***Busted Visions Of Adamsville Beach- For Diana N., Class Of 1964

A YouTube film clip of the Bachelors performing their classic teen (maybe everybody) heartache song, Diane, to add a little timely twist to this entry.

Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:

Okay, okay in an earlier sketch entitled "Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach," this writer got all misty-eyed, some may say even teary-eyed, about the old days at North Adamsville Beach. I went on and on about things like impatiently waiting to check out the various flavors of ice cream at the now long-departed HoJo's Ice Cream stand across the street from the beach; the vagaries of clam-digging in the jellyfish-infested and slimy oil-drenched mud flats, for young and old, down at the Merrymount end of the beach; and, about the smell of charcoal- broiled hot dogs and other delights at what we then called Treasure Island (and now Cady Park, I think) at that same end.

Furthermore, all be-bop blushing aside I, heroically, allowed us to suffer once against by describing the obligatory teenage longings for companionship and romantic adventure associated with the sea. With the sound of the high tide waves roaring against the sand splashed shore. That last bit, my friends, is shorthand for the "parking" ritual and "submarine races," a localism for activities, automobile activities, going on in the deep night, the deep teen hormonal night that we are sworn to secrecy about while the kids or grand kids are around.

But now I say enough of the "magical realism" that I invoked in that sketch. Today, as we are older and wiser, we will junk that "memory lane" business and take a look at old Adamsville Beach in the clear bright light of day, warts and all. We all must or should respect Mother Nature, or she will beat us, mercilessly beat us down, but let’s at least not mumble gibberish in old age like some star-struck teeny-boppers.

Last year , as part of the ill-advised trip down the memory lane trip that I have been endlessly writing about with these sketches I walked, hard sneaker-driven walked, intrepid observer that I am, the length of Adamsville Beach from the Squaw Rock Causeway (near the ubiquitous "Dunkin Donuts" for the modern reader, I don’t know what frame of reference site would do for the older reader, maybe the old Squaw Rock Elementary School or the long-abandoned Naval Air Base entrance) to the bridge at Adamsville Shore Drive (and the entrance to, the dividing line which should have been etched in high gloss granite stone native to the area stone that separated we pure at heart raider red diehards from the dreaded Adamsville High heathen warriors). At that time the beach area was in the last stages of some reconstruction work. You know, repave the road, re-do the sidewalks, and put in some new streetlights. Fair enough-even the edges of Mother Nature can use a make-over once in a while. The long and short of this little trip though was to make me wonder why I was so enthralled by the lure of Adamsville Beach in my youth.

Oh sure, most of the natural landmarks and outcroppings are still there, as well as some of the structural ones. Those poor, weather-beaten Squaw Rock and Adamsville Heights Yacht Clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for teenage companionship (read: girls). And, of course, the tattered "Beachcomber" local beach gin mill drunken throw-up night horrors in much the same condition and with that same rutted unpaved parking lot is still there, just like when we first tried to get into at whatever non-legal age we tried, as are the inevitable non-descript clam shacks with their cholesterol-laden goods. That is not what I mean.

What I noticed were things like the odd sulfuric smell of low-tide when the sea is calm. The tepidness of the water as it splashed almost apologetically to the shore; when a man, no stranger to the sound of crashing waves in almost every conceivable locale on this continent, craved the roar of the ocean. And the annoying gear-grinding noise and fuming smoke caused by the constant vehicular traffic, especially those blasting-engine motorcycles, those Harley hog things and their mad men drivers. Things that, frankly, I was oblivious to back in the days.

There is thus something of a disconnect between the dreaminess and careless abandon of youthful Adamsville as describe in "Visions" and the Adamsville of purposeful old age-the different between eyes and ears observing when the world was young and there were vistas to conquer, and at times we were in, as the poet Wordsworth wrote "very heaven" and now when those sights have been transformed by too many other pictures of a wild and wicked world. The lesson to be learned: beware the perils of "memory lane". But don't ever blame the sea for that, please.

.....and the tin can bended, and the story ended (title from the late folksinger/folk historian Dave Van Ronk's last album in 2001). That seems about right.

***Fragments Of A Treasure Island (Cady Park) Dream #1, Circa 1955

A YouTube film clip of the Platters performing their classic teen (maybe everybody) heartache song, The Great Pretender to add a little timely twist to this entry.     


Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville High School Class Of 1964, comment:

It’s funny how working now, on one thing or another, will bring back those childhood hurts, those feelings sealed, or is it seared, so deep in memory that one does not expect them to resurface for love or money, although this little piece did not start out that way and probably won’t finish up that way either. This “dream” started off from seeing, a few months ago, an unexpected and fairly unusual surname of a fellow female elementary school classmate innocently listed in an off-hand, indirect North Adamsville Internet connection. The very sight of that name triggered a full-blown elementary school “romantic” daydream, from my days down at the old Adamsville “projects” where I came of age, that blossomed into a pining prose sonnet that would have made Shakespeare blush. I’ll tell you about that one sometime, but not now.

That flashback, in turn, got me into a fierce sea-faring dreaming, rolling-logged, oil-slicked, ocean water on three sides, stone-throwing Adamsville projects mood that turned into a screed on the trials and tribulations of growing to manhood in the shadows of tepid old Adamsville Beach. And that, naturally enough, triggered a quick remembrance of too infrequent family barbecue outings as the old Treasure Island (now named after a fallen Marine, Cady, if I recall correctly). At least I think that was the name in those days. That’s what we called it anyway, down at the Merrymount end of the beach. You know where I mean, you probably had your family memory barbecue outings there too, as least some of them. But enough of that background. Let me tell you what I really want to talk about, the tricks that parents used to use, and still do I suppose, to get their way. The story isn’t pretty, or for the faint of heart.

I swear I knew, and I am pretty sure that I knew for certain early on when I was just a half-pint kid myself, that kids, especially younger kids, could be “bought off” by their parents and easily steered away from what they really wanted to do, or really wanted to have, by a mere trifle. Probably you got wise to the routine early too. Still, it’s ridiculous how easily we were “pieced off”, wise as we were, and I firmly believe that there should have been, and there should be now, something like the rules of engagement that govern civilized behavior in war-time written out in the Geneva Conventions against that form of behavior by mothers and fathers. After all what is childhood, then or now, except one long, very long, battle between two very unevenly matched sides with kids, then and now, just trying to do the best they can in a world that they didn’t create, and that they didn’t get a say in creating.

