***The
Roots Is The Toots- The Music That Got Them Through The Great Depression And
World War II- The Andrews Sisters’ Boogie
Woogie Bugle Boy …
…Jesus,
what the hell, no, what the high holy hell, was he doing in this damn tent,
this tent with eight snoring guys, out in the middle of nowhere New Jersey
getting ready to get up and do, do what, make his bunk exactly right, all
hospital corners like even his mother did not insist upon, quick cold shower,
dress and then fall out, fall in, some chow, if you could call it that,
although some of the southern boys, and not just them either, thought they had
died and gone to heaven, had shoes too, Jesus. Shoes to march the bejesus all
day. Lights out, tired lights out at nine, Jesus, and the outside as dark as a
cave not even street lights, street cars and other signs of civilization, his
civilization.
No
he was not built for this, this country boy stuff. He had tried to have a word
with his friends and neighbors down at the Olde Saco Draft Board when his
number was called about his importance to the civilian end of the war effort
but they would not hear a word, thought he was a malingerer. Sure he didn’t,
like half the guys in town, sign up on the dotted line after Pearl but he was
thinking, thinking maybe he was a conscientious objector or something like that.
Some kind of pacifist like the few Quakers in town. He after all had taken the
Oxford Pledge in college, and so had a lot of other guys who once the war drums
started beating tore the thing up. But Jesus he could have never held his head
up in his strictly patriotic working-class town, never gotten another date,
hell, maybe been even run out of town on a rail so, yes, he went when his
number came up.
He
couldn’t believe the stuff they threw at him here in basic training every time
he squawked about the crazy stuff they, the drill sergeants they, made the
troops do. Took more than his fair share of KP as a result but he was no lifer,
he was a citizen- soldier and had rights, and so he squawked. Squawked until one
day a guy, Prescott Lee by name, from down south, down in the hills and hollows
country, down in coal country, Kentucky, some place like that and in his light
southern drawl told him to stop whining, stop being a nuisance, and learn to be
a soldier if he was going to be a soldier. He also told him to stop
belly-aching so much since he had already lost two brothers at Guadalcanal and
a cousin in Italy.
That
stopped him cold and eight months later he comported himself not badly, not
badly at all, in the Anzio landing …
*******
Peter
Paul Markin comment on this series:
Whether we liked it or not, whether we even knew what it
meant to our parents or not, or frankly, during that hellish growing up absurd
teenager time in the 1950s trying to figure out our places, if any, in the cold
war red scare world, if there was to be a world, and that was a close thing at
times, or whether we cared, music was as
dear a thing to them as to us, their sons and daughters, who were in the throes
of finding our own very different musical identities. As well, whether we knew
it or not, knew what sacred place the music of the late 1930s and 1940s, swing,
be-bop swing, be-bop flat-out, show tunes, you know jitter-bug stuff, and the
like held in their youthful hearts that was the music, their getting through
the tough times music, that went wafting through the house on the radio, on
record player, or for some the television, of many of those of us who
constitute the now graying fading generation of ‘68. And some of us will pass
to the beyond clueless as to what our forebears were attuned to when they came
of age in a world, a very darkly-etched world, which they too had not created,
and had no say in creating.
