This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
As The 100th Anniversary Of The First Year Of World War I (Remember The War To End All Wars) Comes To A Close... Some Remembrances
The events leading up to World War I (known as the Great War before the world got clogged up with expansive wars in need of other numbers and names and reflecting too in that period before World War II a certain sense of “pride” in having participated in such an adventure even if it did mow down the flower of European youth form all classes) from the massive military armament of almost all the capitalist and imperialist parties in Europe and elsewhere in order to stake their claims to their unimpeded share of the world’s resources had all the earmarks of a bloodbath early on once the industrial-sized carnage set in with the stalemated fronts. Also clogged, or rather thrown in the nearest bin were the supposedly eternal pledges not honored by most of the Social-Democrats and other militant leftist formations representing the historic interest of the international working-class to stop those imperialist capitalist powers and their hangers-on in their tracks in their tracks at the approach of war were decisive for 20th century history. Other than isolated groups and individuals mostly in the weaker countries of Europe the blood lust got the better of most of the working class and its allies as young men rushed to the recruiting stations to “do their duty” and prove thir manhood.
Decisive as well as we head down the slope to the last month of the first year of war although shrouded in obscurity early in the war in exile was the soon to be towering figure of one Vladimir Lenin (a necessary nom de guerre in hell broth days of the Czar’s Okhrana ready to send one and all to the Siberian frosts and that moniker business, that nom de guerre not a bad idea in today’s NSA-driven frenzy to know all, to peep at all), leader of the small Russian Bolshevik Party ( a Social-Democratic Party in name anyway adhering to the Second International under the sway of the powerful German party although not for long), architect of the theory of the “vanguard party” building off of many revolutionary experiences in Russia and Europe in the 19th century), and author of an important, important to the future communist world perspective, study on the monopolizing tendencies of world imperialism, the ending of the age of “progressive” capitalism (in the Marxist sense of the term progressive in a historical materialist sense that capitalism was progressive against feudalism and other older economic models which turned into its opposite at this dividing point in history), and the hard fact that it was a drag on the possibilities of human progress and needed to be replaced by the establishment of the socialist order. But that is the wave of the future as 1914 turns to 1915 in the sinkhole trenches of Europe that are already a death trap for the flower of the European youth.
The ability to inflict industrial-sized slaughter and mayhem on a massive scale first portended toward the end of the American Civil War once the Northern industrial might tipped the scales their way almost could not be avoided in the early 20th century when the armaments race got serious, and the technology seemed to grow exponentially with each new turn in the war machine. The land war, the war carried out by the “grunts,” by the “cannon fodder” of many nations was only the tip of the iceberg and probably except for the increased cannon-power and rapidity of the machine-guns would be carried out by the norms of the last war on the fronts (that is how the generals saw it mainly having won their promotions in those earlier wars and so held captive to the past). However the race for naval supremacy, or the race to take a big kink out of British supremacy, went on unimpeded as Germany tried to break-out into the Atlantic world and even Japan, Jesus, Japan tried to gain a big hold in the Asia seas.
The deeply disturbing submarine warfare wreaking havoc on commerce on the seas, the use of armed aircraft and other such technological innovations of war only added to the frenzy. We can, hundred years ahead, look back and see where talk of “stabs in the back” by the losers and ultimately an armistice rather than decisive victory on the blood-drenched fields of Europe would lead to more blood-letting but it was not clear, or nobody was talking about it much, or, better, doing much about calling a halt before they began among all those “civilized” nations who went into the abyss in July of 1914. Sadly the list of those who would not do anything, anything concrete, besides paper manifestos issued at international conferences, included the great bulk of the official European labor movement which in theory was committed to stopping the madness.
A few voices, voices like Karl Liebknecht (who against the party majority bloc voting scheme finally voted against the Kaiser’s war budget, went to the streets to get rousing anti-war speeches listened to in the workers’ districts, lost his parliamentary immunity and wound up honorably in the Kaiser’sprisons) and Rosa Luxemburg ( the rose of the revolution also honorably prison bound) in Germany, Lenin and Trotsky in Russia (both exiled at the outbreak of war and just in time as being on “the planet without a passport” was then as now, dangerous to the lives of left-wing revolutionaries), some anti-war anarchists like Monette in France and here in America the Big Bill Haywood (who eventually would controversially flee to Russia to avoid jail for his opposition to American entry into war), many of his IWW (Industrial Workers Of the World) comrades and the stalwart Eugene V. Debs (who also went to jail, “club fed” for speaking the truth about American war aims in a famous Cleveland speech and, fittingly, ran for president in 1920 out of his Atlanta Penitentiary jail cell), were raised and one hundred years later those voices have a place of honor in this space.
Those voices, many of them in exile, or in the deportations centers, were being clamped down as well when the various imperialist governments began closing their doors to political refugees when they were committed to clapping down on their own anti-war citizens. As we have seen in our own times, most recently in America in the period before the “shock and awe” of the decimation of Iraq in 2002 and early 2003 the government, most governments, are able to build a war frenzy out of whole cloth. At those times, and in my lifetime the period after 9/11 when we tried in vain to stop the Afghan war in its tracks is illustrative, to be a vocal anti-warrior is a dicey business. A time to keep your head down a little, to speak softly and wait for the fever to subside and to be ready to begin the anti-war fight another day.
So imagine in the hot summer of 1914 when every nationality in Europe felt its prerogatives threatened how the fevered masses, including the beguiled working-classes bred on peace talk without substance, would not listen to the calls against the slaughter. Yes, one hundred years later is not too long or too late to honor those ardent anti-war voices as the mass mobilizations began in the countdown to war, began four years of bloody trenches and death.
