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.
From The Massachusetts Citizens
Against The Death Penalty Website
Click below to link to the Massachusetts
Citizens Against The Death Penalty website.
http://www.mcadp.org/
************
Markin comment:
I have been an opponent of the death
penalty for as long as I have been a political person, a long time. While I do
not generally agree with the thrust of the Massachusetts Citizens Against The
Death Penalty Committee’s strategy for eliminating the death penalty
nation-wide almost solely through legislative and judicial means From The
Massachusetts Citizens Against The Death Penalty Website
Click below to link to the Massachusetts
Citizens Against The Death Penalty website. http://www.mcadp.org/ ************
Markin comment: I have been an opponent of the death penalty for as
long as I have been a political person, a long time. While I do not generally
agree with the thrust of the Massachusetts Citizens Against The Death Penalty
Committee’s strategy for eliminating the death penalty nation-wide almost
solely through legislative and judicial means I am always willing to work with
them when specific situations come up. (Think about the 2011 Troy Davis case
down in Georgia for a practical example of the limits of that strategy and
think today in Massachusetts with the recent death sentence for the remaining
Marathon bomber where some of us were down at the Moakley Federal Court House
protesting the death penalty with seeing anybody from the MCADP anywhere near
that scene.) In any case they have a long pedigree extending, one way or the
other, back to Sacco and Vanzetti and that is always important to remember
whatever our political differences.
Here is another way to deal with both the question of the death penalty
and of political prisoners from an old time socialist perspective taken from a
book review of James P. Cannon's Notebooks Of An Agitator:
I note here that among socialists, particularly the non-Stalinist socialists of
those days, there was controversy on what to do and, more importantly, what
forces socialists should support. If you want to find a more profound response
initiated by revolutionary socialists to the social and labor problems of those
days than is evident in today’s leftist responses to such issues Cannon’s
writings here will assist you. I draw your attention to the early part of the
book when Cannon led the Communist-initiated International Labor Defense (ILD),
most famously around the fight to save the anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti here
in Massachusetts. That campaign put the Communist Party on the map for many
workers and others unfamiliar with the party’s work. For my perspective the
early class-war prisoner defense work was exemplary.
The issue of class-war prisoners is one that is close to my heart. I support
the work of the Partisan Defense Committee, Box 99 Canal Street Station, New
York, N.Y 10013, an organization which traces its roots and policy to Cannon’s
ILD. That policy is based on an old labor slogan- ‘An injury to one is an
injury to all’ therefore I would like to write a few words here on Cannon’s
conception of the nature of the work. As noted above, Cannon (along with Max
Shachtman and Martin Abern and Cannon’s longtime companion Rose Karsner who
would later be expelled from American Communist Party for Trotskyism with him
and who helped him form what would eventually become the Socialist Workers
Party) was assigned by the party in 1925 to set up the American section of the
International Red Aid known here as the International Labor Defense.
It is important to note here that Cannon’s selection as leader of the ILD was
insisted on by the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) because of his pre-war
association with that organization and with the prodding of “Big Bill’ Haywood,
the famous labor organizer exiled in Moscow. Since many of the militants still
languishing in prison were anarchists or syndicalists the selection of Cannon
was important. The ILD’s most famous early case was that of the heroic
anarchist workers, Sacco and Vanzetti. The lessons learned in that campaign
show the way forward in class-war prisoner defense.
I believe that it was Trotsky who noted that, except in the immediate
pre-revolutionary and revolutionary periods, the tasks of militants revolve
around the struggle to win democratic and other partial demands. The case of
class-war legal defense falls in that category with the added impetus of
getting the prisoners back into the class struggle as quickly as possible. The
task then is to get them out of prison by mass action for their release.
Without going into the details of the Sacco and Vanzetti case the two workers
had been awaiting execution for a number of years and had been languishing in
jail. As is the nature of death penalty cases various appeals on various grounds
were tried and failed and they were then in imminent danger of execution.
Other forces outside the labor movement were also interested in the Sacco and
Vanzetti case based on obtaining clemency, reduction of their sentences to life
imprisonment, or a new trial. The ILD’s position was to try to win their
release by mass action- demonstrations, strikes and other forms of mass
mobilization. This strategy obviously also included, in a subordinate position,
any legal strategies that might be helpful to win their freedom. In this effort
the stated goal of the organization was to organize non-sectarian class defense
but also not to rely on the legal system alone portraying it as a simple
miscarriage of justice. The organization publicized the case worldwide, held
conferences, demonstrations and strikes on behalf of Sacco and Vanzetti.