I learned this little nugget of “wisdom” from battle-tested, many times losing, keep- in-there-swinging, never-say-die, first-hand experience, although I guess I might have been a little too thin-skinned and have been a little too quick to feel slighted about it at the time to really focus in on its meaning. I know that you learned this home truth this way as well whether you got onto the scam early on or not. Sure, I could be bought off, I am not any better than the rest of you on that score, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t nurse many a grievance to right those wrongs(and, incidentally, plotted many a feverish revenge, in my head at least, some of them, if impractical, pretty exquisitely drawn).

Sometimes it was just a word, sometimes literally just one word, usually a curt, cutting, razor-edged one from Ma that sent you reeling for cover ready to put up the white flag, if you ever even got that chance. Sometimes it was a certain look, a look that said “don’t go there." And, maybe, depending how you were feeling, you did and maybe you didn’t, go there that is. Hell, sometimes it could even be a mere inside-the family-meaningful side-long glance, a glance from Ma, a thing from her eye, her left one usually, brow slightly arched, that said "case closed," and forget about the pretense behind the “don’t go there” look, which at least gave you the dignity of having the opportunity to put up a little fight no manner the predetermined ending. Sometimes though, and this is hard to “confess” fifty years later and ten thousand, thousand other experiences later, that lady switched up on us and "pieced" us off with some honey-coated little thing. That damn honey-coated thing, that “good” thing standing right in front of full-blown evil, or what passed for that brand of evil in those days, is what this dream fragment is all about.

Now don’t tell me you don’t know what I am talking about in the Ma wars, and don’t even try to tell me it wasn’t usually Ma who ran point on the “no” department when you went on the offensive for some thing you wanted to have, or some place you wanted to go, especially when “desperately” was attached to the "have" or to the "go" part. No, just don’t do it. Dad, Pa, Father, whatever you called him, was held in ready-reserve for when the action got hot and heavy. Maybe, in your family, your father was the point-man but from what I have learned over the last couple of years about our parents from information that I have gathered from some of you that was a wasted strategy. We were that easy. No need for the big guns, because our ever-lovin’, hard-working, although maybe distant, fathers were doing what fathers do. Provide, or go to the depths in that struggle to provide. Ma was for mothering and running interference. That was that. Thems were the rules then, if not now. The main thing was the cards were stacked against us because what we really didn't know was they were really working as a team, one way or another. In any case, I don’t have time to dilly-dally over their strategies as I have got to move on here.

See, here is what you don’t know. Yet. Those family trips to old Treasure Island, whether they were taken from down in Adamsville or later, when we moved "up-town" to North Quincy, as they tapered off when we three boys (my two brothers, one a little younger one a little older, and me) got too big to pretend that we really wanted to go, were really the ‘booby prize’ for not going to places like Paragon Park down in Nantasket or down to Plymouth Rock or, christ, any place that would be a change of scenery from the claptrap projects. Of course, the excuse was always the same-dad was too tired to drive after working some killer hours at some dirty old dead-end job, or one of a succession of old, hand-me-down, barely running jalopies (and I am being kind here, believe me) wasn’t running, or running well enough to make the trip, or something else that meant we couldn’t go some place.

Ya, that was all right for public consumption but here is the real reason; no dough, plain and simple. Why Ma and Dad just didn’t tell us that their circumstances were so tight that spending a couple of dollars on the roller coaster (which I didn’t care about anyway), or playing “Skee” (which I did care about), or getting cotton-candy stuck every which way (which I didn’t care about), or riding the Wild Mouse (cared about) would break the bank I will never know. Or the extra gas money. Or the extra expense of whatever. How do I know. All I knew is that we weren’t going. Period.

But, here, finally, is where the simple “bought off” comes in, although I really should have been more resolute in my anger at not going and held out for better terms. Such is the fate of young mortals, I guess. My mother, and this was strictly between me and my mother as most things were in those days, dangled the prospect of having some of Kennedy’s potato salad in front of my face on the next family picnic. You remember Kennedy’s, right? If you don’t then the rest of this thing is going to come as less that the “Book of Revelation”. Or ask your parents, or grandparent. There was one in Adamsville Square about half way down Hancock Street on the old South Shore Bank side and there was one in Norfolk Downs almost to the corner of Hancock Street and Billings Road next to the old A&P. I am not sure, and someone can help me on this, whether it was called Kennedy’s Food Shop, or Deli, or whatever but it had the best potato salad around. And fresh ground peanut butter, and sweet fragrant coffee smells, and… But I will get to describing that that some other time. Right now I am deciding whether I can be bought off or not. Yes, shamefacedly, I can and here is the closer -I can even go to Kennedy's and get the stuff myself. What do you think about that? From then on, moreover, I became the “official” Kennedy’s boy of the family. Did I sell out too cheaply? No way.
 

***From Beulah Land- Mississippi John Hurt

CD REVIEW

Last Sessions, Mississippi John Hurt, Vanguard Records, 1972

If one were to ask virtually any fairly established folk- singer in, let’s say 1968, what country blues musician influenced them the most then the subject of this review.Mississippi John Hurt, would win hands down. The list would be long- Dave Van Ronk, Geoff Muldaur, Maria Muldaur, Phil Ochs, Chris Smithers, Joan Baez and on and on. Hell, Tom Paxton wrote a song about him-Did You Hear John Hurt? That song still gets airplay on the folk station around where I live.

So what gives? Why the praise? What gives is this- Mississippi John Hurt and his simple country blues were 'discovered' at a time when many young, mainly white urban musicians were looking for roots music. This search wa not anything particularly new-John and Alan Lomax went on the hustings in the 1930’s and recorded many of the old country blues artists that were ‘discovered’ in the 1960’s. Hell, you can go back further to the 1920’s and the record companies themselves were sending out agents to scour the country looking for talent- they found the likes of the Carter Family, Jimmy Rodgers, and Blind Willie McTell along the way.