Over the next period as we continue the long night of the 100th anniversary of the start of World War I and beyond I will under this headline post various documents, manifestos and cultural expressions from that time in order to give a sense of what the lead up to that war looked like, the struggle against its outbreak before, the forlorn struggle during and the massive struggles after it in order to create a newer world out of the shambles of the battlefields.
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Richard Thompson performing his "1952 Vincent Black Lightning". I was not able to find Greg Brown's, the first performer I heard do the song, a high-powered guitar playing cover of this classic motorcycle love song.
Markin comment:
No, old Markin has not gone off the deep end. But every once in a while I like to get a little whimsical, especially if I have music on my mind. Let’s face it , communist political realists that we are we cannot (or should not go) 24/7 on the heavy questions of health care, the struggle against the banks and other capitalist institutions, the fight for a working wage and the big fight looming ahead on Afghanistan without a little relief. So, for this moment, I ask this question –what is the great working class love song (in English)?
Now there are plenty of them I am sure but I control the stick today. You have to choose between my two (now three, see today's addition of "James Alley Blues") selections. Richard Thompson’s classic motorcycle love song (which, of course, if you read the lyrics, borders very closely to the lumpen proletarian-but so does working class existence, especially down among the working poor, for that matter). Or, Tom Waits’ version of the classic weekend freedom seeking “Jersey Girl”. And, after that……… Obama, Troops Out Of Afghanistan- Free Quality Health care For All- Down With The Wall Street Bankers. See, I told you I had not gone off the deep end.
ARTIST: Richard Thompson TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning Lyrics and Chords
Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike A girl could feel special on any such like Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme And he pulled her on behind And down to Box Hill they did ride
/ A - - - D - / - - - - A - / : / E - D A / / E - D A - / Bm - D - / - - - - A - - - /
Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man I've fought with the law since I was seventeen I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22 And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you And if fate should break my stride Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left He was running out of road, he was running out of breath But he smiled to see her cry And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52 He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys He said I've got no further use for these I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome Swooping down from heaven to carry me home And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride
Kill the Messenger
takes place in the mid 1990s, when Gary Webb uncovered the CIA's past role in
importing huge amounts of cocaine into the U.S. that was aggressively sold in
ghettos across the country to raise money for the Nicaraguan Contras rebel army.
Despite enormous pressure not to, Webb chose to pursue the story and went public
with his evidence, publishing his series 'Dark Alliance' in the San Jose Mercury
News in 1996.
As a result Gary experienced a vicious smear campaign
fueled by the CIA. At that point Webb found himself defending his integrity, his
family, and his life.
Few Americans are aware of the long history of the CIA’s running illegal
drugs internationally, thanks to the untiring efforts of the mainstream press.
Were citizens aware, few would be surprised that heroin production has
skyrocketed under US occupation of Afghanistan.
The tragic case of
journalist Gary Webb of the San Jose Mercury News is a case in point, and
represents perhaps the widest-known attempt at suppressing the story of CIA
drug-running endeavors, with the mainstream US press shamelessly and dutifully
attacking Webb for attempting to expose the inconvenient truth.
Former Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) official Michael Levine
wrote that he discovered heroin was being smuggled into the USA inside the
bodies of US troops who had died in Vietnam during the sixties. After reporting
this ghoulish information, he was transferred and told that it was a CIA
operation and he should shut his mouth about it.
"...Kudos to reporters Dexter Filkins, Mark Mazzetti and James Risen, for
their lead article today reporting that Ahmed Wali Karzai, brother of
Afghanistan'™s stunningly corrupt President Hamid Karzai, a leading drug lord in
the world's major opium-producing nation, has for eight years been on the CIA
payroll."
"For the whole sordid tale [of the CIA orchestrated hit pieces on Gary
Webb] read Alex Cockburn's and Jeffrey St. Clair's Whiteout: the CIA, Drugs
and the Press."
"...where the US goes, the drug trade soon follows, and the leading
role in developing and nurturing that trade appears to be played by the Central
Intelligence Agency. Your tax dollars at work."
"Americans, who for years have supported a stupid, blundering and
ineffective 'War on Drugs' in this country, and who mindlessly back
'zero-tolerance' policies towards drugs in schools and on the job, should demand
a 'zero-tolerance' policy toward drugs and dealing with drug pushers in
government and foreign policy, including the CIA."
"For years we have been fed the story that the Taliban are being financed
by their taxes on opium farmers. ...recently we've been learning that it'™s not
the real story. Taliban forces in Afghanistan, it turns out, have been heavily
subsidized by protection money paid to them by civilian aid organizations,
including even American government-funded aid programs, and even, reportedly, by
the military forces of some of America'™s NATO allies. ...the opium industry,
far from being controlled by the Taliban, has been, to a great extent,
controlled by the very warlords the US has allied itself, and, as the Times now
reports, by Ahmed Wali Karzai, the president's own brother."
"President Obama'™s 'œnecessary' war in Afghanistan is nothing but a sick
joke.
"The Nationalist Chinese army, organized by the CIA to wage war
against Communist China, became the opium barons of The Golden Triangle, the
world's largest source of opium and heroin. Air America, the ClA's principal
airline proprietary, flew the drugs all over Southeast Asia .... A laboratory
built at CIA headquarters in northern Laos was used to refine heroin."