Although the campaign was not successful and the pair were executed in 1927 it
stands as a model for class-war prisoner defense. Needless to say, the names
Sacco and Vanzetti continue to be honored to this day wherever militants fight
against this American injustice system. *************** Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace
and criticize all fears
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now's the time for your tears."
last lines from The Lonseome Death Of Hattie Carroll, another case of an
injustice against black people. - Bob Dylan, 1963
Markin comment (posted September 22, 2011):
Look, after almost half a century of fighting every kind of progressive
political struggle I have no Pollyanna-ish notion that in our fight for a
“newer world” most of the time we are “tilting at windmills.” Even a cursory
look at the history of our struggles brings that hard fact home. However some
defeats in the class struggle, particularly the struggle to abolish the
barbaric, racist death penalty in the United States, hit home harder than
others. For some time now the fight to stop the execution of Troy Davis has
galvanized this abolition movement into action. His callous execution by the
State of Georgia, despite an international mobilization to stop the execution
and grant him freedom, is such a defeat.
On the question of the death penalty, moreover, we do not grant the state the
right to judicially murder the innocent or the guilty. But clearly Brother
Davis was innocent. We will also not forget that hard fact. And we will not
forget Brother Davis’ dignity and demeanor as he faced what he knew was a deck
stacked against him. And, most importantly, we will not forgot to honor Brother
Davis the best way we can by redoubling our efforts to abolition the racist,
barbaric death penalty everywhere, for all time. Forward.
Additional Markin comment posted September 23, 2011:
No question the execution on September 21, 2011 by the State of Georgia of Troy
Anthony Davis hit me, and not me alone, hard. For just a brief moment that
night, when he was granted a temporary stay pending a last minute appeal before
the United States Supreme Court just minutes before his 7:00 PM execution, I
thought that we might have achieved a thimbleful of justice in this wicked old
world. But it was not to be and so we battle on. Troy Davis shall now be
honored in our pantheon along with the Haymarket Martyrs, Sacco and Vanzetti,
Julius and Ethel Rosenberg and others. While Brother Davis may have not been a
hard politico like the others just mentioned his fight to abolish the death
penalty for himself and for future Troys places him in that company. Honor
Troy Davis- Fight To The Finish Against The Barbaric Racist Death Penalty!
When The Blues Was Dues- The Guitar Of Elmore James
I will get to a CD review of Elmore James’ work in a second. Now I want to tell, no retell, the tale that had me and a few of my corner boys who hung out in front of, or in if we had dough for food or more likely for the jukebox, Jimmy Jack’s Diner in Carver where I came of age in the early 1960s going for a while. On one lonesome Friday night, lonesome meaning, no dough, no wheels, no girls, or any combination of the three, with time of our hands Billy Bradley, Jack Dawson and I went round and round about what song by what artist each of us thought was the decisive song that launched rock and roll. Yeah, I know, I know now, that the world then, like now, was going to hell in a hand-basket, what with the Russkies breathing hard on us in the deep freeze Cold War red scare night, with crazy wars going on for no apparent reason, and the struggle for black civil rights down in the police state South (that “police state" picked up later after I got wise to what was happening there) but what else were three corner boys washed clean by the great jail break-out that what is now termed classic rock and roll represented to guys who were from nowhere, had no dough, didn’t have many prospects or expectations in general to do to while away the time.(Since this is a time sanitized version of what we Jimmy Jack’s corner boys did to while away idle nights I will leave it at that although know too that in many a midnight hour when Frankie Riley, the acknowledged leader of the corner boys, was on to something we were entirely capable of doing some drifting, grifting and sifting to make ends meet. Done.)
Here is the break-down though from one conversation night, or maybe a bunch mixed together since this was a more than one time theme and this is what I have distilled from far remembrances. We knew, knew without anybody telling us that while Elvis gave rock and roll a big lift in his time before he went on to silly movies that debased his talent he was not the “max daddy,” not the guy who rolled the dice for rock and roll but was the front man easily identified. For one thing and this was Billy’s position he only covered Big Joe Turner’s classic R&B classic Shake, Rattle, and Roll and when we heard Joe’s finger-snapping version we flipped out. So Billy had his choice made, no question. Jack had heard on some late Sunday night radio station out in Chicago on his transistor radio a thing called Be-Bop Benny’s Blues Hour where he first heard this guy wailing on the piano a be-bop tune. It turned out to be Ike Turner (without Tina then) blasting Rocket 88. So Jack had his position firm, and a good choice. Me, well I caught this obscure folk music station (obscure then not a few years later though) which played not just folk but what would be later called “roots music.” And the blues is nothing but roots music in America. One night I heard Elmore James slide guitar his way through Look On Yonder Wall. That is the song I defended that night. Did any of us change each other’s mind that night. Be serious. I later, several years later, saw the wisdom of Jack’s choice of Rocket 88 that no question had the heady black-etched part of the rock beat down pat and I switched but old Elmore still was a close second. Enough said.
