started tinkering. Maybe, and remember the folk milieu perhaps more widely that the rock milieu was very literate, was very into knowing about roots and genesis and where things fit in (including where they, the folkies who also a vision about a kinder, gentler world all mixed in until heads got busted in goddam Mississippi goddam, got their heads busted on Fifth Avenue in NYC for calling for an armed truce to the Vietnam War, got their heads busted come May Day 1971 when all the evil spirits in the world rose to bust a certain kind of dream) somebody in the quickly forming and changing bands looked up some songs in the album archives at the library, or, more likely from what later anecdotal evidence had to say about the matter, found some gem in some record store, maybe a store like Sandy’s over between Harvard and Central Squares in Cambridge who had all kinds of eclectic stuff if you had the time and wherewithal to shuffle through the bins. Institutions like Sandy's and a lot of towns had such oases even some unknown name ones like Larry's in Portland, Maine and Sukie's out in Eire, Pennsylvania if you can believe that sustained many for hours back then in the cusp of the 1960s folk revival when there were record stores on almost every corner in places like Harvard Square and the Village in the East you could find some gems if you searched long enough and maybe found some old moth-eaten three volume set Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music and came up with The Memphis Jug Band and K.C. Moan or the Sheiks doing Rent Man Blues, maybe Furry Lewis on Kassie Jones (although sometimes the search was barren or, maybe worse, something second hand by Miss Patti Page singing about Cape Cod Bay all moony for the parents or try to hustle our young emotions but traipsing a dog in front of us, Tennessee Ernie Ford singing about sixteen tons, tons of coal and breaking your back too, or good god, some country bumpkin George Jones thing like I couldn't even give you a title for stared you in the face).

From there they, the jug masters of the revival, found the Cannon’s Stompers, the Mississippi Sheiks or the Memphis Jug Band, could be the way to prosper by going back to those days if they kept the arrangements simple, since that was what allowed the jug bands to prosper in the commercial markets of those days, keep the melody so simple that every working stiff and every forlorn housewife had the tune coming out of the sides of their brains and that was that. See, everybody then was looking for roots, American music roots, old country roots, roots of some ancient thoughts of a democratic America before the robber barons and their progeny grabbed everything with every hand they had on their fetid bodies. Let’s make it simple, something that was not death-smeared we-are- going-to-die-tomorrow if the Ruskkies go over the top red scare bomb shelter Cold War night that we were trying to shake and take our chances, stake our lives that there was something better to do that wait for the foreordained end.

And that wide awake search was no accident, at least from the oral history evidence I have held from those who came of age with me in that time after having grown up with rock and roll and found in that minute that genre wanting.  Some went reaching South to the homeland of much roots music, since those who were left behind or decided out of ennui or sloth to stay put kept up the old country British Isles Child ballad stuff (their own spin on the stuff not Child’s Brattle Street Brahmin rarified collection stuff) and found some grizzled old geezers like Buell Kazee, Hobart Smith, Homer Jones, Reverend Jack Robinson and the like, who had made small names for themselves in the 1920s when labels like RCA and Paramount went out looking for talent in the hinterlands.

So there was history there, certainly for the individual members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, Jim, Geoff Mulduar, Mel Lymon, Maria Muldaur, Fritz Richmond , the most famous and long-lasting of the 1960s jug groupings, all well-versed in many aspects of the American Songbook (hell, I would say so, say they were well-versed, even old tacky Tin Pan Alley Irving Berlin, smooth Cole Porter and the saucy Gershwin Brothers got a hearing from them and if they could simple those damn complicated Tin Pan Alley melodies they took a shot at those as well), history there for the taking. All they needed was a jug, a good old boy homemade corn liquor jug giving the best sound but maybe some down in the cellar grandpa jug from the old days of Ball jars and crockery, a found washtub grandma used to use before she got that electric washer from the old garage where she put it against a rainy day when she might have to use it again when hard times came again as they usually did, a washboard found  in that same location, a triangle from somewhere, a kazoo from the music store, some fiddle, a guitar, throw in  a tambourine for Maria and so they were off, off to conquer places like Harvard Square, like the Village, like almost any place in the Bay area within the sound of the bay.