"The Nugan Hand Bank of Sydney was a CIA bank in all but name. Among its
officers were a network of US generals, admirals and CIA men, including former
CIA Director William Colby, also one of its lawyers. Nugan Hand Bank financed
drug trafficking, money laundering and international arms dealings."
When/where doors open 6:40; film starts promptly 7pm 243
Broadway, Cambridge - corner of Broadway and Windsor, entrance on
Windsor rule19.org/videos
Please join us for a stimulating
night out; bring your friends! free film & free door
prizes[donations are encouraged]feel free to bring
your own snacks and soft drinks - no alcohol allowed
"You can't legislate good will - that comes through education." ~
Malcolm X
Why
should YOU care? It's YOUR money that pays for US/Israeli wars - on Iraq,
Afghanistan, Iran, Palestine, Libya. Syria, Iran, So America, etc etc - for
billionaire bailouts, for ever more ubiquitous US prisons, for the loss of
liberty and civil rights... Booklets will be
available of the CIA's "Simple Sabotage Field Manual", and SDS's 1962
publicationThe Port Huron Statement
From
A Dimmed Elegy For The Late Peter Paul
Markin Series-A
Day In The Life Of A Member Of The Generation Of '68-For Mary, Class Of 1967
Somewhere
From The Pen
Of Sam Lowell
A while
back, a few months ago although the project had been percolating in his brain
for the previous several years after some incident reminded him how much he
missed his old corner boy from the 1960s North Adamsville night, the late Peter
Paul Markin, Bart Webber wrote up what he called, and rightly so I think, an
elegy for him, A Dimmed Elegy For The Late Peter Paul Markin.
Frankly any other kind of elegy but dimmed would fail to truly honor that
bastard saint madman who kept us going in that big night called the early 1960s
and drove us mad at the same time with his larcenous schemes and over-the-top
half-baked brain storm ideas and endless recital of the eight billion facts he
kept in his (estimates vary on the exact number but I am using the big bang
number to cover my ass, as he would). I need not go into all of the particulars
of that piece except to say that the consensus among the still surviving corner
boys was that Bart was spot on, caught all of Markin’s terrible contradictions
pretty well. Contradiction that led him from the bright but brittle star of the
Jack Slack’s bowling alleys corner boy back then to a bad end, a mucho mal end
murdered down in Sonora, Mexico in 1976 or 1977 when some drug deal (kilos of cocaine)
he was brokering went sour for reasons despite some investigation by Frankie
Riley, myself and a private detective Frankie hired were never made clear and
he was found on some dusty back road of that town face down and is buried in
the town’s forlorn potter’s field in some unmarked grave. That is about all we
know for sure about his fate and that is all that is needed to be mentioned
here.
That foul
end might have been the end of it, might have been the end of the small legend
of Markin. Even he would in his candid moments accept that “small” designation.
Been the end of the legend except the moaning to high heaven still every time
his name comes up. Except this too. Part of Bart’s elegy referenced the fact
that in Markin’s sunnier days before the nose candy got the best of him, brought
out those formerly under control outrageous “wanting habits,” in the early
1970s when he was still holding onto that “newer world” dream that he (and many
others, including me and Bart for a varying periods) did a series of articles
about the old days and his old corner boys in North Adamsville. Markin before
we lost contact, or rather I lost contact with him since Josh Breslin his
friend from Maine (and eventually our friend as well whom we consider an
honorary Jack Slack’s corner boy) met out in San Francisco in the Summer of
Love, 1967 knew his whereabouts outside of San Francisco in Daly City until
about 1974 wrote some pretty good stuff, stuff up for awards, and short-listed
for the Globe.
A couple of
years ago pushed on by Bart’s desire to tell Markin’s story as best he could(a
job that he did pretty well at since Bart is not really a writer but rather a
printer by trade who must have been driven by some fierce ghost of Markin over
his shoulder to do such yeoman’s work), he, Frankie (our corner boy leader back
then who had Markin as his scribe and now is a big time lawyer in Boston),
Josh, and I agreed that a few of the
articles were worth publishing if only for ourselves and the small circle of
people whom Markin wrote for and about. (Markin’s oldest friend from back in
third grade Allan Johnson who would have had plenty to say about the early days
had passed awayafter a long-term losing
fight with cancer before this plan was hatched, RIP, brother.) So that is
exactly what we did. We had a commemorative small book of articles and any old
time photographs we could gather put together and had it printed up in the
print shop that Bart’s oldest son, Jeff, is now running for him since his
retirement from the day to day operations last year.
Since not
all of us had everything that Markin wrote, as Bart said, what the hell they
were newspaper or magazine articles to be used to wrap up the fish in or
something after we were done reading them, we decided to print what was
available. Bart was able to find copies of a bunch of sketches up in the attic
of his parents’ home which he was cleaning up for them when they were putting
their house up for sale since they were in the process of downsizing. Josh,
apparently not using his copies for wrapping fish purposes, had plenty of the
later magazine pieces. I had few things, later things from when we went on the
quest for the blue-pink Great American West hitchhike road night as Markin
called it. Unfortunately, we could not find any copies of the long defunct East Bay Eye and so could not include
anything from the important Going To The Jungle
series about some of his fellow Vietnam veterans who could not adjust to the
“real” world coming back from ‘Nam and wound up in the arroyos, canyons,
railroad sidings and under the bridges of Southern California. He was their
voice on that one, if silent now.So
Markin can speak to us still. Yeah, like Bart said, that’s about right for that
sorry ass blessed bastard saint with his eight billion words.
