This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
We Urgently Need 100, 000 Signatures-Sign The On-Line Petition-President Obama Pardon Private Manning -Free Private Manning- The Heroic Whistle-Blower Now!
Note that this image is PVT Manning’s preferred photo.
The Struggle Continues …
The draconian 35 years sentence handed down by a military judge on August 21, 2013 marked a new focus on the campaign to free Private Manning. The central theme of the day and of the new campaign is –“President Obama Pardon Bradley Manning.” An immediate task is to begin organizing around the call by Amnesty International and the Private Manning Support Network to sign an on-line petition directed to the President. The goal is to get 100,000 on-line signatures by September 20, 2013 to make our case loud and clear. All pardon petition efforts should focus on the on-line petition to send that message as one voice.
Below is a link to the Amnesty International/Private Manning Support Network to sign the on-line petition. The process is a little more cumbersome than other such petitions, including having to set up an account with an e-mail but the struggle to free Private Manning is worth the extra time and effort for all the light shed on the governmental cover-ups and other nefarious actions exposed.
Call (202) 685-2900- Major General Jeffery S. Buchanan is the Convening Authority for Private Manning’s court martial, which means that he has the authority to decrease the sentence, no matter what the judge imposed. Ask General Buchanan to use his authority to reduce the 35 year sentence handed down by Judge Lind.
Please help us reach all these important contacts: Adrienne Combs, Deputy Officer Public Affairs (202) 685-2900adrienne.m.combs.civ@mail.mil-Col. Michelle Martin-Hing, Public Affairs Officer (202) 685-4899michelle.l.martinhing.mil@mail.mil The Public Affairs Office fax #: 202-685-0706
The Public Affairs Office is required to report up the chain of command the number of calls they receive on a particular issue, so please help us flood the office with support for whistleblower Chelsea (Bradley) Manning today!
*That Old Time Jug Band Music- The Work Of Geoff Muldaur
In Honor Of The 50th Anniversary Of The Formation Of The Jim Kweskin Jug Band, A Band That Geoff Muldaur Was A Central Part Of Back In The Day, Celebrated At Club Passim (Club 47 back then), Cambridge On August 29 & 30 2013
CD Review
Over the past year or so I have been asking a recurring question concerning the wherewithal of various male folk performers from the 1960’s who are still performing today in the “folk concert” world of small coffeehouses, Universalist-Unitarian church basements and the like. I have mentioned names like Jesse Winchester, Chris Smither and Tom Paxton, among others. I have not, previously mentioned the performer under review, Geoff Muldaur, who is probably best known for his work in the 1960’s, not as solo artist, but as part of the famous Jim Kweskin Jug Band and later the equally famous Paul Butterfield Blues Band. Thus, in a way, I had no reason to place him in the pantheon of the solo performers from that period. But things sure are different now.
The following is a review of Geoff Muldaur's "Password" CD, Hightone Records, 2000, by way of an introduction:
“Since my youth I have had an ear for roots music, whether I was conscious of that fact or not. The origin of that interest first centered on the blues, then early rock and roll and later, with the folk revival of the early 1960's, folk music. I have often wondered about the source of this interest. I am, and have always been a city boy, and an Eastern city boy at that. Nevertheless, over time I have come to appreciate many more forms of roots music than in my youth. The subject of the following review is an example.
Geoff Muldaur took almost two decades off from the hurly-burly of traveling the old folk circuit. When I saw him at a coffeehouse upon his return to the scene I asked him what the folk revival of the 1960's was all about. He said it was about being able to play three chords to get the girls to hang around you. Fair enough. I KNOW I took my dates at the time to coffeehouses for somewhat the same reason. I guess it always comes down to that. Kudos to Freud.
Seriously though, Geoff Muldaur was and is about lots more than three chords. He has developed a style that reflects the maturation of his voice and of his interests. And beside that he has always, even in the crazy days of the 1960's, taken a serious attitude to the way that he interprets a song. And furthermore has a very deep knowledge of all sorts of music. Every time I think I know most of the artists in the blues genre he, at a concert, will throw out one more name that I have 'missed'. Example, "At The Christmas Ball" is an old Bessie Smith novelty tune. Geoff gives it his own twist. He likewise does that on "Drop Down Mama" the old Sleepy John Estes version of the tune (I think) and on fellow old time folkie Eric Von Schmidt's "Light Rain". Enough said. Listen.”
The above review was written sometime in 2006 several years after he had begun touring again and I had begun to attend his concerts again (Yes, in those small coffeehouses and church basements mentioned above). Recently I picked up at one of his concerts this following historically interesting CD, “Geoff Muldaur, Rare And Unissued-Collectors’ Items 1963-2008 (self-produced for a Japanese CD market of jug music aficionados)”. In this CD one gets all the sense of musical history, guitar virtuosity and wry humor that was mentioned in the above quoted review. There are many cuts from the Kweskin days like "Borneo" and Ukulele Lady", some later Butterfield work (especially a long cover of the blues classic “Boogie Chillin’”) and some dud stuff from the early 1980’s. A few others defy categorization like "Sweet Sue" and "Guabi Guabi". All in all well was worth the purchase.
Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night-
Rory Calhoun’s The Big Caper
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
DVD Review
The Big Caper,
starring Rory Calhoun, MGM, 1956
Sure a guy, a
guy like Frank, who came up the hard way, a coal-miner father taken by the
dust, and a bereft mother left to raise six kids helter-skelter with no dough,
had dreams, big dreams of that one big score that would settle accounts, settle
accounts with society, and settle accounts with that nagging empty feeling of
always being short of dough. Frank though did not see those dreams coming true
from working nine to five and saving his pennies, or maybe making some big
invention to wow a candid world or hitting a big score on the horses over at
Santa Anita (truth to tell he was on something of a losing streak just then).
No, our Frank, a good- looking young guy with plenty of black hair and blue
eyes, was nothing but a hustler, a Bunco guy, you know a con artist, a flimflam
man and so with larceny in his heart he kept trying to figure out the road to
that big score.