Yes they were crazy for the swing and sway of bespectacled Benny
Goodman blowing that clarinet like some angel- herald letting the world
know, if it did know already, that it
did not mean a thing, could not possibly matter in the universe, if you did not
swing, with and without Miss (Ms.) Peggy Lee, better with, better with, swaying
slightly lips moistened, swirling every guy in the place on Why Don’t You Do Right vowing he would
do just that for a smile and a chance at those slightly swaying hips. Mr. Harry
James with or without the orchestra , better with, blowing Gabriel’s horn,
knocking down walls, maybe Jericho, maybe just some Starlight Ballroom in
Kansas City blasting the joint with his You
Made Me Love You to the top of the charts. Elegant Duke Ellington with or
without Mr. Johnny Hodges blowing that sexy sax out into the ocean air night in
some Frisco club, blowing out to the Japan seas, on Taking The ‘A’ Train. Tommy Dorsey all banded up if there is such a
word making eyes misty with I’ll Never
Smile Again. Jimmy Dorsey too with
his own aggregation wailing Tangerine that
had every high school girl throwing dreamy nickels and dimes into the jukebox, with
or without fanfare, Glenn Miller, with or without those damn glasses, taking
that Sentimental Journey before his
too soon last journey. Miss (Ms.) Billie Holiday, Lady Day, with or without the
blues, personal blues, strung out blues too, singing everybody else’s blues
away with that throaty thing she had, that meaningful pause, yeah, Lady Sings The Blues. Miss Lena Horne
with or without stormy weather making grown men cry (women too) when she
reached that high note fretting about her long gone man, Jesus. Miss (Ms.) Margaret Whiting going for that Old Black Magic. Mr. Vaughn Monroe with
or without goalposts. Mr. Billy Eckstine, too. Mr. Frank Sinatra doing a
million songs fronting for the Dorseys and anybody who wanted to rise in that
swinging world, with or without a horde of bobbysoxers breaking down his doors,
putting everybody else to shame (and later too). The Inkspots, always with that
spoken refrain catch that nobody seemed to tire of, doing teary I’ll Get By or If I Didn’tCare. The Mills Brothers with or without those paper
dolls. The Andrews Sisters with or without rum in their Coca-Cola, The Dewdrops
with or without whatever they were doing with or without. Mr. Cole Porter, with
or without the boys, writing the bejesus out of
Tin Pan Alley and Broadway tunes. Mr. Irving Berlin with or without the
flag, ditto Mr. Porter. And Mr. George Gershwin with or without his brother,
creating Summertime and a thousand
other catchy tunes. Yeah, their survival music.
We the generation of ’68, baby-boomers, decidedly not what
Tom Brokaw dubbed rightly or wrongly “ the greatest generation,” decidedly not your parents’ or grandparents’ (please, please do not say
great-grandparents’ even if it is true) generation could not bear to hear that
music, could not bear to think anybody in the whole universe would think that
stuff was cool. Those of us who came of age, biological, political and social
age kicking, screaming and full of the post-war new age teenage angst and
alienation in the time of Jack Kennedy’s Camelot were ready for a jail-break, a
jail-break on all fronts and that included from “their song” stuff. Their staid
Eisenhower red scare cold war stuff (he their organizer of victory, their
gentile father Ike), hell, we knew that the world was scary, knew it every time
we were forced to go down into some dank school basement and squat down, heads
down too, hoping to high heaven that the Russkies had not decided to go crazy
and set off “the bomb,” many bombs. And every righteous teenager had a nightmare
that they were trapped in some fashionable family bunker and those loving
parents had thoughtfully brought their records down into the abyss to soothe
their savage beasts for the duration. Please, please, please if we must die
then at least let’s go out to Jerry Lee’s High
School Confidential.
We were moreover, some of us any way and I like to think the
best of us, driven by some makeshift dream, ready to cross our own swords with
the night-takers of our time, and who, in the words of Camelot brother Bobby,
sweet ruthless Bobby of more than one shed tear, quoting from Alfred Lord
Tennyson, were “seeking a new world.” Those who took up the call to action heralded
by the new dispensation and slogged through that decade whether it was in the civil
rights/black liberation struggle, the anti-Vietnam War struggle or the struggle
to find one’s own identity in the counter-culture swirl before the hammer came
down were kindred. To the disapproval, anger, and fury of more than one parent
who had gladly slept through the Eisenhower times. And that hammer came down
quickly as the decade ended and the high white note that we searched for,
desperately searched for, drifted out into the ebbing tide. Gone. But enough
about us this series is about our immediate forbears (but please, please not
great grandparents) their uphill struggles to make their vision of the their newer
world, their struggles to satisfy their
hunger a little, to stop that gnawing want, and the music that in their
youth they dreamed by on cold winter
nights and hot summer days.
This is emphatically the music, the get by the tough times
in the cities, on the farms, out in the wide spaces, of the hard born generation
that survived the dust bowl all farms blown away when the winds gathered like some
ancient locust curse to cleanse the earth and leave, leave nothing except silt
and coughs. All land worthless no crops could stand the beating, the bankers
fearful that the croppers would just leave taking whatever was left and the
dusted crowd heading west with whatever was movable. They drifted west, west as
far as California if the old buggy held up and they had enough gas in the tank,
not knowing what some old time professor, from Harvard I think, knew about the
frontier that it had been swallowed up, been staked out long ago and too bad.