Below is the
introduction that I wrote for that book which we all agreed should be put in
here trying to put what Markin was about in content from a guy who knew him
about as well as anybody from the old neighborhood, knew his dark side when
that came out later too:
“The late Peter
Paul Markin, also known as “the Scribe, ” so anointed by Frankie Riley the unchallenged
self-designated king hell king of the schoolboy night among the corner boys who
hung around the pizza parlors, pool halls, and bowling alleys of the town, in
telling somebody else’s story in his own voice about life in the old days in
the working class neighborhoods of North Adamsville where he grew up, or when others,
threating murder and mayhem,wanted him
to tell their stories usually gave each and every one of that crew enough rope
to hang themselves without additional comment. He would take down, just like he
would do later with the hard-pressed Vietnam veterans trying to do the best
they could out in the arroyos, crevices, railroad sidings and under the bridges
when they couldn’t deal with the “real” world after Vietnam in the Going To The Jungle series that won a
couple of awards and was short-listed for the Globe award, what they wanted the
world to hear, spilled their guts out as he one time uncharitably termed their
actions (not the veterans, not his fellows who had their troubles down in L.A.
and needed to righteously get it out and he was the conduit, their voice, but
the zanies from our old town), and then lightly, very lightly if the guy was
bigger, stronger than him, or in the case of girls if they were foxy, and
mainly just clean up the language for a candid world to read.
Yeah Makin would
bring out what they, we, couldn’t say, maybe didn’t want to say. That talent was
what had made the stories he wrote about the now very old days in growing up in
North Adamsville in the 1960s when “the rose was on the bloom” as my fellow
lawyer Frankie Riley used to say when Markin was ready to spout his stuff.
Ready to make us laugh, cringe, get red in the face or head toward him to slap
him down if he got too righteous. Here is the funny part though. In all the
stories he mainly gave his “boys” the best of it. Yes, Bart is still
belly-aching about a few slights about his lack of social graces that old
Markin threw his way, and maybe he was a little off on the reasons why I gave
up the hitchhike highway (what he called sneeringly my getting “off the bus”
which even he admitted was not for everyone) but mainly that crazy maniac with
the heart of gold, the heart of lead, the heart that should have had a stake
placed in its center long ago, ah, that’s enough I have said enough except I
like Bart still miss and mourn the bastard.
Here is something
Markin, who took a hand at writing articles for a lot of small circulation
“idea” journals and off-beat magazines meaning no dough publications wrote
about one of his experiences coming of age in North Adamsville (dedicated to an
old flame who did not marry him, did not give him a tumble, refused to even
date him but that never held Markin back from writing some teary thing when he
was in that mood)l which was very much like the rest of us had experienced when
our world was fresh:
****************
A Day In The Life Of A Member Of The
Generation Of '68-For Mary, Class Of 1967 Somewhere
"In
that time, 'twas bliss to be alive, to be young was very heaven"- a line
from a poem by William Wordsworth in praise of the early stages of the French
Revolution.
He was
scared, Billy was scared, Billy Bradley well known member of the North
Adamsville Class of 1967 was scared, as he entered the foyer of the North
Adamsville Holiday Inn for what was to be his class’ 5th reunion on
this 1972 November weekend, this Thanksgiving Saturday night. Yes, he
reflected, those were his glory days, those days from 1964 to 1967 when he had
been the captain of the billiards team three years running. A time then when he
could have had every good-looking, every interesting girl that he wanted, and,
well, whatever else he wanted from the girls who hung around Joe’s Billiard
Parlor after school during the season, and some of them after the season as
well.
Of course in
those glory days when everyone in town, and other places too, bled raider red
the football players, even the dinks, had first dibs on the girls. But after
that, well after that, it was open season and the girls, the interesting girls,
found their way to Joe’s Billiard Parlor. Billy had to chuckle even now as he
thought about it, about those basketball bozos, those hockey hoboes, those
tennis touts, those golf goofs, and those soccer scum who were clueless about
why the girls didn’t flock, all a-flutter,to them and their dink sports.
And in their
flailing, their anger, and their clueless-ness these pseudo-jocks, en masse, in
those days started spreading vicious slanders around about how Joe’s was
nothing but a rat-infested, hoodlum hang-out of a pool hall. Run by a
“connected” bookie, Joe, on top of all that. Like those girls, those
interesting girls, knew or cared a fig, hell half a fig, about the finer
distinctions, as important as they are to aficionados, between pool and
billiards as they draped themselves languidly around the empty billiard tables
and filled the place almost to the rafters at Joe’s. Or that Joe made book
right in front of them. Yah, those geek guys were, no question, clueless.
But that was
then and tonight was a whole different ballgame. See Billy, after deciding to
come back and tweak a few noses at this reunion thing, started to get some cold
feet. Of course he blew off the traditional Thanksgiving Thursday football game
between North and cross-town arch-rival Adamsville High in order not to send
his classmates a telegram about his new world. Although he had not been back in
those five years since graduation, he knew, knew in his heart, that the
blue-collar working class ethos that had practically buried him alive back in
those so-called coming of age days would still be in play, still be in play in
the “us against them” world, and the them was the “monster” government that was
intent on wreaking havoc with its giant footprint every place it could,
including right this minute in Vietnam, to the cheers of the North Adamsville
thems.
And they,
the thems, certainly the father and mother thems would definitely not
understand that Billy Bradley, a son of the blue-collar working class, a kid
who started out like them, and their kids, who thankfully never went to college
but straight to work, saving, mercifully saving, the old man’s wallet from
extinction, went over to the other side, the “us”,and helped caused eruptions in places like
New York City (Jesus, even New York City, is nothing sacred, he could hear them
say snickering in the background chatter of this ill-starred reunion dinner),
in Washington, D.C. and points west, Yes, he knew that story, knew it
first-hand, chapter and verse, from those occasional calls back home to mother.