CD REVIEW
The History of Elmore James: The Sky Is Crying, Elmore James, Rhino Records, 1993
When one thinks of the classic blues tune “Dust My Broom” one tends to think of the legendary Robert Johnson who along with his “Sweet Home, Chicago” created two of the signature blues songs of the pre-World War II period. However, my first hearing of “Dust My Broom” was on a hot LP vinyl record (the old days, right) version covered and made his own by the artist under review, Elmore James. I have heard many cover versions since then, including from the likes of George Thoroughgood and Chris Smither, and they all reflect on the influence of Elmore’s amazing slide guitar virtuosity to provide the "heat" necessary to do the song justice. Moreover, this is only the tip of the iceberg as such blues masters and aficionados as B.B. King and The Rolling Stones have covered other parts of James’ catalog.
Perhaps because Elmore died relativity young at a time when blues were just being revived in the early 1960’s as part of the general trend toward “discovering” roots music by the likes of this reviewer he has been a less well-known member of the blues pantheon. However, for those who know the value of a good slide guitar to add sexiness and sauciness to a blues number James’ is a hero. Hell, Thoroughgood built a whole career out of Elmore covers (and also, to be sure, of the late legendary Bo Didderly). I never get tired of hearing these great songs. Moreover, it did not hurt to have the famous Broom-dusters backing him up throughout the years. As one would expect of material done in the pre-digital age the sound quality is very dependent on the quality of the studio. But that, to my mind just makes it more authentic.
Well, what did you NEED to listen to here? Obviously,” Dust My Broom". On this CD though you MUST listen to Elmore on "Standing At The Crossroads". Wow, it jumps right out at you. "Look On Yonder Wall" (a song that I used to believe was a key to early rock 'n' rock before I gravitated to Ike Turner's "Rocket 88" as my candidate for that role), "It Hurts Me Too" and the classic "The Sky is Crying" round out the minimum program here. Listen on.
Motorcycle Days, Circa 1958-The Search For The Great Working-Class
Love Song - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In
Mind –Take Two
From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin:
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 Richard Thompson 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 rock invasion (you know the
Beatles, Stones, Kinks, hell, even Herman’s Hermits got play for a while), and the rise of acid rock put folk in the
shade (you know the Jefferson Airplane, the Dead, The Doors, The Who, hell,
even the aforementioned Beatles and Stones got caught up in the fray although
not to their eternal musical playlist benefit). 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 Richard Thompson the male side of the
question is what is of interest.
I did a
couple of sketches on Richard Thompson back then, or rather sketches based on
probably his most famous song, Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
which dove-tailed with some remembrances of my youth and my semi-outlaw front
to the world and the role that motorcycles played in that world. Additionally,
in light of the way that a number of people whom I knew back then, classmates
whom I reconnected on a class reunion website responded when I posed the
question of what they thought was the great working-class love song since North
Adamsville was definitely a working class town driven by that self-same ethos I
wrote some other sketches driving home my selection of Thompson’s song as my
choice.
The latter sketches
are what interest me here. See Thompson at various times 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. Took time to make a more
religious bent to his life and other such doings. Not unlike a number of other
performers from that period who tired of the road or got discourage with the
small crowds, or lost the folk spirit. Probably as many reasons as individuals
to give them. 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 (and
rock) aficionados like me.
What that
fact of returning to the road by Thompson and a slew of others has meant 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 Thompson’s Trio, his current band configuration, to see if we
think they still “have it” (along with acts of those who never left the road like
Bob Dylan 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, who had taken something
twenty years off. He had it. So we started looking for whoever was left of the
old folks acts (rock and blues too) to check out that question-unfortunately
the actuarial tables took their toll before we could see some of them at least
one last time like Dave Von Ronk.