Not knowing as well what some old time Okie balladeer knew that if you did not
have the dough California was just another Okie/Arkie bust.
Survived empty bowls, empty plates, wondering where the next
meal would come from, many times, too many times from some Sally soup-line,
some praise the lord before thy shall eat soup-line. Survived that serious
hunger want that deprives a man, a woman, of dignity scratching for roots like some
porcine beast in some back alley lot, too weak to go on but too weak to stop as
well. Survived, if not west, then no sugar bowl city street urchin corner boy hard
times of the 1930s Great Depression, always with that vagrant foot up against
some brick-laid wall, killing time, killing some dreams, sleeping under soot-lined railroad trestles,
on splintered park benches newspapers for a pillow’s rest (one eye open for
swarming festering jack-rollers and club-wielding sadistic cops), and hard
bench bus stations (ditto jack-rollers and cops). Survive the time of the madness just then
beating the tom-toms of war and degradation coming from a hungry want-infested Europe
filled with venom, those drums heralding the time of the night-takers casting a
shadow over the darkened world, portending the plainsong of the time of the
long knives, outlawing dreams for the duration.
Building up a pretty list of those wants on cold nights ,
name them, food, shelter, sex, two- bits in the pocket, name those hungers, success,
dignity, not having to struggle against the want night. Building that phantom
list while among tree-lined Hudson River “hobo jungle” riverside fires stoked
by fugitives, brethren, the fellahin of the world, upstream from the clogged
city, upstream from clogged city prying eyes and prickly cops, cities clogged
with broken dreams, or worse of late no dreams, and not enough food to go
around, not enough work either and that ate at him, her more that the food
hungers. Down in dusty arroyos, parched, no water, no agua aqui senor, lo
siento, as they, the bracero brethren, passed the water jug between them and
pointed him west, west you cannot stay here gringo, no way. Under forsaken silver-plated
bridges, steel beams to rest a weary head, rolled blanket for his pillow,
trying to keep the winds at bay. Survived
god knows how by taking the nearest freight west, some smoke and dreams
freight, sleeping on some straw-scratched floor, plugging ears with napkins to
drown out the rattling rails and deep sleep snores. Taking Southern Pacific,
Union Pacific, B&O, Illinois Central, Penn Central, Empire State, Boston
and Maine, or one of a million trunk lines to go out, and young as he was,
desperate as he was, penniless as he was, search for, well, search for…
Searching for something that was not triple- decker bodies,
three to a room sharing some scraggly blanket, an old worn out pillow for rest,
the faint smell of oatmeal, twenty days in a row oatmeal, oatmeal with.., being
cooked in the next room meaning no Pa work, meaning one jump, maybe not even
that, ahead of the sullen dreaded bastard rent- collector (the landlords do not
dare come in person so they hire the task out), meaning the sheriff, his damn
auction, and the streets are closing in. (What did the Sheriff care that all
meager life-times possessions were street-ward bound he was paid by the item
tossed.) Bodies, brothers and sisters, enough to lose count, piled high,
cold-water flat high, that damn cold water splash signifying how low things
have gotten, not even hot water for the weekly bath, with a common commode for
the whole floor and brown-stained sink.
Later moving down the scale, down to the lower depths as
some Russian writer called them in a book of that name, a rooming house room
for the same number of bodies, smudged prison-paned window looking out onto the
air- shaft, dark, dark with despair, no air but some fetid foul breeze from the
basement furnace, the very, very faint odor of oatmeal, thinned out even
further, who knows how many days in a row, from Ma’s make-shift hot plate on
its last legs. Hell, call it what it was
a flop house stinking of perspiration and low-shelf whiskeys and wines. Stinking
of winos and riffraff in the hallways howling at the moon all night and
jack-rollers preying on whoever was witless enough to walk into his lair. All
around shadows, moonlight shadows, moonless night shadows the times when the
midnight sifters plied their trade and snuck in, snuck in these damn one room
hells looking for anything, anything to pawn, anything to feed that junk habit
that had them in its grip. Ma, yelling at the kids, jesus, at the kids, milling
around the room, that why didn’t they, the jack-rollers, the midnight sifters,
the junkies, and the twisted sister street tricks (whores she called them when
the kids got older and knew what that word meant) go uptown and bother the
Mayfair swells who had dough and leave respectable people alone.