And for a while the band did conquer, picking up other stuff chimes, more exotic kazoos, harmonicas, what the heck, even up-graded guitars and they made great music, great entertainment music, not heavy with social messages but just evoking those long lost spirits from the 1920s when jug music would sustain a crowd on a Saturday night. Made some stuff up as they went along, or better, made old stuff their own like Washington At Valley Forge, Bumble Bee, Sweet Sue from Paul Whitman and plenty of on the edge Scotty Fitzgerald Jazz Age stuff that got people moving and forgetting their blues. Here is the beauty of it unlike most of the 1920s first wave stuff which was confined to records and radio listening, a lot of the rarer stuff now long gone lost, you can see the Kweskin Jug Band back in the day on YouTube and see the kind of energy which they produced when they were in high form (music that they, Jim and Geoff anyway, still give high energy to when they occasionally appear together in places like Club Passim in Harvard Square these days). Yeah, in the beginning was the jug… 

*****President Obama Pardon Chelsea Manning Now!-The Struggle Continues ….We Will Not Leave Our Sister Behind

*****President Obama Pardon Chelsea Manning Now!-The Struggle Continues ….We Will Not Leave Our Sister Behind
























 





From The Pen Of Frank Jackman







Updated-September 2015  


A while back, maybe a year or so ago, I was asked by a fellow member of Veterans For Peace at a monthly meeting in Cambridge about the status of the case of Chelsea Manning since he knew that I had been seriously involved with publicizing her case and he had not heard much about the case since she had been convicted in August 2013 (on some twenty counts including several Espionage Act counts, the Act itself, as it relates to Chelsea and its constitutionality will be the basis for one of her issues on appeal) and sentenced by Judge Lind to thirty-five years imprisonment to be served at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. (She had already been held for three years before trial, the subject of another appeals issue and as of May 2015 had served five years altogether thus far and will be formally eligible for parole in the not too distant future although usually the first parole decision is negative).


That had also been the time immediately after the sentencing when Private Manning announced to the world her sexual identity and turned from Bradley to Chelsea. The question of her sexual identity was a situation than some of us already had known about while respecting Private Manning’s, Chelsea’s, and those of her ardent supporters at Courage to Resist and elsewhere the subject of her sexual identity was kept in the background so the reasons she was being tried would not be muddled and for which she was savagely fighting in her defense would not be warped by the mainstream media into some kind of identity politics circus.


I had responded to my fellow member that, as usual in such super-charged cases involving political prisoners, and there is no question that Private Manning is one despite the fact that every United States Attorney-General including the one in charge during her trial claims that there are no such prisoners in American jails only law-breakers, once the media glare of the trial and sentencing is over the case usually falls by the wayside into the media vacuum while the appellate process proceed on over the next several years.
At that point I informed him of the details that I did know. Chelsea immediately after sentencing had been put in the normal isolation before being put in with the general population at Fort Leavenworth. She seemed to be adjusting according to her trial defense lawyer to the pall of prison life as best she could. Later she had gone to a Kansas civil court to have her name changed from Bradley to Chelsea Elizabeth which the judge granted although the Army for a period insisted that mail be sent to her under her former male Bradley name. Her request for hormone therapies to help reflect her sexual identity had either been denied or the process stonewalled despite the Army’s own medical and psychiatric personnel stating in court that she was entitled to such measures.

At the beginning of 2014 the Commanding General of the Military District of Washington, General Buchanan, who had the authority to grant clemency on the sentence part of the case, despite the unusual severity of the sentence, had denied Chelsea any relief from the onerous sentence imposed by Judge Lind.