Hell, she had led the chorus, at least the chorus about what was he going to do
with his life and how was he going to use his hard fought for, ever harped on
desperately paid for, education. He would not even mention her tirades about
marriage, family and producing kids, grandkids. And, as he thought of it
occasionally, maybe she led the snickers too. Yes indeed, he knew the story
chapter and verse, and as well from the odd-hour telephone calls sent homeward
to mother’s house threatening the usual “if-I ever-see-that-s.o.b.,” and that
was just the mildly curious expression of bad vibes ready to pounce on him this
night, or so he feared.
See, if you
didn’t realize it before, Billy was now a vision of heaven’s own angel choir.
As he looked at himself in the hotel lobby mirror he sensed that he was out of
place here, and not just in the family-friendly, take a vacation to historic
North Adamsville, land of late presidents, and earlier revolutionary brethren
long gone and best forgotten, forgotten for what they were trying to do with
that fragile democratic experiment idea they had on their minds as they
civilized this green-grassed new continent, Holiday Inn scene gathered around
him. Yes, unquestionably he was out of synch here with his symbol of “youth
nation” faded blue jeans, his battle-scarred (Chicago 1968) World War II Army
olive drab jacket, Army-Navy surplus store purchased, his soft, velvety
well-worn (and slightly smelly, sorry) moccasins that had many hitchhike miles
on them, and his longish pony-tailed hair with matching unkempt beard. No his
act would not play in Peoria, Adamsville’s kindred.
This is a
mistake, my mistake, he said to himself and he was ready to turn around just
then. But just as had made the pivot he heard a voice, “Hey, Captain Billy you
old pool hall hoodlum.” And then, “Come on now don’t turn the other way on me.”
Finally he recognized the voice if not the person yelling it out.“Wait a minute that’s “Thundering” Tommy
Riley, ace football player, captain of the vaunted 1967 team, class president,
and, in earlier times, his bosom buddy,” Billy blurred out to no one in particular.
Now envision Buffalo, Bill Cody although Billy was not sure if Cody was as big
as Tommy, with fringed-deerskin jacket, the obligatory “youth nation” faded
blue denims, some exotic roman sandals, and long straight hair, longer than
Billy’s, with matched beard. Another vision of heaven’s own, well, own
something, not angels, not angels, no way. And standing right next to him,
right next to him and very like heaven’s own angelic, or maybe Botticelli's
versions of the angelic, or Joni Mitchell if you don’t know Botticelli’s work,
was Chrissie, Chrissie McNamara, a secret long ago Billy flame, very secret,
although maybe not so long ago at that.
Now Tommy
and Chrissie were an “item” back in ’67, a big item, and Chrissie was, among
other things, other things like an actress, a school newspaper writer, and a
high- scoring ten pin bowler,head
cheerleader (mainly to be around Tommy more, from what Billy had heard) but
Tommy’s girl, head cheerleader or not, Chrissie was a fox. A fox though who had
no time for billiard parlor romances, or even to step into the rat-infested,
hoodlum hang-out joint where the guy who ran it “made book.”No, not pristine Chrissie. Tonight though
Billy understood why he had that crush on her for she had on a shapely sarong
thing and wore her hair, more blondish hair long now, very long as was the
fashion amount hipper women. The only word he could think of, newer world or
not, brothers and sisters in struggle now or not, was fetching.
Tommy
motioned Billy to come over and the trio greeted each other heartily. Tommy,
never at a lost for words, started telling his epic saga from his football
career-ending injury freshman year at State U. to his getting “religion” about
the nature of the American state, the need to transform that state to a more
socially useful one, and the need have people be better, much better toward
each other. Yes, here was a kindred, no weekend hippie tourista. Chrissie was
another matter; she seemed less sure of her place in the sun, questioned
whether any change, especially disruptive change, mattered and whether maybe it
was better just to try to do the best you could within the system. Yes,
Chrissie I see your point, for you anyway Billy found himself thinking.Hell, he had “crushed” such arguments, from
male or female, like so much tissue many times before but not tonight, not this
Chrissie in front of him night. Yah, Billy thought it was still like that with
Chrissie. Tommy and Chrissie also made it very clear as well, reflecting the
new “religious” sensibilities of youth nation that they were just friends. And
Billy did notice Chrissie giving him several side glance peeks while they were
talking, and he was insistently peeking right back.
After than
conference ended the trio prepared themselves, or rather fortified themselves,
to make the rounds together of the other classmates milling around the now
somewhat crowded lobby waiting for dinner to start. This tour, this death-march
tour, caught Billy feeling like he had a pit in his stomach, especially after a
couple of guys started to bait them with the “hippie-dippie” taunt that was
standard fare among the squares, and that he would normally shrug his shoulder
at except it was here at North. Then a couple of guys from the billiards team
came rushing up to him, a couple of alternates, at best, began a play by play
of the North Adamsville-Adamsville contest. No, not the recent Thanksgiving
football game as one might expect but the 1967 senior year billiards match
against the old arch-rival. Billy thought they will probably go to their graves
reciting the excruciating details on that one. Move on with your lives, boys,
please.