Others had it worse, tumbled down shack, window pane-less
some wax paper taped to hold off the winds and rains coming from the north,
tarpaper siding leaving exposed wood to rot and provide homes for fugitive
termites and vermin, roof tiles falling leaving poorly patched spots where the
spring rains would wash through, wash through to the six buckets which were
placed beneath the patches to hold off collapse, a lean-to ready to fall to the
first wind, the first red wind, an ill wind, a land wind the old sailors, old
tars called it and maybe they were right, coming out of the mountains and
swooping down the hills and hollows, ready to fall to the first downpour rain,
washed away. Cold water flat, flop house room, tumbled-down shack, leave them
behind, get out on the open road, blow the stinks off, get that bindle stick
together, a cup, a plate, spoon, a comb just in case you are in a town, some
matches, keep dry matches, a pouch of Bull Durham and papers, maybe some change
all wrapped in a handkerchief, the worldly possessions of the fellahin, the
fugitive, the hobo, the tramp and the bum, grab that slow moving freight before
she picks up steam, watch out for the “bulls” and search for the great promised
American night that had been tattered by world events, and greed.
Survived the Hoovervilles, the great cardboard, tin can
roof, slap-dash jerry-built camp explosions along rivers, down in ravines and
under railroad trestles. Tossed, hither and yon, about six million different
ways but it all came down to when the banks, yeah, the banks, the usual
suspects, robbed people of their shacks, their cottages, their farm houses.
Robbed them as an old-time balladeer, a free-wheeling, song-writing red, a
commie, in the days when in some quarters sailing under that banner was a badge
of honor, said at the time not with a gun but with a fountain pen, but still
robbed them.
Survived the soup kitchens hungers, the gnawing can’t wait
in the endless waiting line for scrapes, dreaming of some by-gone steak or dish
of ice cream, and always that hunger, not the stomach hunger although that was
ever present, but the hunger that hurts a man, hurts his pride when he has to
stick his hand out, stick it out and not know why. Planning the fruitless day,
fruitless since he was born to work, took pride in work, planning around Sally
breakfasts don’t be late, six to nine, but with sermon and song attached,
mission stuff in heat-soaked rooms, men smelling of unwashed men, and drink.
Planning around city hall lunches, peanut butter sandwiches, slapped slap-dash
together with an apple, maybe. Worse, worse by far the Saint Vincent DePaul
suppers, soup, bread, some canned vegetable, something they called meat but was
in dispute, lukewarm coffee, had only, only if you could prove you were truly
destitute with a letter from some churchman and, in addition, under some
terrible penalty, that you had searched for work that day. A hard dollar, hard
dollar indeed.
Jesus, out of work for another day, and with three hungry
growing kids to feed, and a wife sickly, sick unto death of the not having he
thought, little work waiting for anybody that day, that day when all hell broke
loose and the economy tanked, at least that is what it said in the Globe (ditto New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times,
San Francisco Examiner if anybody was asking), said that there was too much
around, too much and he with nothing for those kids, nothing and he was too
proud to ask for some damn letter to give to those Vincent DePaul
hard-hearts. And that day not him, not
him yet, others, others who read more that the Globe (and the dittos) were
dreaming of that full head of steam day to come in places like big auto Flint,
waterfront Frisco town, rubber Akron, hog butcher to the world prairie Chicago,
hell, even in boondock trucker Minneapolis, a day when the score would get
evened, evened a little, and a man could hold his head up a little, could at
least bring bread to those three hungry growing kids who didn’t understand the
finer point of world economics just hunger. Until then though he is left
shifting the scroungings of the trash piles of the urban glut, the discard of
the haves, the have nots throw nothing away, and on other horizons the brethren
curse the rural fallow fields, curse the banks, and curse the weather, but
curse most of all having to pack up and head, head anyway, anywhere but the
here, and search, search like that brother on that urban glut pile for a way to
curb that gnawing hungry that cried out in the night-want, want
that is all.