And Frank found
it, found it like finding gold on the ground in his sunny California homeland ;
a payroll heist, a million dollar heist of the dough for servicemen,for Marines, at Camp Pendleton, down by
Oceanside held over the weekend before payday at a local bank nearby for safe
keeping. The problem though was that Frank was tapped out, broke, was moreover
way outside his league on pulling this one together, way outside his penny ante
games, small time grift stuff. And he needed confederates, a few specialists,
yeggs, wheelmen, heavy duty rough stuff guys to cope to this caper.
So naturally
Frank turned to his old comrade- in- arms in the Bunco rackets the semi-retired
Mister Flood (everybody in the rackets, even Frank, called him that as a sign
of respect for his prowess as a con artist living in luxury and the promoter of
few legendary scams) to promote this one. And Mister Flood (and his girlfriend,
Missy) reluctantly bought into this proposition. Maybe for the dough, never
ever discount greed as a motive, maybe to prove he could pull off a bank job
(his one mistake in life which cost him a nickel at Folsom was a botched bank
job), or maybe, just maybe to do the thing for professional pride. Everybody
agreed, hell, I agreed, that if this caper worked it would go down in the
record books; hard guys would be speaking in whispers as he passed by on this
one for years.
Once Mister Flood
put his hands on the caper though, once Frank got him on board, like he was somehow
doomed by his own ferocious appetites, by moving out of his comfort zone, the
thing became a disaster. First Flood came up with the bright idea that Frank
and Missy should pose as man and wife for a few months in that little Podunk
town where the bank held the payroll in order to case the joint and to set up
the caper, to become part of the landscape when the deal went down . Of course,
like I said Frank a young good -looking guy who would never want for female
company in the 1950s night, and Missy, who turned out to be tired of Flood fell
in love, ruffled up some sheets together. Then the cast of characters, those
so-called specialists, who were supposed to pull the job off turned out to be
something like the gang who couldn’t shoot straight. Psychos, rummies, and
misfits. Which makes one wonder about whether old Mister Flood had lost a step,
or seven. They got the dough alright, Mister Flood anyway. But in the end it
was Frank (and Missy) turning “square” that queered the thing up. After a
dust-up with Mister Flood he and “wifey” could have walked away with that
million and legendary status in the hard-guy community but instead they opted
for some California version of the white house with picket fence, two point
three children, and a dog. Yeah, Squaresville.
From The Marxist Archives -In Honor Of The 75th Anniversary Of The Founding Of The Leon Trotsky-Led Fourth International
Workers Vanguard No. 945
23 October 2009
TROTSKY
LENIN
In Defense of Dialectical Materialism
(Quote of the Week)
This year marks the centennial anniversary of the publication of
Materialism and Empirio-criticism, written by Bolshevik leader V.I. Lenin
in 1908 during the period of victorious reaction following the defeat of the
1905 Russian Revolution. This work is a powerful repudiation of bourgeois
philosophical idealism—embraced at the time even by some Bolshevik leaders—which
in the end always amounts to a defense of reaction and the status quo. In the
excerpt below, Lenin provides a concise exposition of the Marxist materialist
outlook.
Yesterday we did not know that coal tar contains alizarin. Today we
have learned that it does. The question is, did coal tar contain alizarin
yesterday?
Of course it did. To doubt it would be to make a mockery of modern
science.
And if that is so, three important epistemological conclusions
follow:
1) Things exist independently of our consciousness, independently
of our sensations, outside of us, for it is beyond doubt that alizarin existed
in coal tar yesterday and it is equally beyond doubt that yesterday we knew
nothing of the existence of this alizarin and received no sensations from
it.
2) There is definitely no difference in principle between the
phenomenon and the thing-in-itself, and there cannot be any such difference. The
only difference is between what is known and what is not yet known....
3) In the theory of knowledge, as in every other sphere of science,
we must think dialectically, that is, we must not regard our knowledge as
ready-made and unalterable, but must determine how knowledge
emerges from ignorance, how incomplete, inexact knowledge becomes
more complete and more exact.
Once we accept the point of view that human knowledge develops from
ignorance, we shall find millions of examples of it just as simple as the
discovery of alizarin in coal tar, millions of observations not only in the
history of science and technology but in the everyday life of each and every one
of us that illustrate the transformation of “things-in-themselves” into
“things-for-us,” the appearance of “phenomena” when our sense-organs experience
an impact from external objects, the disappearance of “phenomena” when some
obstacle prevents the action upon our sense-organs of an object which we know to
exist. The sole and unavoidable deduction to be made from this—a deduction which
all of us make in everyday practice and which materialism deliberately places at
the foundation of its epistemology—is that outside us, and independently of us,
there exist objects, things, bodies and that our perceptions are images of the
external world.
—V.I. Lenin, Materialism and Empirio-criticism (1909)
A number of writers, would-be Marxists, have this year undertaken a veritable campaign against the philosophy of Marxism. In the course of less than half a year four books devoted mainly and almost exclusively to attacks on dialectical materialism have made their appearance. These include first and foremost Studies in [?—it would have been more proper to say “against”] the Philosophy of Marxism (St. Petersburg, 1908), a symposium by Bazarov, Bogdanov, Lunacharsky, Berman, Helfond, Yushkevich and Suvorov; Yushkevich’s Materialism and Critical Realism ; Berman’s Dialectics in the Light of the Modern Theory of Knowledge and Valentinov’s The Philosophical Constructions of Marxism.
[1]Fideism is a doctrine which substitutes faith for knowledge, or which generally attaches significance to faith.—Lenin
[2]Interpolations in square brackets (within passages quoted by Lenin) have been introduced by Lenin, unless otherwise indicated.—Ed.
[3]V. I. Lenin in a letter to A. I, Ulyanova-Yelizarova, dated October 20 (November 8), 1908, wrote: “...if considerations due o the censorship prove very severe, the word’clericalism’ could be replaced everywhere by the word ’fideism’with an explanatory note (’fideism is a doctrine which substitutes faith for knowledge, or which generally attaches significance to faith). This is in case of need—toexplain the nature of the concessions which I am ready o make’ (see Collected Works, present edition, Vol. 37, p. 395). In another letter to his sister, Lenin proposed replacing the word “clericalism” by the word Shamanism”, to which she answered.’ "It is already too late for Shamanism. And is it really better?’ (Ibid., p. 662). From the ext of the book Materialism and Empirio-criticism it can be seen that the word “fideism” was substituted for“clericalism”, although the latter word remained unaltered in some places. The note suggested by Lenin was given in the first edition of the book and was retained in subsequent editions.