And what made John Hurt so special? Well, for one, very clean, very simple picking on the old guitar. For another that little raspy voice that you had to perk up your ear to if you wanted to hear him. But the big deal really is that he sang songs in a simple country way that reflected the hard life of the Mississippi delta, the hard work of picking cotton, the hard fact of being black in the Jim Crow South and the hard fact of needing some musical entertainment on a hot Saturday night after a hard week in the fields. The flow changed when the blues headed north to Chicago and got electrified but if you want to hear a master at work when the sound was simpler then hear John Hurt, hear him playing Creole Belle. And Joe Turner Blues, Spanish Fandango, Beulah Land and the rest.

***Have You Ever Seen A .. The Songs of Jesse Winchester

 

 

CD REVIEW

Live From Mountain Stage, Jesse Winchester, 2001

If I were to ask someone, in the year 2013, to name a male folk- singer from the 1960’s I would assume that if I were to get an answer to that question that the name would be Bob Dylan. And that would be a good and appropriate choice. One can endlessly dispute whether or not Dylan was (or wanted to be) the voice of the Generation of ’68 but in terms of longevity and productivity he fits the bill as a known quality. However, there were a slew of other male folk- singers who tried to find their niche in the folk milieu and who, like Dylan, today continue to produce work and to perform. The artist under review Jesse Winchester is one such singer/songwriter.

The above is a question that I have been posing in reviewing the work of a number of male folk- singers from the 1960’s and it is certainly an appropriate question to ask of Jesse as well. I do not know if Jesse Winchester, like his contemporary Bob Dylan, started out wanting to be the king of the hill among male folk- singers but he certainly had some things going for him. A decent acoustic guitar but a very interesting voice to fit the lyrics of love, hope and longing that he was singing about at the time. Of course, the need to go to Canada as a draft exile from the Vietnam War perhaps cut across cut across some of those youthful dreams, as it did for many others whether they went to 'Nam or resisted one way or another.

As for the songs themselves, many that evokes the Southern roots from which Winchester came. Eualie is evocative of that. Other nice touches are That’s What Makes You Strong and his patented Brand New Tennessee Waltz. But the one I have always liked personally, and here my roots show, is Yankee Lady (see lyrics below).

Hell, I once had a relationship with a woman like the one he describes in that little song. Oddly enough my Yankee Lady as if in some reverse symbiosis was from Texas and had most of the virtues that Jesse sings about in the song, and I had some woe-begotten need to go back north, to go back to the cold from those dusty, steamy nights. And a little just plain wanderlust to boot    

 

Didn’t we all (male or female) have our own version of Yankee Lady back then. Didn’t when we all thought that we would live forever and that we would create the “newer world” that were bursting forth about in the late 1960s, before the nightfall ebb devoured us, before that little world we dreamed of turned to ashes in a fit of hubris (aided not a little by the guns of the old world crowding us out) think such loves grew on trees there for the plucking. Didn’t we, as we departed from that Yankee Lady think we would endlessly meet such types as we travelled whatever road we were travelling. And didn’t we in some moment of thought regret, no more than regret, leaving that person, that righteous person who made the days, well, just made the days.

*****

Yankee Lady

I lived with the decent folks
In the hills of old Vermont
Where what you do all day
Depends on what you want
And I took up with a woman there
Though I was still a kid
And I smile like the sun
To think of the loving that we did
She rose each morning and went to work
And she kept me with her pay
I was making love all night
And playing guitar all day
And I got apple cider and homemade bread
To make a man say grace
And clean linens on my bed
And a warm feet fire place
Yankee lady so good to me,
Yankee lady just a memory
Yankee lady so good to me,
Your memory that's enough for me
An autumn walk on a country road
And a million flaming trees
I was feeling uneasy
Cause there was winter in the breeze
And she said, "Oh Jesse, look over there,
The birds are southward bound
Oh Jesse, I'm so afraid
To lose the love that we've found."
Yankee lady so good to me,
Yankee lady just a memory
Yankee lady so good to me,
Your memory that's enough for me
I don't know what called to me
But I know that I had to go
I left that Vermont town
With a lift to Mexico
And now when I see myself
As a stranger by my birth
The Yankee lady's memory
Reminds me of my worth
Yankee lady so good to me,
Yankee lady just a memory
Yankee lady so good to me,
Your memory that's enough for me
©1970 Jesse Winchester
From the LP "Jesse Winchester"
 

***North Carolina Picking- Etta Baker

One-Dime Blues, Etta Baker, Rounder Records, 1991

Recently I mentioned in reviewing Elizabeth Cotton’s Freight Train album from Folkways that there was something appealing about these North Carolina style guitar pickers. It is different from the Delta pick, for sure. They pick cleanly, simply but with verve. The Delta is a little more heavy-handed reflecting, I think, the woes of picking that cotton all week. Damn, I would be guitar picking like Keith Richards under those conditions. Ms. Baker shows her stuff here on this almost exclusively instrumental album from Rounder Records. The one vocal that she does do here –Broken-Hearted Blues- makes me wish that she had done more vocals but the guitar can carry her through on this album- no problem. Highlights here include some old country blues classics-John Henry, Crow Jane, Railroad Bill, Spanish Fandango and so on. Nice, nice touch. Nice, nice music.

***North Carolina Picking- Elizabeth Cotten

CD REVIEW

Freight Train and Other North Carolina Folk Songs and Tunes, Elizabeth Cotton, Smithsonian-Folkways, 1989

There is something about those old time North Carolina- style female guitar pickers that is very appealing. And here I am thinking not only of the artist under review, the legendary Elizabeth Cotten, but also another female picker extraordinaire Etta Baker, as well. It is different from the Delta pick, for sure. They pick cleanly, simply but with verve. Ms. Cotten shows her stuff here on her first album from Folkways. Here we have the folk classic, no super-classic, Freight Train that was a rite of passage for every one from Peter, Paul and Mary to Dave Van Ronk to Tom Rush to record in the early 1960s (and me too in the days when I was starting to amateurishly fool around with an old acoustic guitar that a friend of mine who went on to some local sucess as a folkie had hanging around the house). Along with that tune we have some nice renditions of I Don’t Love Nobody and a few medleys like Sweet Bye and Bye combined with What A Friend You Have in Jesus (that I believe Blind Willie Johnson first recorded, or variation of it at least). Listen away but also save your money up to get the album with Shake Sugaree (get the one with her granddaughter singing along on it)on it. That’s the ticket.