Moreover,
with one exception, Janie Thompson, well two, if you count Chrissie, none of
the good-looking billiard hall hanging-off-the-rafters girls, or any others
that had caught his eye back then, gave him a tumble. They were there but they
either didn’t recognize him, or didn’t want to.Many of them had the look, the married look that dictated eyes straight
ahead, or the pregnant look (now or in the recent pass) that spoke of greater
concerns than giving some bearded hippie boy a tumble.Most, whether they had caught his youthful
eye in the past or not had that secure job hubby, little white picket fenced
house in the real suburbs, preparing for parenthood look. Chrissie though,
mercifully just then, was still giving her peeks, and Billy was right back at
her.
Right then
though he began talking to Janie, Janie Thompson. Now Janie had certainly
blossomed out some because back in the day she was just a wallflower hanging
around with a couple of beauties whom Billy had taught how to play billiards,
and a couple of other things. Janie told him that she had just graduated from
Radcliffe (which he had vaguely remembered she was heading to) but more
importantly she had followed, followed closely, his various anti-war activities
while in and around Cambridge. Well, things are looking up, or so he thought.
But a closer look around, and a conference with Tommy, convinced him that this
was neither his place, nor his time and that they (Billy and Janie, Tommy and
Chrissie in no particular combination) better go out back and have a joint, and
then blow this place. Janie, although she had never smoked before, was game,
Billy was certainly game. And off they went, blowing the dust of the place off
the in the process. Who was it, oh yes, Thomas Wolfe, who wrote the book You Can’t Go Home Again. Billy thought
he should have read that novel long before he actually did and then he would
have known, known for sure, that the generation of ’68, his generation of
’68,was fated to be a remnant.
Several
years ago, maybe about eight years now that I think about it, I did a series of
sketches on guys, folk-singers, folk-rockers, rock-folkers or whatever you want
to call those who weened us away from the stale pablum rock in the early 1960s (Bobby
Vee, Rydell, Darin, et al, Sandra Dee, Brenda Lee, et al) after the gold rush
dried up in what is now called the classic age of rock and roll in the mid to
late 1950s when Elvis, Jerry Lee, Buddy, Chuck, Bo and their kindred made us
jump. (There were gals too like Wanda Jackson but mainly it was guys in those
days.) I am referring of course to the savior folk minute of the early 1960
when a lot of guys with acoustic guitars, some self-made lyrics, or stuff from
old Harry Smith Anthology times gave us a reprieve. The series titled Not
Bob Dylan centered on why those budding folkies like Tom Rush, Tom Paxton, Phil
Ochs, Jesse Winchester and the man under review David Bromberg to name a few
did not make the leap to be the “king of folk” that had been ceded by the media
to Bob Dylan and whatever happened to them once the folk minute went south
after the combined assault of the British invasion and the rise of acid rock
put folk in the shade. (I also did a series on Not Joan Baez, the “queen
of the folk minute” asking that same question on the female side but here
dealing with one David Bromberg the male side of the question is what is of
interest).
I did a
couple of sketches on David Bromberg back then,one reviewing an early album of his and the
other a sketch based on his version of the classic blues number, Try Me One
More Time. The former is what interests me here. See David Bromberg after
the flame flickered (and after a long stint as outlaw cowboy country singer
Jerry Jeff Walker’s side and vocals man) packed it in, said he had no more
spirit or some such and gave up the road, the music and the struggle to made
that music, as least professionally. As it turned out though he then, along
with a number of other performers from that period, took a long time, many
years off and pursued other things, mostly not involving the life blood music.
Then he, they had an epiphany or something, got the juices flowing again and came
back on the road. That fact is to the
good for old time folk aficionados like me.
What that
fact of returning to the road also means is that my friend and I, (okay, okay
my sweetie who prefers that I call her my soulmate but that is just between us
so friend) now have many opportunities to see acts like Bromberg’s to see if we
think they still “have it” (along with acts like Dylan’s who apparently is on an
endless tour whether we want him to do so or not). That idea got started about
a decade ago when we saw another come-back kid, Geoff Muldaur of the Jim
Kweskin Jug Band, solo. He had it. So we started looking for acts to check out that
question- with the proviso before they die (unfortunately the actuarial tables
took their tool before we could see some of them like Dave Von Ronk).
That brings
us to David Bromberg’s return. We had actually seen him back in 2002 when he
replaced the recently departed Von Ronk on the bill at Rosalie Sorrels’ Last
Go-Round Concert at Harvard’s Saunders Theater. He was pretty good there but he
was part of an ensemble as such tribute performances wind up being and so we
didn’t get a chance to see him for a full program (or with a back-up band).
Recently we did get a chance to see him in a cabaret setting at the Wilbur
Theater in Boston with a big five piece back-up band. Yeah Brother Bromberg
still has it (along with his mandolin player, fiddler, clarinet/sax player and
drummer). While every tune didn’t resonant most did and we walked out of the
theater with thumbs up. Bob Dylan move over, finally.
Which brings
us to that review I did based on Brother Bromberg’s CD. When I got home I began
to revise that piece included below. Now on to the next act in the great quest-
a reunion of the three remaining active members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band,
Jim Maria Mulduar, and of course Geoff at the Club Passim (which traces its
genesis back to the folk minute’s iconic Club 47 over on Mount Auburn Street in
Harvard Square. We’ll see if that is thumbs up too.
David Bromberg, The Player: A
Retrospective, David Bromberg, Sony Music, 1998
The last time that I had mentioned
the name of the artist under review, the well-regarded highly-skilled guitarist
David Bromberg, was in a review of Rosalie Sorrels "The Last Go
Round" album. That work was a recording of her last concert at Harvard in
2002. Originally the late Dave Van Ronk was to be on the program but he passed
away a few weeks before the concert. David Bromberg was brought in as a
replacement on short notice and wowed the house. I am sorry that I do not
remember his play list and his work was not produced on the Sorrels CD. Not to
worry though you can be sure that it included some of the tracks on this CD
that represent some of his best work over a long career going back to the
1960's.