[4]Lenin is referring to a religious-philosophical tendency hostile o Marxism called “god-building”, which arose in the period of reaction among a section of the party intellectuals who had deserted Marxism after the defeat of the revolution of 1905–07. The “god-builders”(A. V. Lunacharsky, V.Bazarov and others) preached the creation of a new“socialist” religion in an attempt to—reconcile Marxism with religion. At one time A. M. Gorky supported them.
An enlarged meeting of the editorial board of Proletary(1909) condemned “god-building” and stated in a special resolution that the Bolshevik group has nothing in common with“such a distortion of scientific socialism”. The reactionary nature of “god-building” was exposed by Lenin in his workMaterialism and Empirio-criticism an din his letters to Gorky of February-April 1908 and November-December 1913.
Monday, September 09, 2013
*Keeping The Folk Tradition Alive-The Harry Smith Project- A Tribute To “The Harry Smith Anthology Of American Folk Music”-With Geoff Muldaur In Mind
In Honor Of The 50th Anniversary Of The Formation Of The Jim Kweskin Jug Band, A Band That Geoff Muldaur Was A Central Part Of Back In The Day, Celebrated At Club Passim (Club 47 back then), Cambridge On August 29 & 30 2013
DVD Review
The Harry Smith Project: Concert Film, various artists covering material gleaned from “The Harry Smith Anthology of American Folk Music”, Shout Factory, 2006
In a recent CD review of “Harry Smith’s Anthology Of American Folk Music” I made the following comments that apply to this well-done concert (or rather concerts, done in 1999 and 2001) film documentary based on that anthology, some of Smith’s own other creative work and some Fugs, an off beat old time folk/rock group, material. I will comment on some individual performances from the concerts below. Here is the CD review:
“It is no secret that the reviewer in this space has been on something of a tear of late in working through a litany of items concerning American roots music, a music that he first ‘discovered’ in his youth with the folk revival of the early 1960s and with variations and additions over time has held in high regard for his whole adult life. Thus a review of musicologist (if that is what he though he was, it is not all that clear from his “career” path that this was so) Harry Smith’s seminal “Anthology Of American Folk Music” is something of a no-brainer.
Since we live in a confessional age, however, here is the odd part. As familiar as I am with Harry Smith’s name and place in the folk pantheon, his seemingly tireless field work and a great number of the songs in his anthology this is actually the first time that I have heard the whole thing at one sitting and in one place. Oh sure, back in the days of my ill-spent youth listening to an old late Sunday folk show I would perk up every time the name Harry Smith came up as the “discoverer” of some gem of a song from the 1920s or 1930s but to actually listen to, or even attempt to find, the whole compilation then just didn’t happen.
In 1997 Smithsonian/Folkway, as least theoretically in my case, remedied that problem with the release of a high quality (given the masters) six CD set of old Harry’s 80 plus recordings. Not only that but, as is usual with Smithsonian, a very nicely done booklet with all kinds of good information from the likes of Greil Marcus and the late folklorist Eric Von Schmidt (of songs like “Light Rain” and "Joshua’s Gone Barbados”, among others, fame) accompanies this set. That booklet is worth the price of admission alone on this one. But here is the funny thing after running through the whole collection. I mentioned above that this was the first time that I heard the collection as a whole. Nevertheless, over time I have actually heard (and reviewed in this space), helter-skelter, most of the material in the collection, except a few of the more exotic gospel songs. So I guess that youth was not so ill-spent after all. If the "roots is toots" for you, get this thing.
Note: For a list of the all the tracks in the entire collection just Google “The Harry Smith Collection” and click onto Wikipedia’s entry for Harry Smith.”
That said, this concert presentation (actually concerts) covers about twenty-something of the eighty-four songs in the Smith anthology. Here is my take. Folk music is meant to be passed on to future generations and those generations will place their own spin on the material. That is the case here. Some successfully like Elvis Costello’s cover of “Butcher Boy”, Geoff Muldaur’s “Poor Boy Blues” and “K.C. Moan”, Bob Neurwith’s (with Eliza Carthy playing a great fiddle on a version that can truly be declared better than the version on the anthology, much better) “I Wish I Were A Mole”, Kate and Anna McGarrigle’s “Sugar Baby”, Beth Orton’s “Frankie and Albert”, Lou Reed’s cover of Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “See That My Grave Is Kept Clean” and Nick Cave’s “John The Revelator” (Son House and Blind Willie Johnson must have rolled over in their graves on that one). Other more jazzy or gospelly renditions did not fare so well. But here is the real secret. Not all the material that Harry Smith, back in the days, collected was unalloyed gold either. His tastes were, as pointed out here, eclectic. That collection, nevertheless, was a historic archive, good or bad. And this concert will share that same fate. Watch this though, several times.
*Once Again, Hats Off To "The Harry Smith Project"-And Geoff Muldaur Knows That Songbook
In Honor Of The 50th Anniversary Of The Formation Of The Jim Kweskin Jug Band, A Band That Geoff Muldaur Was A Central Part Of Back In The Day, Celebrated At Club Passim (Club 47 back then), Cambridge On August 29 & 30 2013
DVD Review
The Old, Weird America: Harry Smith’s “Anthology Of American Folk Music”, Disc 4, various artists, Shout Factory, 2006
One cannot really understand the roots of American music in the 20th century (and earlier) if one has not been through hell and back with Harry Smith’s 1950s compilation of 84 songs in three volumes, “Anthology Of American Folk Music” , culled from the literally thousands of album that passed through the man’s hands. That is a big statement, although valid one, that I have tried to make in earlier reviews of the Smith CDs and more recently in a DVD review of the concert film documentary, “The Harry Smith Project”. I will thus not belabor those points here, except to repost an excerpt that deals with my take on the outstanding performances from the concert film. This is germane here because the gist of this supplementary documentary is to distill the “meaning” of Harry Smith’s efforts and film uses those performances, or parts of them, as an anchor.