From The Marxist Archives- In Honor Of The 64th Anniversary Year Of The Chinese Revolution of 1949- Labor Versus the Capitalist State

Markin comment (repost from 2012):

On a day when we are honoring the 63rd anniversary of the Chinese revolution of 1949 the article posted in this entry and the comment below take on added meaning. In the old days, in the days when I had broken from many of my previously held left social-democratic political views and had begun to embrace Marxism with a distinct tilt toward Trotskyism, I ran into an old revolutionary in Boston who had been deeply involved (although I did not learn the extend of that involvement until later) in the pre-World War II socialist struggles in Eastern Europe. The details of that involvement will not detain us here now but the import of what he had to impart to me about the defense of revolutionary gains has stuck with me until this day. And, moreover, is germane to the subject of this article from the pen of Leon Trotsky -the defense of the Chinese revolution and the later gains of that third revolution (1949) however currently attenuated.

This old comrade, by the circumstances of his life, had escaped that pre-war scene in fascist-wracked Europe and found himself toward the end of the 1930s in New York working with the Trotskyist Socialist Workers Party in the period when that organization was going through intense turmoil over the question of defense of the Soviet Union. In the history of American (and international) Trotskyism this is the famous Max Shachtman-James Burnham led opposition that declared, under one theory or another, that the previously defendable Soviet Union had changed dramatically enough in the course of a few months to be no longer worth defending by revolutionaries.

What struck him from the start about this dispute was the cavalier attitude of the anti-Soviet opposition, especially among the wet-behind-the-ears youth, on the question of that defense and consequently about the role that workers states, healthy, deformed or degenerated, as we use the terms of art in our movement, as part of the greater revolutionary strategy. Needless to say most of those who abandoned defense of the Soviet Union when there was even a smidgeon of a reason to defend it left politics and peddled their wares in academia or business. Or if they remained in politics lovingly embraced the virtues of world imperialism.

That said, the current question of defense of the Chinese Revolution hinges on those same premises that animated that old Socialist Workers Party dispute. And strangely enough (or maybe not so strangely) on the question of whether China is now irrevocably on the capitalist road, or is capitalist already (despite some very un-capitalistic economic developments over the past few years), I find that many of those who oppose that position have that same cavalier attitude the old comrade warned me against back when I was first starting out. There may come a time when we, as we had to with the Soviet Union and other workers states, say that China is no longer a workers state. But today is not that day. In the meantime study the issue, read the posted article, and more importantly, defend the gains of the Chinese Revolution.
***********

Workers Vanguard No. 976 18 March 2011 TROTSKY LENIN Labor Versus the Capitalist State (Quote of the Week) Loyal to the capitalist system, the labor bureaucracy in the U.S. has for decades played by the bosses’ rules, gravely undermining the unions and emboldening the bourgeoisie in its current drive against public workers. In an unfinished 1940 article on the tasks facing revolutionary Marxists in the labor movement, Leon Trotsky emphasized the urgency of fighting for the complete independence of the trade unions from the capitalist state. Monopoly capitalism does not rest on competition and free private initiative but on centralized command. The capitalist cliques at the head of mighty trusts, syndicates, banking consortiums, etc., view economic life from the very same heights as does state power; and they require at every step the collaboration of the latter. In their turn the trade unions in the most important branches of industry find themselves deprived of the possibility of profiting by the competition among the different enterprises. They have to confront a centralized capitalist adversary, intimately bound up with state power. Hence flows the need of the trade unions—insofar as they remain on reformist positions, i.e., on positions of adapting themselves to private property—to adapt themselves to the capitalist state and to contend for its cooperation. In the eyes of the bureaucracy of the trade union movement, the chief task lies in “freeing” the state from the embrace of capitalism, in weakening its dependence on trusts, in pulling it over to their side. This position is in complete harmony with the social position of the labor aristocracy and the labor bureaucracy, who fight for a crumb in the share of superprofits of imperialist capitalism. The labor bureaucrats do their level best in words and deeds to demonstrate to the “democratic” state how reliable and indispensable they are in peacetime and especially in time of war…. It is necessary to adapt ourselves to the concrete conditions existing in the trade unions of every given country in order to mobilize the masses, not only against the bourgeoisie, but also against the totalitarian regime within the trade unions themselves and against the leaders enforcing this regime. The primary slogan for this struggle is: complete and unconditional independence of the trade unions in relation to the capitalist state. This means a struggle to turn the trade unions into the organs of the broad exploited masses and not the organs of a labor aristocracy. The second slogan is: trade union democracy. This second slogan flows directly from the first and presupposes for its realization the complete freedom of the trade unions from the imperialist or colonial state…. The trade unions of our time can either serve as secondary instruments of imperialist capitalism for the subordination and disciplining of workers and for obstructing the revolution, or, on the contrary, the trade unions can become the instruments of the revolutionary movement of the proletariat. —Leon Trotsky, “Trade Unions in the Epoch of Imperialist Decay” (1940)

WV 976 18 March 2011 · Labor Tops Derail Anger, Promote Democrats Wisconsin: Defend the Unions Through Class Struggle! · Imperialists Hands Off Libya! · Anti-Muslim Witchhunt on Capitol Hill Down With Bipartisan “War on Terror”! · Labor Versus the Capitalist State (Quote of the Week) · Steelworkers in Bitter Struggle Over Pensions Ontario · For Women’s Liberation Through Socialist Revolution! Women and the East German Deformed Workers State Part One (Women and Revolution pages) · France, May 1968 Prerevolutionary Situation Betrayed by Communist Party Part Three (Young Spartacus pages) · “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” and the Imperialist Military No to ROTC on Campus! (Young Spartacus pages)

Bonnie Raitt-Road Tested, Indeed

Bonnie Raitt-Road Tested, Bonnie Raitt and various artists, Capitol Records, 1997

Let us take a trip down memory lane to the Boston Common in the summer of that fateful year, 1968. A bunch of us were sitting (on the ground, no less) fairly far back in that locale and then suddenly a woman’s voice came booming through the air. Moreover, she was playing not the female de rigueur acoustic guitar but an electric one. Just like the guys! That, my friends was my introduction to Bonnie Raitt and she has been rockin’, bluesin’ and folkin’ ever since. This San Francisco concert from 1995 brings all those trends together. For Bonnie Raitt fans, or just the casual blues/folk/rock fan this is a treat. When I occasionally call back memories of the 1960’s and say that was a time when men (and women) played Rock ‘n’ Roll for keeps it is Bonnie that I have in mind as one of the women.