Survived too the look, the look of those, the what did FDR
(Franklin Delano Roosevelt for the young, or forgetful) call them, oh yeah, the
economic royalists, today’s 1%, the rack-renters, the coupon-clippers, the
guys, as one of their number said, who hired one half of the working class to fight
the other, who in their fortified towers, their Xanadus, their Dearborns, their
Beacon Hills, their Upper East Sides, their Nob Hills, and a few other spots,
tittered that not everybody was built to survive to be the fittest. That crowd,
and let’s name names, a few anyway, Ford, General Motors, Firestone, U.S.
Steel, fought tooth and nail against the little guy trying to break bread.
Fought that brother too out pounding the mean streets to proud to ask for a
letter, Jesus, a letter for some leftover food, before he got “religion” about
what was what in the land of “milk and honey.”
Wreaked havoc on that farmer out in the dust bowl not travelling some
road, some road west knowing that the East was barred up, egging him on to some
hot dusty bracero labor filed picking, maybe “hire” him on as a scab against
those uppity city boys. Yes, fought every guy trying to get out from under that
cardboard, tar paper, windowless soup kitchen world along with a hell of a lot
of comrades, yes, comrades, not Russkie comrades although reds were thick in
those battles, took their lumps in Frisco, Flint, Akron and Minneapolis, hell,
any place where a righteous people were rising, kindred in the struggle to put
that survival of the fittest on the back-burner of human history. To stand up
and take collective action to put things
right, hell, made the bosses cry bloody murder when they shut down their
factories, shut them down cold until some puny penny justice was eked out. And
maybe just maybe make that poor unknowingly mean-street walking city brother
and that sweated farm boy thing twice about helping those Mayfair swells.
Survived but took time out too, time out if young perhaps,
as if such things were embedded in some secret teen coda, to stretch those
legs, to flash those legs, to sway those hips, to flash the new moves not, I
repeat, not the ones learned at sixth grade Miss Prissy’s Saturday dance
classes but the ones that every mother, every girl mother warned her Susie
against, to a new sound coming out of the mist, coming to take the sting out of
the want years nights, and the brewing night of the long knives. Coming out of
New York, always New York then, Minton’s, Jimmy’s, some other uptown
clubs, Chicago, Chicago of the big
horns and that stream, that black stream heading north, following the northern
star, again, for jobs and to get the hell away from one Mister James Crow, from
Detroit, with blessed Detroit Slim and automobile sounds, and Kansas City, the
Missouri K.C. okay, the Bird land hatchery, the Prez’s big sexy sax blow home.
Jesus no wonder that madman Hitler banned it, along with dreams.
The sound of blessed swing, all big horns, big reeds, big,
well big band, replacing the dour Brother,
Can You Spare a Dime and its brethren ,
no banishing such thoughts, casting them out with soup lines (and that
awful Friday Saint Vincent DePaul fish stew that even Jesus would have turned
down in favor of bread, wine and a listen to Benny’s Buddha Swings) casting that kind of hunger out for a moment, a
magical realistic moment, casting out ill-fitting, out of fashion, threadbare
(nice, huh) second-hand clothes (passed down from out- the- door hobo brothers and sisters tramping this good
green earth looking for their place, or at least a job of work and money in their
newer threadbare [still nice] clothes), and casting aside from hunger looks,
that gaunt look of those who have their wanting habits on and no way to do a
thing about it. Banished, all such
things banished because after all it did not mean a thing, could not possibly
place you anywhere else but in squareville (my term, not theirs), if you did
not have that swing. To be as one with jitter-buggery if there was (is) such a
word (together, not buggery by itself, not in those days, not in the public
vocabulary anyway). And swing as it lost steam with all the boys, all the swing
boys, all oversea and the home fire girls tired of dancing two girl dancing, a
fade echo of the cool age be-bop that was a-borning, making everybody reach for
that high white note floating out of Minton’s, Big Bill’s Jimmie’s, hell, even
Olde Saco’s Starlight Ballroom before it breezed out in the ocean air night,
crashed into the tepid sea. Yeah.
Survived, as if there was no time to breathe in new fresh
airs, new be-bop tunes, new dance moves, to slog through the time of the gun in
World War II. A time when the
night-takers, those who craved the revenge night of the long knives took giant
steps in Europe and Asia trying to make that same little guy, Brit, Frenchie,
Chinaman, Filipino, God’s American, and half the races and nationalities on
this good green earth cry uncle and buckle under, take it, take their stuff
without a squawk. It took a bit, took a little shock, to get those war juices
flowing, to forget about the blood-letting that had gone on before when the
flower of Europe, when the older brothers and fathers the generation before,
had taken their number when they were called.