From the review of The Harry Smith Project”:
“That said, this concert presentation (actually concerts) covers about twenty-something of the eighty-four songs in the Smith anthology. Here is my take. Folk music is meant to be passed on to future generations and those generations will place their own spin on the material. That is the case here. Some do so successfully like Elvis Costello’s cover of “Butcher Boy”, Geoff Muldaur’s “Poor Boy Blues” and “K.C. Moan”, Bob Neurwith’s (with Eliza Carthy playing a great fiddle and can truly noted as better than the version on the anthology, much better) “I Wish I Were A Mole”, Kate and Anna McGarrigle’s “Sugar Baby”, Beth Orton’s “Frankie and Albert”, Lou Reed’s cover of Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “See That My Grave Is Kept Clean” and Nick Cave’s “John The Revelator” (Son House and Blind Willie Johnson must have rolled over in their graves on that one). Other more jazzy or gospelly renditions, however, did not fare so well. But here is the real secret. Not all the material that Harry Smith, back in the days, collected was unalloyed gold either. His tastes were, as pointed out here, eclectic. That collection, nevertheless, was a historic archive, good or bad. And this concert will share that same fate. Watch this though, several times.”
So what is this supplementary film all about? Well, I assume as a vehicle to satisfy the folklorists, the musicologists and other assorted academics concerned that their many hours in their youth, and now, had not been wasted going over the minutia of old Harry’s efforts. This is the classic “talking heads” piece that seemingly has become the “rage” in music film documentary circles. Apparently, literature is not the only cultural endeavor that is susceptible to “deconstruction”. The saving grace? Well, along with the somewhat overblown analysis from both performers and critics we get to hear again, if only in lesser segments, most of the songs from the concerts. As for the rest, someone in the film hit it on the head. This music Smith cadged from the late 1920s and early 1930s was music that those who purchased it not only wanted to hear but NEEDED to hear. And almost a century later we do too. If you have to choose get the concert DVD. This one is for aficionados.
*In Folklorist Harry Smith’s House-"Fishing Blues" — Henry Thomas (1928)-First Heard Done By Geoff Muldaur
In Honor Of The 50th Anniversary Of The Formation Of The Jim Kweskin Jug Band, A Band That Geoff Muldaur Was A Central Part Of Back In The Day, Celebrated At Club Passim (Club 47 back then), Cambridge On August 29 & 30 2013
The year 2009 had turned into something a year of review of the folk revival of the 1960s. In November I featured a posting of many of the episodes (via “YouTube”) of Pete Seeger’s classic folk television show from the 1960s, “Rainbow Quest”. I propose to do the same here to end out the year with as many of the selections from Harry Smith’s seminal “Anthology Of American Folk Music,” in one place, as I was able to find material for, either lyrics or "YouTube" performances (not necessarily by the original performer). This is down at the roots, for sure.
Henry Thomas - Fishing Blues Lyrics
Went up on the hill about twelve o'clock. Reached right back and got me a pole. Went to the hardware and got me a hook. Attached that line right on that hook. Says you've been a-fishin' all the time. I'm a-goin' fishin' too.
I bet your life, your lovin'wife. Can catch more fish than you. Any fish bite if you've got good bait. Here's a little somethin' I would like to relate. Any fish bite, you've got good bait. I'm a-goin' a-fishin', yes, I'm a-goin' a-fishin', I'm a-goin' a-fishin' too.
Looked down the river about one o'clock. Spied this catfish swimmin' around. I've got so hungry, didn't know what to do. I'm gonna get me a catfish too.
Yes, you've been fishin' all the time. I'm a-goin' a-fishin' too. I bet your life your lovin' wife. Catch more fish than you. Any fish bite, got good bait. Here's a little somethin' I would like to relate. Any fish bite, you've got good bait. I'm a-goin' a-fishin', yes, I'm goin' a-fishin', I'm a-goin' a-fishin' too.
Put on your skillet, don't never mind your lead. Mama gonna cook 'em with the short'nin' bread. Says you been fishin' all the time. I'm a-goin a-fishin' too. I bet your life, your lovin' wife. Can catch more fish than you. Any fish bite, if you've got good bait. Here's a little somethin' I would like to relate. Any fish bite, you've got good bait. I'm a-goin' a-fishin', yes, I'm goin' a-fishin', I'm a-goin' a-fishin' too.
***Out In The 1930s Jazzy Be-Bop Night-A Girl Has Got To Do What a Girl Has To Do-“Baby Face”- A Film Review
Baby Face, starring Barbara Stanwyck, written by Darryl Zanuck, 1933 A girl has got to do what a girl has to do, circa 1933. That is the overarching theme of the film under review, Baby Face. And what a down in the dregs speakeasy life, pimped off on by a money-grubbing Prohibition father girl does then, and now for that matter, is the best she can. And the best she can is to use her sexual attractiveness, her feminine wiles, and her gold-digger’s heart to move up the social ladder. The film traces Baby Face’s (played by a young and fetching, fetching more before she gets her hair all marcelled, Barbara Stanwyck) hard grind up the social scale using those talents. Starting from an “easy rider” on a tramp train up to the high and rarified airs of the CEO of a bank she single-mindedly get what she wants, or what she thinks she wants.
Now this story of a girl doing the best she can is hardly a new one but what makes this film stand out is its rather explicit and upfront look at social reality and sexual themes. No question Baby Face is a kept woman, no question she will exchange her sexual favors for money, jewels, and maybe power, power over upscale men. These themes usually in the past have been kept under veil and this film, or rather films if you watch the two versions provided, is a no holds barred affair in the scramble to get out from under. The other version is a more sanitized offering, more up to Hollywood 1930s code.
The companion films would make for a good cinema student’s class project. Moreover, the underlining “philosophy” presented is rather startling for a “fluff” movie as Baby Face is early on exposed to a nutty professor-type (really a shoemaker and maybe no so nutty), a foreign nutty guy, who is touting the virtues of Nietzsche’ Will To Power and his various war of all against all notions. That in 1933 (as Hitler starts kicking some Nietzsche doors down in troubled Germany). So all this socially significant material in an hour and one half film. Whee!
***As The 2013 Fall Anti-War Season Gets Under Way- A Vietnam War Flashback Moment- Private First Class, United States Army, Jimmy Jacks, (1944-1965) R.I.P. - U.S. Troops Out Of Everywhere!