Locally on Veterans Day 2013, the first such event after her sentencing we had honored Chelsea at the annual VFP Armistice Day program and in December 2013 held a stand-out celebrating Chelsea’s birthday (as we did in December 2014 and will do again this December of 2015).  Most important of the information I gave my fellow VFPer was that Chelsea’s case going forward to the Army appellate process was being handled by nationally renowned lawyer Nancy Hollander and her associate Vincent Ward. Thus the case was in the long drawn out legal phase that does not generally get much coverage except by those interested in the case like well-known Vietnam era Pentagon Papers whistle-blower Daniel Ellsberg, various progressive groups which either nominated or rewarded her with their prizes, and the organization that has steadfastly continued to handle her case’s publicity and raising financial aid for her appeal, Courage to Resist (an organization dedicated to publicizing the cases of other military resisters as well).   


At our February 2015 monthly meeting that same VFPer asked me if it was true that as he had heard the Army, or the Department of Defense, had ordered Chelsea’s hormone therapy treatments to begin. I informed him after a long battle, including an ACLU suit ordering such relief, that information was true and she had started her treatments a month previously. I also informed him that the Army had thus far refused her request to have an appropriate length woman’s hair-do. On the legal front the case was still being reviewed for issues to be presented which could overturn the lower court decision in the Army Court Of Criminal Appeals by the lawyers and the actual writing of the appeal was upcoming (expected in the Winter, 2016) . A seemingly small but very important victory on that front was that after the seemingly inevitable stonewalling on every issue the Army had agreed to use feminine or neutral pronoun in any documentation concerning Private Manning’s case. The lawyers had in June 2014 also been successful in avoiding the attempt by the Department of Defense to place Chelsea in a civil facility as they tried to foist their “problem” elsewhere.

 
On the political front Chelsea continued to receive awards, and after a fierce battle in 2013 was finally in 2014 made an honorary grand marshal of the very important GLBTQ Pride Parade in San Francisco (and had a contingent supporting her freedom again in the 2015 parade). Recently she has been given status as a contributor to the Guardian newspaper, a newspaper that was central to the fight by fellow whistle-blower Edward Snowden, where her first contribution was a very appropriate piece on what the fate of the notorious CIA torturers should be, having herself faced such torture down in Quantico adding to the poignancy of that suggestion. More recently she has written articles about the dire situation in the Middle East and the American government’s inability to learn any lessons from history and a call on the military to stop the practice of denying transgender people the right to serve. (Not everybody agrees with her positon in the transgender community or the VFP but she is out there in front with it.) 

[Maybe most important of all in this social networking, social media, texting world of the young (mostly) Chelsea has a twitter account- @xychelsea

Locally over the past two year we have marched for Chelsea in the Boston Pride Parade, commemorated her fourth year in prison last May [2014] and the fifth this year with a vigil, honored her again on Armistice Day 2014, celebrated her 27th birthday in December with a rally (as we did this past December for her 28th birthday).

More recently big campaigns by Courage To Resist and the Press Freedom Foundation have almost raised the $200, 000 needed (maybe more by now) to give her legal team adequate resources during her appeals process (first step, after looking over the one hundred plus volumes of her pre-trial and trial hearings, the Army Court Of Criminal Appeal)

Recently although in this case more ominously and more threateningly Chelsea has been charged and convicted of several prison infractions (among them having a copy of the now famous Vanity Fair with Caitlyn, formerly Bruce, Jenner’s photograph on the cover) which could affect her parole status and other considerations going forward.     

We have continued to urge one and all to sign the on-line Amnesty International petition asking President Obama to grant an immediate pardon as well as asking that those with the means sent financial contributions to Courage To Resist to help with her legal expenses.

After I got home that night of the meeting I began thinking that a lot has happened over the past couple of years in the Chelsea Manning case and that I should made what I know more generally available to more than my local VFPers. I do so here, and gladly. Just one more example of our fervent belief that as we have said all along in Veterans for Peace and elsewhere- we will not leave our sister behind… More later.