And so after Pearl, after that other shoe dropped on a candid world
Johnnie, Jimmie, Paulie, Benny too, all the guys from the old neighborhood, the
corner boys, the guys who hung around Doc’s hands in their pockets, guys trying
to rub nickels together to play some jitter-buggery thing, guys who had it
tough growing up hard in those bad Depression days, took their numbers and fell
in line.
Guys too from the wheat fields, Kansas Iowa, you know places
where they grow wheat, guys fresh from some Saturday night dance, some country
square thing, all shy and with calloused hands, eyeing, eyeing to perdition
some virginal Betty or Sue, guys from the coal slags, deep down in hill
country, down in the hollows away from public notice, some rumble down shack to
rest their heads, full of backwoods home liquor, blackened fingernails, never
ever fully clean once the coal got on them, Saturday night front porch
fiddlings wound up carrying a M-1 on the shoulder in Europe or the Pacific.
Leaving all those Susies, Lauras, Betties, and dark-haired Rebeccas too waiting
at home hoping to high heaven that some wayward gun had not carried off
sweetheart Johnnie, Jimmy, Paulie, or young Benny. Jesus not young Benny. Not the runt of the
corner boy litter, not our Benny. Not carried off that sweet farm fresh boy
with the sly grin, not carried off that coal-dust young man with those
jet-black eyes, and fingers.
Survived the endless lines of boys heading off East and
West, heading off to right some wrongs, at least that is what the guys in
charge said, put a big dent in the style of the night-takers, the guys who
wanted to cut up the world into two to three pieces, and that was that, cutting
the little guy, making the little guys like it, making them take it or else.
Some of those little guys, after Pearl for sure, could hardly wait to get to
the recruiting office, hardly wait to go mano y mano with the night-takers and
their illicit dreams, went gladly from the farms, the factories and the mines,
many to never look back, never to farm, to run a production line, or to dig
from the earth but make new lives, or lay down their heads in some god forsaken
piece of dirt, or some watery abyss. Others, well, others were hanging back
waiting to be drafted by their friends and neighbors at the local draft board,
hanging back just a little to think things over, to see if maybe they could be
better used on the home front, scared okay (as if the quick-step volunteers
were not afraid, or should have been) but who gave a good accounting of
themselves when their number came up. Still others head over heels they were
exempt, 4-F, bad feet, you see. Somebody had to keep the home fires, keeping
the womenfolk happy.
All, all except that last crew, the dodgers found in every
war, who got to sit a home with Susie,
Laura, Betty and even odd-ball Rebecca were constantly waiting for the other
shoe to drop, for their ships to sail or their planes to fly. Hanging in some
old time corner boy drugstore, Doc’s, Rexall, name your drugstore name, just
like when they were kids (a mere few weeks before), talking the talk like they
used to do to kill time, maybe sitting two by two (two uniforms, two girls if
anybody was asking) at the soda fountain playing that newly installed jukebox
until the nickels ran out. Listened to funny banana boat songs, rum and coca
cola songs, siting under the apple tree songs, songs to forget about the work
abroad, and just some flat-out jitter-bugging stuff, frothy stuff in order to
get a minute’s reprieve from thoughts of the journey ahead.
Listened too to dreamy, sentimental songs, Always, I Don’t
Want To Set The World On Fire, Sentimental Journey, songs that spoke of true love,
their true love that would out last the ages, would carrying them through that
life together if they could ever keep those damn night-takers at bay, songs
about faraway places, We’ll Meet Again, Til Then, songs that spoke of future
sorrows, future partings, future returnings (always implying though that maybe
there would be no return), future sacrifices, future morale-builders, songs about
keeping lamp- lights burning, songs to give meeting to that personal sacrifice,
to keep the womenfolk, to keep her from fretting her life away waiting for that
dreaded other drop, songs about making a better world out of the fire and
brimstone sacrifice before them.