Markin comment: Private First Class, United States Army (RA), Jimmy Jacks would have been sixty-seven, or perhaps, sixty-eight years old this fall. You do not see the point of bringing up this unknown stranger’s name? Well, here is another clue Jimmy J. (his local moniker), a few years older than I am, was the first kid from my growing-up working class neighborhood to see service in Vietnam. Still not enough? Then take a little trip down to Washington, D.C. and you will find his “fame” listed on that surreally and serenely beautiful black stone work dedicated to the fallen of that war. Yes, I thought that might get your attention. This is Jimmy J’s story, but is also my story around the edges, and come to think of it, yours too, if you want end these damn imperial military adventures that the American state insists on dragging its youth, and in disproportionate numbers its working-class and minority youth, into.
My first dozen years or so of life were spend in a public housing project (“the projects” that every self-respecting mother warned their sons and daughters drifting down into if they didn’t shape up like a previous generation spoke of “the county farm,” the place of dreamless dreams), a place where the desperately poor of the day, or the otherwise displaced and forgotten of the go-go American economy of the 1950s were shunted off to. So you can say I knew Jimmy Jacks all my life, really, although I did not physically meet him until we moved across town to my coming-of-age working class neighborhood, a neighborhood whose ethos was in no way superior to “the projects” except that, unlike the four to a box project, the tiny houses were, for the most part, single dwellings. And I really only knew Jimmy through my older brother, Prescott (street name, The Gat Kid, ya real original I know) which is to say not very well at all as I was, okay, just a wet-behind-the-ears kid. And Jimmy was the king hellion of the neighborhood and dragged my brother, and the brothers of others, in tow. So this ain’t going to be a story of moral uplift, which is for sure.
See Jimmy, when he was around the old neighborhood, was the very large target, that is to say the number one target, of the “shawlies.” Shawlies? In our mainly Irish working-class neighborhood, although I confess I only heard it used by more recent immigrants just off the boat (or plane) from the old country or older ones who refused to become vanilla Americans, it signified that circle, council if you will, unofficial of course, of mothers, young and old, who set the moral tone, at least the public moral tone, of the place. In short, the gossips, old hags, and rumor-mongers (I am being polite here) who had their own devious grapevine, and more importantly, were a constant source of information about you to your own mother. Usually nothing good either.
And what conduct of Jimmy’s would bring him to the notice of that august body, other than the obvious one of corrupting the morals of the youth? Hey, as you will see this guy was no Socrates. Jimmy, it seems, or it seems to me now, was spoon-fed on old time gangster movies (and The Gat Kid too). No, not the George Raft-Jimmy Cagney-Edward G. Robinson vehicles of the 1930s in which the bad guy pepper-sprayed every one with his trusty machine-gun, everyone except dear old Ma (whom he would not touch a hair of the head of, and you better not either if you know what’s good for you). No, Jimmy was into being a proto-typical "wild one" a la Marlon Brando or the bad guys in Rebel Without A Cause. The ones who tried to cut James Dean up, cut him up bad. Without putting too fine a spin on it, he played out some kind of existential anti-hero. Something Jean Genet might have worked out character sketch on for one of his sullen plays.
So who was this Jimmy? No a bad looking guy with slicked-back black hair, long sideburns (even after they were early 1960s fashion-faded), sh-t kicking engineer boots, dungarees (before they were fashionista), tied together by a thick leather belt (which did service for other purposes, other better left unsaid purposes), tee-shirt in season (and out). Always smoking a cigarette (or getting ready too, and always unfiltered, natch, maybe Camels or Luckies, I really don’t remember), always carrying himself with a little swagger and lot of attitude. Oh ya, he was a tenth-grade high school drop-out (not really that unusual in those days in that neighborhood, drop-outs were a dime a dozen, including my own brother). And here is the draw, the final draw that drew slightly younger guys to him (and older girls, as well) he always had wheels, great wheels, wheels to die for, and kept them up to the nth degree. Employment (in order to get and keep those wheels, jesus, don't you guys know nothing): unknown
That last point is really the start of this story about how the ethos of the working poor and the demands of the American military linked up. Jimmy (and his associates, including my drop-out brother, and for a minute my younger brother, called “Stup” by Jimmy and The Gat Kid too, as look-out) was constantly the subject of local police attention. Every known offense, real or made-up, wound up at his door. Some of it rightly so, as it turned out. I might add that the irate shawlies had plenty to do with this police activity. And also plenty to do with setting up Jimmy as the prime example of what not to emulate. Well, as anyone, including me, in own my very small-bore, short-lived criminal career can testify to when you tempt the fates long enough those damn sisters will come out and get you. Get you bad. The long and short of it is was that eventually Jimmy’s luck ran out. The year that his luck ran out was 1963, not a good year to be nineteen and have your luck run out if there ever is one.
Nowadays we talk, and rightly so, about an “economic draft” that forces many working class and minority youth to sign up for military service even in ill-fated war time because they are up against the wall in their personal lives and the military offers some security. I want to talk about this “economic draft” in a different sense although I know that the same thing probably still goes on today. I just don’t have the data or anecdotal evidence to present on the issue. Jimmy, however, was a prima facie case of what I am talking about. When Jimmy’s luck ran out (and my brother’s as well) he faced several counts of armed robbery, and other assorted minor crimes. When he went to court he thus faced many years (I don’t remember his total, my brother’s was nine, I think). The judge, in his infinite mercy offered this deal- Cedar Junction (not the name then, but the state prison nevertheless) or the Army. Jimmy, fatefully, opted for the Army (as did my brother).
Here is the part that is important to understand though. Jimmy (and to a lesser extent, my brother), the minute that he opted for military service went from being “bum-of-the-month” in shawlie circles to a fine, if misunderstood and slightly errant, boy. Even the oldest hags had twinkles in their eyes for old Jimmy. Of course, his mother also came into high regard for raising such a fine boy committed to serve his country (and his god, and just so you understand that was a very Catholic god, don’t forget that part). Once in uniform, an airborne ranger’s uniform, and more importantly, once he had orders for Vietnam, then an exotic if dangerous place and a name little understood other than the United States was committed to its defense against the atheistic communists, his stock rose even further. I was not around the old neighborhood when the news of his death was announced in 1965 but my parents told me later than his funeral was treated something like a state function. The shawlies, weeping and moaning like their own sons were lost, in any case were out in force. Jimmy J, a belated R.I.P.