Honestly, after that early introduction to Bonnie on that long ago summer day I did not follow her career that closely for a time although I knew she learned her craft later at the feet of Mississippi Fred McDowell and would catch her at various Cambridge night spots. However, this concert brings all that back. Not only that but the added attractions of Jackson Browne and the legendary blues singer Ruth Brown (a favorite of mine from way back) round out a very nice concert. What’s good here: John Prine’s Angel From Montgomery; Never Make Your Move Too Soon (with Brown); Chris Smither’s Love Me Like A Man and Rock Steady. Nice stuff, well performed with her band and guest artists.  

John Prine At Sessions At West 54th

John Prine At Sessions At West 54th, John Prine with Iris Dement and various artists, OnBoy Records, 2001

Over the last several months I have done more musically-oriented reviews that I had expected. One of the themes that keep cropping up is that for some folk/blues-oriented musical artists like Bob Dylan my attachment was immediate, long time and on-going. For other artists like John Prine it has been more of a recently acquired taste. I had, obviously, heard Bonnie Raitt do his Angel From Montgomery but I never associated his name with that song. Then a couple of years ago I happened to listen to his Hello In There and Sam Stone. Yes, this guy has something to say that I wanted to (on some songs, needed to) hear.

This concert represents a small selection of some of his work, although with the exception of Sam Stone, Lake Marie and Hello in There not much in the way of classics, at least that I am familiar with. This concert would thus only rate as a pretty fair performance except that on a few songs like When Two World Collide he is accompanied by Iris Dement (wife of the folksinger/songwriter Greg Brown). Iris is also a recent acquisition. I would travel very far to hear that voice of hers (and have done so). Incidentally, I have seen both these performers in person over the past couple of years- they still have it. Still this is not the DVD that YOU need to understand either talent, but you may want it.

***On Sugar Mountain"- The Musak Of James Taylor

DVD MUSICAL REVIEW

James Taylor Live At The Beacon Theater, James Taylor and various artists, Columbia Music Video, 1998

Strangely, as a youth caught up in the fervor of the early 1960's folk revival and its aftermath James Taylor the subject of this review was never on my personal radar. I knew the name, knew people who knew him, and had many chances to hear him perform in the old days. I passed. And with the exception of a couple of songs here that remains true. Somehow he is, however, the perfect performer for aging `baby boomers' who have lost the taste for hard-driving, edgy music but still love the old tunes-and memories. Moreover, Taylor is the perfect performer for Public Broadcasting System fundraisers. The PBS fundraising moguls know their demographics.

Oh yes, I listened to Fire and Rain and You Can't Close Your Eyes back in the days like everyone else. That is not the question. I listened to tons of stuff in those days (and now, as well). However, those songs lacked pathos for me then and off of Taylor's performance here at New York's Beacon Theater in 1998 that condition still prevails. Moreover, the covers here like Jimmy Jones' Handy man and Buddy Holly's Not Fade Away point to my problem with Taylor's work. Generally, good workmanlike performances but no "soul". And to these eyes and ears no real stage presence despite the blurb accolades that accompanied the DVD to the contrary. Unless you are a die- hard Taylor fan pass this by.

***Big Bill Broonzy Is In The House

CD Reviews

Big Bill Broonzy, Chicago, 1937-1940 (four CD set), Big Bill Broonzy, ISP Records, 2005

I am in the process of reading and re-reading many of the books of oral history interviews collected by the recently departed Studs Terkel. As part of that process I have read his last work (published in 2007), a memoir of sorts but really a series of connected vignettes, that goes a long way to putting the pieces of Studs’ eclectic life together. A fact that I did not know is that Studs’ had radio and television music shows in the Chicago of the 1950’s. On one of those shows he performed with the blues/jazz folk artist under review here, Big Bill Broonzy. That long ago reference was enough for this reviewer to scamper back to give a listen to the melodious voice of one of the best in these traditions. But that begs the question where to start?

That is not merely a rhetorical question here. My first exposure to Big Bill, back in the mists of times, was as a performer on a Sunday night folk program here in Boston. In that format he was presented as a folk singer in the style of a black Pete Seeger, including singing many leftist political songs dealing with the pressing questions of race and class. Later I found some more jazzy works by him and some more raucous material in the old country blues tradition. So I hope you can see my dilemma.

The hard fact is that certain musicians, certain very talented musicians, can work more than one milieu or can transform themselves (for commercial or other reasons) into more than one genre. Moreover, in Big Bill’s case, the confluence of folk, blues and jazz at some points is fairly close. That surely is the case here on this CD compilation. So give a listen to that voice, that guitar and those wonderful songs. I might add that, although it seemed to be a given at the time, some of Big Bill lyrics are on point on racial segregation and other social issues. Think of the songs like “Brown, Black and White” or his version of “This Train” (that whipsaws Jim Crow very nicely). That is the real connection with old Studs, that is for sure.


Do That Guitar Rag 1928-1935, Big Bill Broonzy, Yazoo, 1991

The hard fact is that certain musicians, certain very talented musicians, can work more than one milieu or can transform themselves (for commercial or other reasons) into more than one genre. Moreover, in Big Bill's case, the confluence of folk, blues and jazz at some points is fairly close. That surely is the case here on this CD compilation. So give a listen to that voice, that guitar and those wonderful songs. At this time Big Bill was influenced by (and in turn influenced) the country blues mania then sweeping the black enclaves of the South (and not just those enclaves either- think about Jimmy Rodgers) and the songs here reflect that origin. What's good? "Guitar Rag", of course. "Down in the Basement" and "Bull Cow Blues" deserve a listen but for my money "Operation Blues" is tops here.