That brings
us to Richard Thompson. Recently we got a chance to see him in a cabaret
setting with tables and good views from every position, at least on in the
orchestra section, at the Wilbur Theater in Boston with his trio, a big brush
drummer and an all-around side guitar player (and other instruments like the
mando). Thompson broke the performance up into two parts, a solo set of six or
seven numbers high-lighted by Vincent Black Lightning, and Dimming Of
The Day which was fine. The second part based on a new album and a bunch of
his well-known rock standards left us shaking our heads. Maybe the room could
not handle that much sound, although David Bromberg’s five piece band handled
it well a couple of weeks before, or maybe it was the melodically sameness of
the songs and the same delivery voice and style but we were frankly disappointed
and not disappointed to leave at the encore.Most tunes didn’t resonant although a few in all honesty did we walked
out of the theater with our hands in our pockets. No thumbs up or down flat based
on that first old time set otherwise down. However, damn it, Bob Dylan does not
have to move over, now.Our only
consolation that great working-class love song, Vincent Black Lightning,
still intact.
Which brings
us to one of those sketches I did based on Brother Thompson’s glorious Vincent
Black Lightning. When I got home I began to revise that piece which I have 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 Muldaur, 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 gets the thumbs up.
From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence
Breslin-Motorcycle Days, Circa 1958
Yes, 1958 was a good time to be a
motorcycle boy, A de facto, de jure wild boy who ate babies, gave old
people heart attacks and spread murder and mayhem in their trail to speak nothing
of what they were doing to property, private property on their treks through
small civilized towns who stood defenseless against the biggest marauders since
Genghis Klan hit Europe or wherever he waylaid whatever was in front of him just
for kicks according to the chattering, clueless, disapproving parents of the
time. Especially the parents of impressionable teenage girls who were starting
to get out of hand anyway with that devil’s music rock and roll making them make
all, well, all kind of sexy moves although they refused to use the “s” word, called
it jitterbugging or something like that might they meant the “s” word when had their
Mary Catherine or Beth on the carpet for whatever they had the girls on the
carpet for so sleek grungy motorcycle boys with high-powered wheels making
those girls a little itchy was beyond their comprehension.
And not just teenage girls either although
what they, those dumfounded parents did not see (or hear about from some prim prudish
roommate or schoolgirl friend) was just as well if they, the parents, had had a
clue what was going on over at State U with the twenty some-things, including
their Janie, when the music and liquor got going (and in some “hip” or badass
locales the dreaded dope, marijuana or worse previously only hearsay or seen
and read in Nelson Algren be-bop Man With
A Golden Arm junkie sagas filled with cold turkey nightmares and back alley
“shooting galleries, Jesus). Got going big time when the wild boys, who nobody
invited but nobody was stupid enough to ask to leave beside among the young men
there was certain sense of awe as well and those bikes sure beat the family car
on date night, but all “dressed-up” in greasy work-on-the bike-all-day-damn
that-cranky carburetor denim, tee-shirt, greasy or not, denim cut-off at the
shoulders jacket, doo raghandkerchief
for the head and whatever magic number-word symbol represented their chapter
existence patched somewhere on their person, showed up to get it on and a few
girls, adventurous girls in those pre-pill sex times, got a little wet thinking
about that possibility, took a flyer on that hot backseat just built to get their
sweet thing humming and don’t kid yourself on that, to the everlasting chagrin
of Joe College in his sports jacket and loafers who after six months on the
chase got nothing but some midnight kiss. If that.
Of course parents didn’t count, count
for much anyway, when trends, moods, and what was cool got discussed in front
of night times mom and pop variety stores where corner boys of all descriptions
and attitudes held forth. Or at Doc’s Drugstore in our town, North Adamsville, after
school, high school, of course, lesser grades needed not to bother to show up within
fifty yards of the place except maybe in
early morning to get some candy bar or other sweet to get them through until
growing-up time lunch, where all manner of school boy and girl went for a soda
and snack but mainly to hear some latest tune, maybe some hot Jerry Lee wild
boy mad man thing, seventeen times in Doc’s amped up super juke box. In those
quarters motorcycle wild boys were cool, if maybe just a little dangerous.