***Keep On The Sunny Side- The Music Of June Carter Cash
CD Review
Keep On The Sunny Side: June Carter Cash-Her Life In Music, Legacy 2006
In other reviews of the Johnny Cash/ June Carter combination I noted that my previously mainly marginal interest in the work of Johnny Cash was partially rekindled by viewing the commercial film, “Walk The Line.” Then I reviewed some of his early Sun Record music and from there I reviewed June Carter Cash’s last CD. But the real key to my renewed interest in both musicians stemmed from watching an old black and white Pete Seeger television folk show, “Rainbow Quest” from the mid-1960s when Johnny and June showed their stuff. As a result of that experience I went back and reviewed the film “Walk The Line” and here is what I had to say, in part, there:
“I am reviewing this nicely done commercial effort to delve into parts of the lives of the legendary singers Johnny Cash and his (eventual) wife June Carter Cash (of the famous mountain music Carter Family bloodlines. Her mother was the incredible vocalist and guitarist, Maybelle Carter) in reverse order. Although I saw the this film for the first time when it was released in theaters several years ago (and have viewed it several times on DVD) I am reviewing now after having just seen the real Johnny Cash and June Carter on one of the segments of Pete Seeger’s black and white television programs from the mid-1960s, “Rainbow Quest” where they appeared. And knocked me, and I think Pete, over with their renditions of Carter Family material and information about that clan.
Okay, here is the skinny. If you want to get the glamorous, sexy romance and a fetching June Carter (Reese Witherspoon), the heartache and longing of pain in the butt Johnny Cash and the eventual joining together of two great musical talents story then this is the place to start. But, if you want the reason why this film was made in the first place, the legendary musical talent, warts and all, then watch them go through their paces along with old Pete Seeger. Both are worth the time.”
And this from that last June Carter Cash CD:
“Well, my friends, excuse this roundabout way to get to the CD under review but the points made above will stand for my thoughts on this last June Carter Cash CD. I can only add that when you listen to it you will feel the Appalachian mountain breeze, the sound from the hollows below but most of all you will hear the voice of Maybelle Carter come back to life in daughter June in 2002….”
This last says it all except that here you get June Carter Cash’s whole story, at least her whole musical story, from her childhood singing “Keep On The Sunny Side” along side other Carters through to various sister acts, solos and duets, including with Johnny Cash right until late in her career. Lots of good solid material interspersed, as usual in such compilations, with some less than memorable one. I think, however, that I like that last Carter CD better where she goes deep, deep into that mountain past. I can still feel that Appalachian mountain breeze.
********
“Keep on the sunny side”
There's a dark and a troubled side of life There's a bright and a sunny side too Though we meet with the darkness of strife The sunny side we also may view
Keep on the sunny side Always on the sunny side Keep on the sunny side of life It will help us every day It will brighten up our way If we keep on the sunny side of life
Though the storm and it's fury breaks today Crushing hopes that we cherish so dear The clouds and storm will in time pass away And the sun again will shine bright and clear
(break)
Let us treat with a song of hope each day Though the moment be cloudy or clear Let us trust in our Saviour old ways He will keep everyone in His care
Keep on the sunny side Always on the sunny side Keep on the sunny side of life It will help us every day It will brighten up our way If we keep on the sunny side of life
From The Brothers Under The Bridge Series- Watch Out, Watch Way Out For Two-Timing Dames-Glenn Fallon’s Story
From
The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin:
In the
first installment of this series of sketches space provided courtesy of my old
1960s yellow brick road magical mystery tour merry prankster fellow traveler,
Peter Paul Markin, I mentioned, in grabbing an old Bruce Springsteen CD
compilation from 1998 to download into my iPod, that I had come across a song
that stopped me in my tracks, Brothers
Under The Bridge. I had not listened to or thought about that song for a
long time but it brought back many memories from the late 1970s when I did a
series of articles for the now defunct East
Bay Eye (Frisco town, California East Bay, naturally) on the fate of some
troubled Vietnam veterans who, for one reason or another, could not come to
grips with “going back to the real world” and took, like those a Great
Depression generation or two before them, to the “jungle”-the hobo, bum, tramp
camps located along the abandoned railroad sidings, the ravines and crevices,
and under the bridges of California, mainly down in Los Angeles, and created
their own “society.”
The
editor of the East Bay Eye, Owen
Anderson, gave me that long ago assignment after I had done a smaller series
for the paper on the treatment, the poor treatment, of Vietnam veterans by the
Veterans Administration in San Francisco and in the course of that series had
found out about this band of brothers roaming the countryside trying to do the
best they could, but mainly trying to keep themselves in one piece. My
qualifications for the assignment other than empathy, since I had not been in
the military during the Vietnam War period, were based simply on the fact that
back East I had been involved, along with several other radicals, in running an
anti-war GI coffeehouse near Fort Devens in Massachusetts and another down near
Fort Dix in New Jersey. During that period I had run into many soldiers of my
1960s generation who had clued me in on the psychic cost of the war so I had a
running start.
After
making connections with some Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) guys down
in L.A. who knew where to point me I was on my way. I gathered many stories,
published some of them in the Eye,
and put the rest in my helter-skelter files. A while back, after having no
success in retrieving the old Eye
archives, I went up into my attic and rummaged through what was left of those
early files. I could find no newsprint articles that I had written but I did
find a batch of notes, specifically notes from stories that I didn’t file
because the Eye went under before I
could round them into shape.
The
ground rules of those long ago stories was that I would basically let the guy I
was talking to give his spiel, spill what he wanted the world to hear, and I
would write it up without too much editing (mainly for foul language). I, like
with the others in this current series, have reconstructed this story at two
removes as best I can although at this far remove it is hard to get the feel of
the voice and how things were said.