Virtually everyone I know has
commented on Bromberg's extraordinary command of the guitar, his knowledge of
what is called the American songbook and his, let's face it, at times thin and
reedy voice. Forget that last part of the comment though because what you get
in return are very innovative Bromberg presentations of well-known material.
Obviously, Bromberg, having played with legendary cowboy Jerry Jeff Walker,
needs to give us his version of "Mr. Bojangles". But how about a
talking "Statesboro Blues", the Blind Willie McTell classic that most
cover artists try to go up tempo on. The he goes 1950's on us with "Mr.
Blue". And then gets down and dirty honky-tonk with
"Wallflower". See what I mean, the guy knows his stuff. Get this
thing and find out for yourself.
Song Lyrics: Statesboro Blues
Written by Blind Willie McTell
Recorded in (1928)
Down And Out In Love Town-With David Bromberg’s Try
Me One More Time In Mind
From The Pen
Of Sam Lowell:
Several
years ago, maybe about eight years now that I think about it, I did a series of
sketches on guys, folk-singers, folk-rockers, rock-folkers or whatever you want
to call those who weened us away from the stale pablum rock in the early 1960s (Bobby
Vee, Rydell, Darin, et al, Sandra Dee, Brenda Lee, et al) after the gold rush
dried up in what is now called the classic age of rock and roll in the mid to
late 1950s when Elvis, Jerry Lee, Buddy, Chuck, Bo and their kindred made us
jump. (There were gals too like Wanda Jackson but mainly it was guys in those
days.) I am referring of course to the savior folk minute of the early 1960
when a lot of guys with acoustic guitars, some self-made lyrics, or stuff from
old Harry Smith Anthology times gave us a reprieve. The series titled Not
Bob Dylan centered on why those budding folkies like Tom Rush, Tom Paxton, Phil
Ochs, Jesse Winchester and the man under review David Bromberg to name a few
did not make the leap to be the “king of folk” that had been ceded by the media
to Bob Dylan and whatever happened to them once the folk minute went south
after the combined assault of the British invasion and the rise of acid rock
put folk in the shade. (I also did a series on Not Joan Baez, the “queen
of the folk minute” asking that same question on the female side but here
dealing with one David Bromberg the male side of the question is what is of
interest).
I did a
couple of sketches on David Bromberg back then,one reviewing an early album of his and the
other a sketch based on his version of the classic blues number, Try Me One
More Time. The latter sketch is what interests me here. See David Bromberg
after the flame flickered (and after a long stint as outlaw cowboy country
singer Jerry Jeff Walker’s side and vocals man) packed it in, said he had no
more spirit or some such and gave up the road, the music and the struggle to
made that music, as least professionally. As it turned out though he then,
along with a number of other performers from that period, took a long time,
many years off and pursued other things, mostly not involving the life blood
music. Then he, they had an epiphany or something, got the juices flowing again
and came back on the road. That fact is
to the good for old time folk aficionados like me.
What that
fact of returning to the road also means is that my friend and I, (okay, okay
my sweetie who prefers that I call her my soulmate but that is just between us
so friend) now have many opportunities to see acts like Bromberg’s to see if we
think they still “have it” (along with acts like Dylan’s who apparently is on an
endless tour whether we want him to do so or not). That idea got started about
a decade ago when we saw another come-back kid, Geoff Muldaur of the Jim
Kweskin Jug Band, solo. He had it. So we started looking for acts to check out that
question- with the proviso before they die (unfortunately the actuarial tables
took their tool before we could see some of them like Dave Von Ronk).
That brings
us to David Bromberg’s return. We had actually seen him back in 2002 when he
replaced the recently departed Von Ronk on the bill at Rosalie Sorrels’ Last
Go-Round Concert at Harvard’s Saunders Theater. He was pretty good there but he
was part of an ensemble as such tribute performances wind up being and so we
didn’t get a chance to see him for a full program (or with a back-up band).
Recently we did get a chance to see him in a cabaret setting at the Wilbur
Theater in Boston with a big five piece back-up band. Yeah Brother Bromberg
still has it (along with his mandolin player, fiddler, clarinet/sax player and
drummer). While every tune didn’t resonant most did and we walked out of the
theater with thumbs up. Bob Dylan move over, finally.
Which brings
us to that sketch I did based on Brother Bromberg’s version of the classic Try
Me One More Time. When I got home I began to revise that piece included
below. Now on to the next act in the great quest- a reunion of the three
remaining active members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, Jim Maria Mulduar, and of
course Geoff at the Club Passim (which traces its genesis back to the folk
minute’s iconic Club 47 over on Mount Auburn Street in Harvard Square. We’ll
see if that is thumbs up too.
…he could hear her cry for liquor even
before she knocked at his four in the morning door, even before she came into
his walk up flat apartment building where they had started their, what did she
called it, their “love town love,” he could sense it in the walls or windows or
something. He too could almost smell that gardenia perfume smell that meant she
was coming back (and that always lingered a little in some corner of the
apartment air, her air), coming back for the he no longer could count how many
times, assured, always assured that she would have entrance and his bed when
she came back. Maybe, as many times as he had tried to spill the damn stuff
down the toilet, that is why he kept a flask for her, their, favorite scotch,
Haig &Haig Royal Bonded, in the back kitchen cupboard. So she would come
back, he did not know. One time he did spill it down the kitchen sink thinking
to exorcise the demons but ten minutes later he was down the street at Mel’s
Liquor buying another quart. Holding that thought sure enough a couple of
minutes later he heard the knock, knock three times, their knock, and her
patented purr, “Daddy, Daddy, let me in, your Laura’s back home, back home for
good.”