Songs to make the best out of the situation about Johnnie,
Jimmie and the gang actually returning, returning whole, and putting a big dent
in their dreams, that small white house with the white picket fence (maybe
needing a little painting, maybe they could do that together), kids, maybe a
new car once in a while you know the stuff that keeps average joes alive in
sullen foxholes, sea-sick troop transports, freezing cargo planes, keeps them
good and alive. Hell, songs, White Cliffs
Of Dover songs, about maybe the damn wars would be over sooner rather than
later. Listened, drawing closer, getting all, uh, moony-eyed, and as old Doc,
or some woe-begotten soda jerk, some high school kid, wet behind the ears, with
that white paper service cap at some obscure angle and now smudged white jacket
implying that he was in the service too, told them to leave he was closing up
they held out for one last tune. Then, well-fortified with swoony feelings they
made for the beach, if near a beach, the pond, if near a pond, the back forty, if
near the back forty, the hills, you know, or whatever passed for a lovers’ lane
in their locale and with the echo of those songs as background, well, do I have
draw you a map, what do you think they did, why do you think they call us
baby-boomers.
The music, this survival music, Harry James, Benny, the
Dorsey boys, Bing, Frank, the Mills Brothers, the Inkspots, and on and on wafted
(nice word, huh) through the air coming from a large console radio, the prized
possession centered in the small square living room of my growing up house amid
the squalor of falling roof tiles, a broken window or two patched up with
cardboard and tape, a front door that would not shut, rooms with second-hand
sofas, mattresses, chairs, desks, tables, mildewy towels, corroded sinks,
barely serviceable bathtubs, and woe-begotten
stuffed pillows smelling of mothballs. My broken down, needs a new roof, random
shingles on the ground as proof, cracked windows stuffed with paper and held
with masking tape in need of panes, no proof needed, overgrown lawn in need of
cutting of a shack (there is literally no other way to describe it, then or in
its current condition) of a too small, much too small for four growing boys and
two parents, house. The no room to breathe, no space but shared space, the from
hunger look of all the denizens, the stink of my father’s war wounds that would
not heal, the stink of too many people in too small a house, excuse me shack.
The noise, damn the noise from the nearby railroad, putting paid to wrong side
of the tracks-dom worst of all. Jesus.
That wrong side of the tracks shack of a house surrounded by
other houses, shack houses, too small to fit big Irish Catholic- sized families
with stony-eyed dreams. Small dreams of Johnny or Jimmy getting on the force
(cops, okay), and Lorrie and Pamela getting those secure City Hall jobs in the
steno pool until some bright prospect came by and threw a ring at them but in
the meantime shack life, and small faded dreams. Funny, no, ironic but these
tumbled-down shacks which seemingly would fall with a first serious wind represented
in some frankly weird form (but what knew I of such unnamed weirdness then I
just cried out in some fit of angst, cried out against that railroad noise, and
that sour smell of sweat) the great good desire of those warriors, and almost
to a man they had served, and their war brides who had waited, had fretted
while waiting, to latch onto a piece of golden age America.
And take their struggle survival music from Doc’s jukebox,
from the Starlight Ballroom, from WDJA, with them as if to validate their sweet
memory dreams, their youthful innocence before the guys got caught up, caught
up close and personal, the ugliness of war, the things they would not speak of
unto the grave, and the gals not asking, not asking for all the money in the
world but sensing that he, they, had changed, had lost some youthful thing. That
radio, that priceless radio console taking pride of place, as if a lifesaver,
literally, tuned to local station WDJA in North Adamsville, the memory station
for those World War II warriors and their war brides, those who made it back.
Some wizard radio station manager knowing his, probably his in those days,
demographics, spinned those 1940s platters exclusively, as well as aimed the
ubiquitous advertisement at that crowd. Cars, sofas, beds, shaving gear, soap,
department store sales, all the basics for the growing families spawned (nice,
huh) by those warriors and brides.