Not
every guy I interviewed, came across, swapped lies with, or just snatched some
midnight phrase out of the air from was from hunger. Most were, yes, in one way
or another but some had no real desire to advertise their own hunger but just wanted
to get something off their chest about some lost buddy, or some event they had
witnessed. I have presented enough of these sketches both back in the day and
here to not make a generalization about what a guy might be hiding in the deep
recesses of his mind.
Some wanted to give a blow by blow
description of every firefight (and every hut torched) they were involved in,
others wanted to blank out ‘Nam completely and talk of before or after times,
or talk about the fate of some buddy, some ‘Nam buddy, who maybe made it back
the “real world” but got caught up with stuff he couldn’t handle, or got caught
up in some stuff himself that he couldn’t handle, couldn’t handle because his
whole blessed life pointed the other way. Glenn Fallon’s story, like a recent
one on Soldier Johnson, is slightly different since it is not based on my Eye
notes but on a story that Frank Jackman, a growing up friend of my friend Peter
Paul Markin, who related Glenn’s to him and that Peter then related to me when
he heard that I was again putting together an occasional series on guys,
Vietnam War guys, who found themselves under the “bridge.” Glenn spent time
under the “bridge” in the early 1970s no question although the story that he
related to Frank was from two periods, one in the early 1960s and the other the
late 1970s after the time of the interviews in my original series. Take this
third-hand account with that in mind. I like to finish up these introductions
by placing these sketches under a particular sign; no question Glenn Fallon’s
sign was that of those two-timing dames that he could not get enough of.
************** There is a funny thing about guys,
at least guys who take a serious interest in women. You would think they would
kind of figure things out about dames, about their wanting habits large and
small early on. Maybe not after some heart to heart talk from their fathers,
fathers at least in Glenn Fallon’s generation of ’68, fathers from that
generation who went through the Great Depression of the 1930s and fought, rifle
on their shoulder, through the farm fields of Europe and quicksand islands of
the Pacific, for they were mainly absent, responsibly absent at work and so no
factor in the dame figuring out equation.And maybe not from their corner boys hanging out in the 1950s night
bragging about this or that conquest, this or that one night stand, or, mainly,
what they would do and for how long and in what matter with that dish that got
away, flashed by in a second.But somewhere
along the way somebody, some woman even, should have given them the ABC’s of two-timing
women. So Glenn Fallon got stuck. got stuck bad when the deal went down, went
down twice, and that twice is what got to Frank Jackman when he got the whole
story from Glenn.
Without overdoing the moralizing
I agree with Frank that Glenn Fallon really should have known better, should
have realized that going down that road twice was treacherous. After all he had
been down that road once before, that what they called the deadly man-trap
women road in the old film noir movies he watched incessantly at the Bijou
Theater in his Lancaster, Kansas youth. But would he listen. No. No he had to
play out the hand his way. Maybe he thought his small town good looks, his
small town good manners and charm would shield him when the going got rough,
would protect him when some femme fatale gave him that come hither look.
Maybe he just plain thought he was lucky, hell he had survived to manhood and
then some hadn’t he. And maybe it was just plain ordinary vanilla hubris that
drove him to take up with some women who had hellishness written all over them.
Yeah, Glenn Fallon should have known better, but let’s get to the details and
stop trying to figure out what a guy will do when that come hither look (and
that slight whiff of intoxicating perfume) catches him flat-footed.
Let’s get to that Glenn had been
down that road before part. Frank knew it cold since he spent a lot of time with
Glenn when he first knew him, knew him after he got back from ‘Nam and he was assigned
to Frank’s stateside unit at Fort Ord
out in California in order to finish out his time before being discharged.
Glenn would talk endlessly about that time before the service when he had
hooked up with a live one, a real heartbreaker, a what did he call her, yeah, a
femme, femme fatale. Yeah, all he could talk about was Rita, Rita
Hayes, and how she had left him so high and dry that when they called his
number to go into the service he was ready to face whatever Charlie had to
throw at him, big guns, little guns, just to get away, and keep away from
her.
Here’s the way Glenn pitched his story,
although Frank told Peter Paul it had been a long while back and that maybe he
have forgotten a point or two but mainly it was like Glenn told it, told it
then enough times that he thought he was part of it. He had met this Rita down
on the Santa Monica Beach near the pier one summer day when she was sunning
herself, or whatever femmes do in the daytime. He was there, new to
California, without a job, looking out at the ocean which amazed him a boy
brought up and bred on the prairies of Kansas and he spied her looking all
beautiful, red hair, nice shape, long legs and he thought, what the hell he
would take a chance on making a play. As he approached her he noticed she was
probably a couple of years older than him but she had this smile, this come
hither smile and that was that.
He was nineteen, had been out of
high school a year or so he figured she was maybe twenty, twenty-one, a
fresh-minted twenty, twenty-one. So as guys and dames will do they talked,
talked some more, and kind of hit it off, hit it off nicely. And nicely meant
that later on toward evening as the sun set over the Pacific on a day when you
could it touch the horizon they headed for one of the motels, the Dee Drop Inn,
or some such name, a Mom and Pop operation which catered to young love, that
dotted the heights above the beach.
Just your average boy meets girl
story until Rita lowered the boom a few weeks later after many a night in some
version of the Dew Drop Inn. She had “forgotten” to tell Glenn that she was
married, married to some older guy, older then meaning maybe forty something,
who was a financial speculator and who had plenty of dough. The way Glenn found
out about her being married was weird. One sunny Los Angeles afternoon, no smog
around, she brought him around to her old hubby, Bart, and without telling
Glenn who the old guy was or the old guy who Glenn was she told Bart to offer Glenn
a job, pretty please for Rita offer him a job, a job for an old friend from
back home she called it. Glenn needing dough, having practically run out of
what savings he had brought West with him, eagerly played along with the
request.
Anyone could see, anyone with
eyes, even Glenn that Rita had Bart tied around her finger and so Bart did
offer Glenn a job working with the head gardener and then left the pair. It was
only after that episode that Rita told Glenn who Bart was. He had thought the
guy was her father, or something. Her idea she said was that with him working
for Bart it would keep him around her without too much suspicion.
When Frank heard that statement he
blurted out to Glenn that that should have been the signal when he reached for
the door. But see she had her hooks into him by then, had them in bad, had him
ready to accept any fate just to be around her, her and that come hither look. Frank
had (hell, I have too) been around dames and their looks enough to know what he
meant so he didn’t press the issue. But he could read trouble ahead without Glenn
having to say another word.