Added note: I "forgot" to add that on many of these tracks Big Bill has company. On some tracks that company is none other than the legendary Tom Dorsey (who also played behind Blind Willie McTell and many others in those days before going on to a gospel music career). On other tracks, in addition to Dorsey, the very, very bluesy voice of Jane Lucas is heard. Listen to "Leave My Man Alone". Nice, indeed. 

***Tribute Album Potpourri- A Tip Of The Hat To Hank Williams- The Original Honky Tonk Man

A Film Clip Of Hank William's Doing "Lovesick Blues".

This Is Part Of A Four Artist Tribute Album Potpourri- A Tip Of The Hat To Hank Williams, Mississippi John Hurt, Bob Dylan and Greg Brown.

CD REVIEW

A musical performer knows that he or she has arrived when they have accumulated enough laurels and created enough songs to be worthy, at least in some record producer's eyes, of a tribute album. When they are also alive to accept the accolades as two out of the four of the artists under review are, which in these cases is only proper, that is all to the good. That said, not all tribute albums are created equally. Some are full of star-studded covers, others are filled with lesser lights who have been influenced by the artist that they are paying tribute to. As a general proposition though I find it a fairly rare occurrence, as I have noted in a review of the “Timeless” tribute album to Hank Williams, that the cover artist outdoes the work of the original recording artist. With that point in mind I will give my “skinny” on the cover artists here.

To The Original Honk-Tonk Man

Timeless; A 50th Anniversary Tribute to Hank Williams, various artists, UMG Recordings, 2001

In a review of a Hank Williams anthology in this space I noted that I have been listening to a local weekend folk, rock and contemporary music interview show here in Boston for years. The format of the show is to interview, in depth, contemporary well-known singers, songwriters and musicians as well as young unknowns looking to make their mark. One of the questions always asked of each interviewee is about formative influences on their musical development. Although I do not believe that I have ever heard what I would consider a country singer interviewed on the show the name Hank Williams has come up many more times than any other from young and old interviewees alike. That tells the tale of the importance of this man's work, beyond the obvious country influence.

Here some of those well-known musicians mentioned above pay tribute to Hank’s influence by covering his songs for a 50th Anniversary of his death edition. A strange occasion for a tribute one might say, although no so for the fast-living, hard-driving, hard drinking Mr. Williams. The likes of Bob Dylan (a subject of many tribute covers himself) on a rocking " Can't Get You Off Of My Mind", Johnnie Cash reciting the tearful "I Dreamed About Mama Last Night" and Beck on the mournful "You're Cheatin' Heart" do his memory honor with their own interpretations. I would note, however that, unlike a number of other artists such as the above-noted Dylan, that cover versions of Hank's songs do not usually measure up to the verve and imprint on the mind of his original renditions. The great exception here is Lucinda Williams (no relation, as far as I know) whose rendition of "Cold, Cold Heart" captured all the pathos, and more, of that tune. So long, one more time, Honky-Tonk Man. Listen on.


COLD COLD HEART Lyrics

I tried so hard my dear to show that you're my every dream.
Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme
A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

Another love before my time made your heart sad and blue
And so my heart is paying now for things I didn't do
In anger unkind words are said that make the teardrops start
Why can't I free your doubtful mind,and melt your cold cold heart

You'll never know how much it hurts to see you sit and cry
You know you need and want my love yet you're afraid to try
Why do you run and hide from life,to try it just ain't smart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

There was a time when I believed that you belonged to me
But now I know your heart is shackled to a memory
The more I learn to care for you,the more we drift apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

Cool Water Lyrics


All [C] day I've faced the [G7] bar - ren waste
With [C] out the taste of [G7] wa-ter..... cool, [C] wa-ter.
Ole [F] Dan and I, with [G7] throats burned dry ,
and [C] souls that [F] cry
for [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C] wa-ter.

The [C] nights are cool and [G7] I'm a fool.
Each [C] star's a pool of [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter.
And [F] with the dawn I'll [G7] wake and yawn
and [C] car-ry [F] on
to [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C] wa-ter.

The [C] sha - dows sway and [G7] seem to say
To- [C] night we pray for [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter
And [F] way up there He'll [G7] hear our prayer
and [C] show us [F] where
there's [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C]wa-ter.

[C] Keep a-movin' Dan. Don't you [G7] listen to him Dan.
He's the [C] devil, not a man.
He [G7] spreads the burnin' sand with [C] wa-ter.
Say [F] Dan can't you see that [G7] big green tree,
where the [F] water's runnin' free.
It's [G7] waiting there for you and [C] me
and [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter.

Dan's [C] feet are sore he's [G7] yearnin' for
Just [C] one thing more than [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter.
Like [F] me I guess he'd [G7] like to rest
where [C] there's no [F] quest
for [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C] wa-ter.


HALF AS MUCH Lyrics

Written by Curley Williams 1952
Used by permission of Brent L. Weldon, Curley's grandson

If you love me half as much as I love you
You wouldn't worry me half as much as you do
You're nice to me when there's no one else around
You only build me up to let me down

If you missed me half as much as I miss you
You wouldn't stay away half as much as you do
I know that I would never be this blue
If you only loved me half as much as I love you
repeat both verses

Hey Good Lookin' Lyrics

Say hey good lookin'
whatcha got cookin'
how's about cookin' something up with me
Hey sweet baby
don't you think maybe
we could find us a brand new recepie

I got a hot rod Ford and a two dollar bill
and I know a spot right over the hill
There's soda pop and the dancin's free
so if you wanna have fun come along with me

Say hey good lookin'
whatcha got cookin'
how's about cookin' something up with me

[ steel - fiddle - steel ]

I'm free and ready
so we can go steady
how's about savin' all your time for me
No more lookin'
I know I've been tooken
how's about keepin' steady company

I'm gonna throw my datebook over the fence
and find me one for five or ten cents
I'll keep it till it's covered with age
cause I'm writin' your name down on every page

Hey good lookin,whatcha got cookin
how's about cookin something up
how's about cookin something up
how's about cookin something up with meee




HONKY TONKIN' Lyrics

Words and music by Hank Williams, Sr.

When [G] you are sad and lonely and have no place to go
come to see me baby, and bring along some dough
And we'll go Honky Tonkin', Honky Tonkin'
Honky Tonkin', Honey Baby
We'll go Honky Tonkin' [D7] 'round this [G] town.