My harried mother, harried like all the neighborhood large
brood mothers, harried by the bleak wanting prospects of the day with four
growing boys and not enough, nor enough food, not enough, well, just not enough
and leave it at that. Maybe bewildered is a better expression for her plight,
for her wartime young marriage adventure not wanting to be left with only a
memory of my father if things went wrong in the Pacific. As so she took to turning
the radio on to start her day, hoping that Paper
Dolls, I’ll Get By, or dreamy Tangerine
would chase her immediate sorrows away. Yea, a quick boost of their songs
was called for, their spring youth meeting at some USO dance songs before he
shipped out. Those songs embedded deep in memory, wistful young memory,
or so it seemed as she hummed away the day, used the music as background on her
appointed household rounds. And whether she won or lost the day’s bout with not
enough, with some ill-winded message from some bill due, seemingly always some
four boy hurt, some bad father work news, the list of her daily sorrows and
trepidations could have stretched to infinity she perked up, swayed even to
those tunes.
That stuff, that mother dream stuff, that piano/drum-driven
stuff with some torch-singer, Peggy Lee, Helen Morgan, Margaret Whiting, maybe
even a sneak Billie thrown in bleeding all over the floor drove me crazy
then Some she bleeding with the pain
of her thwarted loves, her man hurts,
her wanderings in search of something in this funny old world, her waitings,
waiting for the good times, waiting in line for the rations, waiting, waiting
alone mind you, for her man to come home, come home whole from some place whose
name she could not pronounce, they should have called it the waiting generation,
just flat-out drove me crazy then. Mush stuff at a time when I was craving the
big break-out rock and roll sounds I kept hearing every time I went and played
the jukebox at Doc’s Drugstore over on Walker Street down near the beach (not
the old torn down Doc’s of their generation over on Billings Road if that is
what you are thinking). As far as I know Doc (the son of their Doc), knowing
his demographics as well as that radio executive at WDJA, did not, I repeat,
did not, stock that stuff that, uh, mush for his rock-crazed after school soda
fountain crowd, probably stocked nothing, mercifully before about 1955. Funny
thing though while I am still a child of rock and roll this so-called mushy
stuff sounds pretty good to these ears now long after my parents and those who
performed this music have passed on. Go figure.
********
"Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy"
He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way.
He had a boogie style that no one else could play.
He was the top man at his craft,
but then his number came up and he was gone with the draft.
He's in the army now. He's blowin' reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
They made him blow a bugle for his Uncle Sam.
It really brought him down because he could not jam.
The captain seemed to understand,
because the next day the cap' went out and drafted the band.
And now the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
A root, a toot, a toodlie-a-da-toot.
He blows it eight to the bar in boogie rhythm.
He can't blow a note unless a bass and guitar
is playin' with him.
And the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
He was some boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
And when he played his boogie woogie bugle
he was busy as a busy bee.
And when he played he made the company jump eight to the bar.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
Andata toodliata-toodliata toot toot
he blows it eight to the bar.
He can't blow a note if a bass and guitar
isn't with him.
And the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
He puts the boys to sleep with boogie every night,
and wakes 'em up the same way in the early bright.
They clap their hands and stamp their feet,
'cause they know how it goes when someone gives him a beat.
Woah, woah, he wakes 'em up when he plays reveille.
The boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
A root, a toot, a toodli-a-da to toot toot toot
he's blowin' eight to the bar.
Yeah, he can't blow a note if a bass and guitar
isn't, woah, with him.
And the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
He had a boogie style that no one else could play.
He was the top man at his craft,
but then his number came up and he was gone with the draft.
He's in the army now. He's blowin' reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
They made him blow a bugle for his Uncle Sam.
It really brought him down because he could not jam.
The captain seemed to understand,
because the next day the cap' went out and drafted the band.
And now the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
A root, a toot, a toodlie-a-da-toot.
He blows it eight to the bar in boogie rhythm.
He can't blow a note unless a bass and guitar
is playin' with him.
And the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
He was some boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
And when he played his boogie woogie bugle
he was busy as a busy bee.
And when he played he made the company jump eight to the bar.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
Andata toodliata-toodliata toot toot
he blows it eight to the bar.
He can't blow a note if a bass and guitar
isn't with him.
And the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
He puts the boys to sleep with boogie every night,
and wakes 'em up the same way in the early bright.
They clap their hands and stamp their feet,
'cause they know how it goes when someone gives him a beat.
Woah, woah, he wakes 'em up when he plays reveille.
The boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
A root, a toot, a toodli-a-da to toot toot toot
he's blowin' eight to the bar.
Yeah, he can't blow a note if a bass and guitar
isn't, woah, with him.
And the company jumps when he plays reveille.
He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B.