And that trouble came, came fast
and furious, came bad enough for him in the end to face Charlie’s guns without
complaint. For a couple of months Glenn worked hard for Bart, liked the guy and
the way he operated (although that like did not keep Glenn from playing around
with his wife) and got wrapped up in talking about his financial dealings. It
seemed that Bart was trying to corner the copper market and thus control the
world- wide price and make a killing. That was fair enough, Glenn had no
trouble with that although some of Bart’s “partners” in the scheme seemed kind
of weird, kind of slimy. That part was okay but Rita was then amping up her own
plan (while driving Glenn crazy with all kinds of new, new to farm boy Glenn,
and enticing little tricks in bed). Her plan, frankly, involved murder as it
usually does with these femmes, although murder dressed up as an
accident. And Glenn was the accident-maker, was the guy who was to do the heavy
work. Frank could see where that whole line of talk was leading, how she was
just using him to dump hubby and take the dough and run, run with or without
Glenn he wasn’t sure at that point but he let him run out his story.
Naturally this “accident” thing
should been obvious to the cops when they came to investigate the death of old
Bart. He had driven down a ravine too fast they said and having alcohol on his
breathe must have maneuvered the wrong way. All they did after a perfunctory
investigation was to charge the thing up to faulty brakes and let it go at
that. Strangely Glenn had not touched the brakes as that was too obvious but
had messed with the steering mechanism which was not even close to the brake
system. Nobody even had to show for a coroner’s inquest though.
Beautiful, beautiful except old
Bart kind of had the last laugh. Two ways. First after the “accident” something
soured a little between Glenn and Rita, a little unspoken thing on Rita’s part like
maybe she was ready to cut him loose after using him to pull off the dastardly
deed Glenn thought in the back of his mind. But that thought only lingered a
minute once she started in on him with her wiles and remember he was hooked,
hooked bad on her. Second it seems that Bart had put up all his dough in the
copper speculation and when he died the whole thing kind of imploded and the
price of copper shares went through the floor. That is the real reason why Rita
was cool to Glenn. He was a no dough guy and thus expendable. And he was. One
night, one steamy summer night, she tried to shot poor Glenn over some dispute,
some nothing dispute. She missed but a couple of days later she was gone,
taking everything including some jewelry she had given to Glenn when their love
was in bloom. A couple of days after that, after trying to pick up her trail
without success he began to realize, realize just a little that he had been a
fool. The next day he enlisted in the Army. Later , when he was over in ‘Nam he
had heard from some source that she had married a big time criminal lawyer,
rich as hell, up in Frisco. He had chuckled at that, at the gallows’ humor of
it, she had her lawyer already set up in place for her next caper.
Gloria came sashaying through the
door of the bank all blonde, all shape, all flaming red lips, looking, well,
looking for trouble except Glenn couldn’t see it. Frank guessed that it was
okay to speak of it now that the coast was clear, now that Glenn was in parts
unknown, or unknown to the coppers. They will never get anything from Frank since
he didn’t know where Glenn was, and wouldn’t say if he did. Frank looked at it
this way (me too). See if a guy takes one tumble with one femme well
that’s a rookie error but twice the guy needs help, and not any slammer help
that some gun-toting copper would be glad to provide. Besides Frank was not
sure that Glenn did anything wrong, legally wrong anyway, although he would not
win any prizes from Betsy on that score. Let me lay it out for you, lay out how
Frank pieced most of it together and you figure it out.
Naturally in a small town like
Lancaster the femme fatale traffic is going to be light, or that’s what
a guy should figure. Those femmes from the sticks are moving to the big
city to show their stuff. Well this Gloria seemed to be stuck in Podunk, nobody
knew the details why really, and Glenn didn’t have time to fill anybody in. Or
want to. That sashaying day at the bank Gloria was looking for a loan, a small
loan to get a car she said. Mainly her eyes gave her the loan as Glenn bought
her hard luck story and she seemed okay. Of course part of the okay was that
she sweet-talked him into meeting her after work for a drink. Maybe he was
restless that day, maybe it was the perfume, maybe humankind, or mankind, is
incapable of learning a lesson but he went. And they had a drink, a drink or
six and you can fill in the details of what Glenn and Gloria did after the bar
closed.
And so they saw each other
quietly on the sly at her apartment on the outskirts of town, quietly for a
couple of months although he had not broken it off with Betsy at that point.
Then Gloria’s husband came to town. (Jesus aren’t there any single femmes,
or if married just leave guys alone-JLB). This guy, a big gruff beefy guy,
Biff, who was a big railroad superintendent which explained his absences, had
heard that wifey was not on the square. He beat her trying to find out who the
lover was. She, finally, coped to a confession after he nearly beat her to
death. But see she named a rich older lover, Larry, from Tulsa whom she had
left for Biff. One night a few weeks later they found Larry, beaten to death,
in a pool of blood in his Tulsa apartment.
Gloria freaked out, went crazy
when Biff told her what he had done and he then beat her into submission. She
would never tell she swore. When Glenn saw her condition he freaked too and
that is when she was able to enlist Glenn in her plot to kill her husband.
There would be no accident this time, this time it was strictly murder, murder
one, and the chair if they got caught. The plan was for Gloria to get Biff
drunk, she would take a little beating after she refused his besotted advances
and Glenn would come by, grab a convenient gun and shoot him, place the gun in
her hand, knock her out and leave. She would claim self-defense and the beating
marks would be her alibi. Nice.
But it never got to that, never
came close. Something had happened earlier in the evening, Gloria had shot Biff
dead herself and had split, leaving no forwarding address. None. Glenn,
figuring he would be the fall guy, or close to it, also split with no
forwarding address. Except he wrote a letter later with no return address on
the envelope to Frank that if he heard anything about Gloria to send her a
message that he said hello. That was the last Frank heard from him. As Frank
finished up he reflected and Peter Paul quoted him word for word on it-“Jesus.
Jesus learn something from this tale guys and stay away, far away, from
two-timing dames even if they have that come hither look or wear that damn
fragrance.” Enough said.