When you and your baby have a fallin' out
Just call me up sweet mama and we'll go steppin' out
And we'll go Honky Tonkin', Honky Tonkin'
Honky Tonkin', Honey Baby
We'll go Honky Tonkin' 'round this town.

We're goin' to the city - to the city fair
If you go to the city then you will find me there
And we'll go Honky Tonkin', Honky Tonkin'
Honky Tonkin', Honey Baby
We'll go Honky Tonkin' 'round this town.

Repeat first verse


I'm a Long Gone Daddy Lyrics

All you want to do is sit around and pout
And now I got enough and so I'm getting out

I'm leaving now
I'm leaving now
I'm a long gone daddy I don't need you anyhow

I been in the doghouse so doggone long
That when I get a kiss I think that something's wrong

(chorus)

I'll go find a gal that wants to treat me right
You go get yourself a man that wants to fight

(chorus)

You start your jaws a-wagging and it never stop
You never shut your mouth until I blow my top

(chorus)

I remember back when you were nice and sweet
Things have changed, you'd rather fight than eat

(chorus)

I'm a-gonna do some riding on the midnight train
I'm taking everything except my ball and chain

(chorus)

JAMBALAYA Lyrics

1. [D]Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh [A]my oh
Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the [D]bayou
My Yvonne, the sweetest one, me oh [A]my oh
Son of a gun, we'll have good fun on the [D]bayou

CHORUS:
[D]Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a file [A]gumbo
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see my ma cher a[D]mio
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be [A]gay-oh
Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the [D]bayou.

2. Instrumental Verse (Country Fiddle solo)

3. [D]Thibodeaux, Fontenot, the place is [A]buzzin'
Kinfolk come to see Yvonne by the [D]dozen
Dress in style, go hog wild, me oh [A]my oh
Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the [D]bayou.

REPEAT CHORUS

4. Instrumental Verse (Country Fiddle solo)

FINAL CHORUS:
[D]Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a file [A]gumbo
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see my ma cher a[D]mio
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be [A]gay-oh
Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the b[D]ayou.
Son of a [A]gun, we'll have big fun on the b[D]ayou.
Son of a [A]gun, we'll have big [A7]fun on the b[D]ayou.


YOU WIN AGAIN Lyrics

Recorded by Hank Williams, Sr.
Words and music by Hank Williams, Sr.

1st Verse:
[E] The [B7] news is [E] out - all over [A] town
That you've been [E] seen - a-runnin' [B7] 'round
I know that [E] I - should leave, but [A] then
I just can't [E] go - YOU [B7] WIN A- [E] GAIN.

1st Bridge:
This heart of [A] mine - could never [E] see
What ev'rybod - y knew but [B7] me
Just trusting [E] you - was my great [A] sin
What can I [E] do - YOU [B7] WIN A- [E] GAIN.

2nd Verse:
I'm sorry for - your victim now
'Cause soon his head - like mine will bow
He'll give his heart - but all in vain
And someday say - YOU WIN AGAIN.

2nd Bridge:
You have no heart - you have no shame
You take true love - and give the blame
I guess that I - should not complain
I love you still - YOU WIN AGAIN.


YOUR CHEATIN' HEART Lyrics

Your cheatin' heart,
Will make you weep,
You'll cry and cry,
And try to sleep,
But sleep won't come,
The whole night through,
Your cheatin heart, will tell on you...

When tears come down,
Like falling rain,
You'll toss around,
And call my name,
You'll walk the floor,
The way I do,
Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you...

Your cheatin' heart,
Will pine some day,
And crave the love,
You threw away,
The time will come,
When you'll be blue,
Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you...

When tears come down,
Like falling rain,
You'll toss around,
And call my name,
You'll walk the floor,
The way I do,
Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you...

***Once Again, A Blues Potpourri-John Lee Hooker And Furry Lewis

DVD REVIEW

John Lee Hooker and Furry Lewis, John Lee Hooker, Furry Lewis, Yazoo Productions, 2002

I have recently reviewed a few of John Lee Hooker’s vast number of blues albums that lend credence to the title “Boogie Chillen” man. I also noted that unlike other old time electric blues artists such as Howlin’ Wolf and Lighting Hopkins that Hooker’s work, in general, leaves me cold. Although the small segment of his work presented here is good as he articulates his sense of what the blues mean, especially as it features one of his signature songs that I like, “Boom Boom”, I still am left with that same feeling. I finish by noting that this is a question of personal taste. Hooker is a blues legend, justifiably so. Case closed.

The other figure in this short Yazoo production is a different story. I have also reviewed Furry Lewis’s work elsewhere in this space and have praised his clean guitar picking style and vocals from his early career in the 1920’s when he was along with Blind Blake and Blind Lemon Jefferson one of the kings of the guitar pick. Furry does not fail here late in his career after reemerging during the folk revival of the 1960’s. His version of the famous “Kassie Jones” is worth the price of admission.

***After The Fall-John Steinbecks' "Eden Of Eden"- "There Are No Sins Outside The Gates Of Eden"

Click below to link to a Wikipedia entry for John Steinbeck's novel East Of Eden.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_of_Eden_(novel)

BOOK REVIEW

EAST OF EDEN, JOHN STEINBECK

usually do not read the comments of book reviewers on Amazon.com (or, in a few cases, at least not until after I have written my own). I was, however, interested in finding out whether Steinbeck and his tale still held interest for today’s readers. The answer seems to be yes. Moreover, I was interested in what other people had to say about the symbolic nature of the clash between and among generations of brothers and its relationship to the old biblical struggles going back to the ‘first family’.

Damn, life has definitely been tougher since the ‘fall’. The moral to be derived from Steinbeck’s novel is, apparently, that while the ‘fall of man’ under the spell of earthly temptations had its down side humankind is better for the struggle. A strong argument can moreover be made that without that struggle by fallen humankind no serious progress would have been made. That struggle is epitomized by the characters, tensions and actions of the two brothers (in both generations, Adam, the father, and Aaron between the sons) which makes me think that Steinbeck may see this an eternal struggle and that we are endlessly doomed to roll that rock up the hill just to have it come crashing back down on us.