He opened the door and there she was, a
little drunk as always at that hour if she was up, and she usually was, a
slight whiff of reefer, low-grade reefer so he knew she was flat-busted, coming
off her clothes, and that sweet mama smile, the one that assured (and she knew
assured) that she had not knocked on the wrong door. He thought “here we go
again” with that here we go again feeling but he was glad this time to see her,
it had been a few months, maybe four. He noticed that her clothes, her low- cut
blouse, low-cut that he had insisted one time did not help enhance her small
breasts, and her skirt, her short skirt that did, no argument, highlighted by
her well-turned legs and ankles, were a little disheveled, a little back seat
of some car, back room of some gin mill, or of some flophouse room quickie
disheveled that meant she had either been working her butt or some pick-up guy
had gotten angry at some foolish stunt of hers and kicked her out early.
Probably the former since she liked, with every guy she tangled with
non-professionally anyway, to what she called “do the do” in the morning then
take a shower right after and wash that love sweat and jimson off.
Yah, as he had looked more closely, he
could tell that she had been doing a trick or two of late to keep her in liquor
and dope. Like he said he was glad to see her and although she looked a little
the worst for wear this time she still had that Anne Hathaway-like girlish look
that had attracted her to him when they first met at Jimmy’s Pony Lounge almost
four years before. He thought too though that at the rate she was going, as he
noticed small etched crow’s’ feet forming around her eyes, eyes puffy from lack
of sleep, too much liquor, high-shelf or not, and a little too many off-beat
bed tumbles as well, that she would not age well, not age well at all. And yet
she would still be attractive to him.
There she was though in all her Madonna
angel child street whore persona and as he invited her in (as if she needed an
invitation) she gave him that long wet kiss, a french kiss, that meant she was
back, back for a little while anyway. He noticed too while they were kissing
that she had something on her tongue. He asked her about it and she showed him
a pierced tongue ring, a fad among some women in the new multiple piercing
world after having seen Rosanna Arquette wearing one as a sexual stimulant in
the film Pulp Fiction. She also said, if he was good, she would show him how
she used it. Yah, Laura was her old self; ever inventive in every field she put
her mind too. After that introduction he went out to the kitchen to perform
step one of being good. As he went to that kitchen cabinet to get her a drink
he also thought back, as he always did when she came back, about their stormy history
right from the beginning.
That first night, a Monday night, as
usual a kind of slow Monday, at Jimmy’s he had heard her singing, singing the
blues, singing Bessie Smith and Memphis Minnie –style barrelhouse blues. Stuff
like Me And My Gin, Bedbug Blues, and Bumble Bee in front of a pick-up blues
band, a pretty good band and her with a pretty good voice. Stuff that had
plenty of double entendre meaning with the crowd who came to Jimmy’s looking to
pick up a stray this or that, nothing serious, and known around town as a spot
for just that purpose. And that was the attraction for him then, and her too.
She with that doe-like sweet Madonna home to mother look and belting out those
very sexually suggestive lyrics with a look like maybe you could spend a lifetime
trying to figure out whether she was an angel or a whore. And not mind the
effort. He ordered her a drink, a scotch, after asking the waitress what she
drank, and had it sent over to her table at break. She came over and said thank
you but Haig &Haig was all she drank. He ordered the drink, and was hooked.
Hooked bad, hooked bad even when about
a fifteen minutes later as she went back the bandstand to do the last set she
said while leaving that if he waited she would go home with him but that the
band thing was just a guest gig and that she only did it that night because
work was slow. Work being, as she explained straight out, working the bar for
tricks. She said if he wanted a good time, and she knew how to give a guy a
good time, he would have to show his appreciation with some dough. They could
negotiate that later. Like he said he was hooked and so he waited for her,
waited to take the ticket and take the ride. Later, early that next morning,
after they had done the “do the do” (and she had taken her shower) as she was
leaving she threw the money he gave her back on the bed. She said her asking
for money was her way to be her own boss, in control of her own life, and if
she liked a guy, and she liked him, then that was that. A few weeks later she moved
in for the first time, and stayed, stayed until she found the next guy on whose
bed she threw the money back. But thereafter she always came back, came back to
walking daddy, her walking daddy who knew his sweet mama, and she always would.
And he thought as he passed her the
scotch that he always would take her back, take her back just like that first
time. What was a guy to do. And just then as if to weld that thought into his
brain she said, “daddy, walking daddy, the sun is almost up and I am sleepy,
let sweet mama show you what that tongue ring is all about.” Ah, Laura…
Where: Framingham Public Library • 49
Lexington Street • Framingham
by Prof. Elaine Scarry, Ph.
Harvard Prof. Elaine Scarry is the author of “Thermonuclear Monarchy”. She
argues that the power of one leader to obliterate millions of people with a
nuclear weapon deeply violates our constitutional rights, undermines the social
contract, and is fundamentally at odds with democracy. After Dr. Scarry’s talk
we will offer action steps you can take to move our elected representatives
towards nuclear negotiations and nuclear abolition.
Sponsored by MetroWest Peace Action, Pax Christi Metrowest and Massachusetts
Peace Action