And maybe just slightly illegal too as
their parents’ cops (as part of that
parent-police-teacher-priest-politician-hell-maybe even mom and pop variety
store owner authority continuum) frowned, no more than frowned, got irate and
even threatened to do something about it when some local detachment of the
Devils’ Disciples roared through the Adamsville Beach boulevard night. The
sight of flashing blue lights on the boulevard usually meant one thing. Some
wild boy had his just juiced up after working on the damn thing all day exhaust
system too loud, or he wasn’t wearing a helmet (not mandatory then but “suggested”
that doo rag got its start as the “helmet” still does act so in places like Maine
and New Hampshire), or he switched lanes without signaling (signaling “Jesus, give
me a break, officer” I was trying roust those old biddies doing twenty in a
fifty mile an hour zone in said wild boy’s head), or maybe for just being ugly,
cop’s eyes ugly (he too worrying about that teenage daughter who was getting a
little precocious and sassy about things as she grew into young womanhood), or
some lame thing like that.
Those small civic sins only added to
the mystique though. Especially on sultry summer nights when the colors (the
Disciples had blue parallelogram patches with the number thirteen on them
meaning you had to have carnally known at least thirteen women although contrary
to rumor not all virgins or underage) passed turning every guy’s eyes, even
mine, to listen to that power amped up on the asphalt and to set every girl,
including guys I hung with sisters and mine too, impressionable or not, to
thinking, thinking Wild Boy Marlon Brando thinking about what was behind that
power.
See before Tom Wolfe (in the description
of their partying down at Ken Kesey’s place in La Honda in his classic 1960s coming
of socials age book The Electric Kool-Aid
Acid Test) and the late lamented Hunter Thompson ( a motorcycle aficionado himself
who cruised plenty of midnight Pacific Coast Highway turns and who hung with
the Oakland Hell’s Angels in the mid-1960s for a year or so and both lived to
tell about it and wrote the classic pop sociological account of the group in
his The Hell’s Angels) put everybody straight about the seamy side of
motorcycle life, life-style motorcycle life with its felonies and mayhem,
Marlon and his wild boys (and maybe throw in James Dean and his “chicken run”
cars although they were a little too tame to be as revered as the motorcycle
boys were) had cleaned up the wild boy scene, made it okay to be an easy rider,
made it sexy. Not the weekend warrior flip turns and wheelies and then Monday
morning back to the bank stuff but real alienated Johnnies just like you and
me. Old Marlon had made alienated wild boys cool. For a while in the early 1960s
dead air small town night, no car, no girls, no dough and definitely no cool bike
that would light up many a conversation.
Yeah marlon, old sexy white tee-shirt,
maybe a pack of Luckies rolled up one sleeve, a cap rakishly turn at an angle
on his head, but mainly an attitude, an attitude of distain, hell, maybe
hatred, toward that ever present authority that told every kid, every boy and
girl that you had better take what you can when you can because it won’t be
there long. And along with that attitude, call it fellahin philosophy if you
like, that slight snarl that accompanied every word. Yah, cool, cool daddy
cool.
And the girls, wells, they were doing
that wondering, wondering about what was behind that power thrust, as those
leather jackets and engineer boots roared by. To the detriment of their dates
while sitting in the front seat of their, the date’s father’s borrowed plain
vanilla boxed tail fin car that he had had to almost declare a civil war to get
for the evening and promise to mow some future lawn as compensation. Jesus. Or
worse, infinitely worse, seeing that metal, chrome and fire pass by after her
date, her car-less date, had just walked her over to the beach to sit on that
cold stony seawall. Her eyes flamed red, as she almost flagged down some local
easy rider as he passed by just to get some kicks, and maybe freedom from
squaresville town (and that square guy, who one time was me, as I will relate
below, car-less sit by the seawall me).
It wasn’t always low-down grunges with
no style, Neanderthals with bad breathe and stinking body odor, who occupied
the flamed night either. Every town probably had it story, many more that one,
of some wild boy motorcycle boy who ruled the roost, who took what he needed,
or better, wanted and said the hell with civilization. Yeah, a real outlaw, an
outlaw way outside the system like North Adamsville wild boy James Preston, a
guy they still talk about, although not when tender ears are around (you know
those impressionable teenage girls, star-dust boys thinking about that bike and
those impressionable girls). Back in 1957, maybe 1958 that was all the talk,
all the talk that counted among anguished and alienated teen like I said when
Pretty James Preston got his chopper. Damn, I can still hear that explosion
when he gunned that pedal even now.