Those who have only seen the 1950s movie version of this novel starring, among others, the ill-fated James Dean (live fast, die young as if to replicate Rebel Without A Cause) and a young Julie Harris, have missed some great writing about the effects of the destruction, struggle to rebuilt and attempts at redemption in the wake of the fall of Adam Trask and his struggle to change his ways. And through him, his sons. The movie (that I saw long before reading the book) skips over the compelling first section which deals with the seemingly pre-ordained destruction of Adam, by his ‘wife’ among others. Moreover, in the movie the demonic role of the ‘wife’ Kathy is glossed over (probably due to the less tolerate and more squeamish mores about ‘fallen women’ in the 1950s). She is not a ‘nice’ person, not by any stretch of the imagination but Adam wanted her, wanted her badly and took that apple without a whimper. Read the book, watch the film, and see why we, even the best of us, are now all living just East of Eden.
 

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin- Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night, Christ The Heart Of Any Night- The Songs of Tom Waits-Take Three

A YouTube film clip of Tom Waits performing Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night

If you, as I do, every once in a while, every once in a while when the norms of bourgeois push to get ahead and then what, push you off your sainted wheels, and get you into some angst-ridden despair about where you went offthat angel-driven dream of your youth, not faded, tattered, and half- forgotten(but only half, only half, sisters and brothers, and need some solace, need to reach back to roots, reach back to the primeval forest maybe, put the headphones on some Tom Waits platter (oops, CD, YouTube selection, etc.- “platter” refers to a, ah, record, vinyl, put on a record player, hell, look it up in Wikipedia, okay).

If the norms of don’t rock the boat, the norms of keep your head down because you don’t want to wind up like them (and fill in the blank of the “them,” usually dark, speaking some unknown language maybe gibberish for all you know, moving furtively and stealthily against your good night) drive you crazy and you need to listen to those ancient drum beats, those primeval forest leave droppings maybe, that spoke of the better angels of your nature when those angel dreams, half-forgotten but only half remember, ruled your days. Turn up the volume another notch or two on that Tom Waits selection, maybe Jersey Girl or Brother, Can You Spare A Dime (can you?), Hold On, or Gunn Street Girl.

If you need to hear things, just to sort things out, just to recapture that angel-edge, that made you come alive, made you think about from whence you came and how a turn, a slight turn this way or that, could have landed you on the wrong side, things about boozers (and about titantic booze-crazed struggles in barroom, on beaches, in the back seats of cars, lost in the mist of time down some crazed midnight, hell, four in the morning, penniless, cab fare-less night) , losers (those who have lost their way, gotten it taken away like some maiden virginity, never had anything but lost, not those who never had a way to be lost), dopesters (inhaling, in solidarity hotel rooms among junkie brethren, down in dark alleys jack-rolling some poor stiff of his room rent for kicks, out in nighttime canyons flame blaring off the walls, the seven seas of chemical dust, mainly blotter, maybe peyote if that earth angel connection comes through, creating vision of long lost tribes trying, trying like hell, to get “connected,” connected in the campfire shadow night), hipsters (all dressed in black, mary mack dressed in black, speeding, speaking be-bop this and be-bop that to stay in fashion, hustling, always hustle, always moving), fallen sisters (sisters of mercy, sisters who need mercy, sisters who were mercifully made fallenin some mad dash night, merciful sister feed me, feed me good ), midnight sifters (lifting in no particular order hubcaps, tires, wrenches, jacks, an occasional gem, some cheap jewelry in wrong neighborhood, some paintings or whatever may be left in some sneak back alley, it is the sifting that counts), grifters (hey, buddy watch this, now you see it, now you don’t, now you don’t see your long gone John dough, and Mister three card monte long gone too ), drifters (here today gone tomorrow with or without dough, to Winnemucca, Ogden, Fresno, Frisco town, name your town, name your poison and the great big blue seas washing you clean out into the Japans ), the driftless (cramped into one room hovels, shelters, seedy rooming houses afraid to stay in-doors or to go outside, afraid of the “them” too ), and small-time grafters (the ten-percent guys, failed insurance men, repo artists, bounty hunters, press agents, personal trainers, need I go on). You know where to look, right.

If you need to be refreshed on the subject of hoboes, bums, tramps (and remind me sometime to draw the distinction, the very real and acknowledged distinction between those three afore –mentioned classes of brethren out in the railroad jungles in some Los Angeles ravine, some Gallup trestle, some Hoboken broken down pier, the fallen (fallen outside the gates of Eden, or, hell, inside too), those who want to fall (and let god figure out who made who fall, okay), Spanish Johnnies (slicked back black hair, tee shirt, shiv, cigarette butt hanging from a parted lip, belt buckle ready for action, leering, leering at that girl over there, maybe your girl but watchout for that shiv, the bastard), stale cigarette butts (from Spanish Johnnie and all the johnnies, Camels, Luckies, no filters, no way), whiskey-soaked barroom floors (and whiskey-soaked drunks to mop the damn place up, for drinks and donuts, maybe just for the drinks), loners (jesus, books could be written on that subject so let’s just pass by), the lonely (ditto loners), sad sacks (kindred, one hundred times kindred to the loners and the lonely), the sad (encompassing all of the above) and others at the margins of society, the whole fellahin world, then Tom Waits is your stop.

Tom Waits is, frankly, an acquired taste, but one well worth acquiring as he storms heaven in words, in thought-out words to express the pain and anguish of modern living, yes, modern living, looking for busted black-hearted angels, for girls with Monroe hips getting kicked out of proper small town hells and left for dead with cigar wrapping rings, for the desperate out in forsaken woods who need to hold to something, and for all the misbegotten.

Tom Waits gives voice in song, a big task, to the kind of characters that peopled Nelson Algren’s novels (The Last Carousel, Neon Wilderness, Walk on the Wild Side, and The Man with the Golden Arm). In short, the people who do not make revolutions, those revolutions we keep hearing and reading about, far from it, but those who surely, and desperately could use one. If, additionally, you need a primordial voice and occasional dissonant instrumentation to round out the picture go no further. Finally, if you need someone who “feels your pain” for his characters you are home. Keep looking for the heart of Saturday night, Brother, keep looking.