See, Pretty James Preston (and nobody
called him, as far as I know, anything else except that exact designation, not “Pretty”
which would probably have gotten you chain-whipped, not Pretty James which probably
would have put you in the hospital) had Elvis-like looks to go with his outlaw
snarl. Dark hair combed back like Elvis (but never ever use that comparison
then, not if you don’t want to fight, fight whip chains fight or cut-up knives
just so you know), black kind of Spanish eyes, long and tall, wiry some would
say, but tough as a kid from the wrong side of the tracks could be. Nobody
messed with Pretty James Preston (see, hell, even fifty years or more later I
still call him that just in case, just in case his chain-wielding ghost is
still around). So tough that he, around ordinary citizens, was almost
civilized. He could afford to be and because it cost him nothing in his world
calculus that was that.
So naturally every high school girl, and
you would have been surprised how many and who, even women since at that time
Pretty James Preston was about twenty-one, had some tough nights up in their lonely
rooms thinking about that wild boy. Now maybe not everyone, okay, North
Adamsville was not that small a town but let’s say any girl (or young woman)
who thought she had a shot, or maybe half a shot, at his favors was having
sweaty summer nights. Even Mimi Murphy, my girlfriend, my faithless girlfriend.
Now Mimi was maybe not the dish of the town, with her flaming red hair and her
slender, maybe skinny is a better way to describe it, body but she had a
certain something, a certain, smile, a certain style about her that made some
guys who you would never ever think would give her a second look (like I had to
my delight) were intrigued by her. Including one Pretty James Preston.
So one summer night after I walked
Mimi, yes, car-less walked, Mimi over to the seawall down at the Seal Rock end
of old Adamsville Beach I (we) heard that roar, that roar that meant only one
thing- Pretty James Preston was coming down the boulevard full throttle. I
turned around and before I knew it there he was stopped in front of us as we
sat on the seawall. I swear I don’t remember him saying word one to Mimi (or
me). Maybe a nod, maybe they had some secret karmic thing, I don’t know. All I
know is that the queen of Sacred Heart Church (Roman Catholic) for the number
of novenas said in the old days, some white veil Madonna aura always present,
one of the smartest girl in our class and, also probably the closest thing we
had to a quirky girl in our class walked over to Pretty James Preston and his
strange and powerful Vincent Black Lighting and straddled her long legs on the back
saddle of the bike. And into the night they roared.
But see that strange bike, that
British-made exotic Vincent Black Lightning (which later proved to have been
stolen, not by Pretty James but by someone else, and then ferreted over from
England to take its place in North Adamsville lore) was the undoing of Pretty
James Preston (although not to hold you in suspense not of Mimi Murphy, not
officially). Pretty James was leading kind of a double life. Let me explain, or
try to, the way I heard it from some sources that I trusted (not Mimi, for I
never really saw her to speak to after that fateful roar off into the Pretty
James night).
In order to keep up his bike, his
chopper Pretty James Preston robbed, robbed persons, places and things if you
like. Not around North Adamsville since he was too well known (although after
it was all over a few people around town admitted that he had robbed them,
robbed them at gun-point and they were too scared to say anything. Maybe true,
maybe not.). But around, a gas station here, a mom and pop variety store there,
a couple of department stores, a few wealthy homes over in Millsville, maybe
jack-roll a drunk if things got desperate. Not much dough but steady.
Then one day we heard that Pretty James
Preston had stepped up his act. Banks, or rather a bank, the Granite City
National Bank branch over in Braintree. And that was his downfall. Somehow he
bungled the job, or some alarm went off, or some rum brave cop got religion and
before he could get out the door Pretty James was shot, shot six ways to
Sunday. Dead, DOA, done. The only thing left to say is that somebody thought
they saw a skinny, long-legged, long- haired, red-headed girl in a leather jacket
and dungarees standing across the street from the bank and when they turned
around after looking away upon hearing the shots the girl were gone. They later
found the Vincent Black Lightning over in the Adamsville projects kind of
mashed up.
The red-headed girl, my Mimi, was not
seen around town again. (Rumors, small rumors swirled for a few months about
her fate, some reported that she was in a convent up North, others that she was
holed up doing tricks in some high –end whorehouse in Boston but I never got
very far with the few leads I had and soon gave it up.) Yes, Pretty James
Preston was an outlaw from his first to last breath. And you wonder why they
still talk about him with hushed breath.
The music too befit the motorcycle wild
boy time of end of time times, the times when it seemed every little mishap in
some godforsaken corner of this wicked old world turned into a major crisis
causing everybody at some invisible authority’s urging to head for the air-raid
shelters and keep their heads down. And their butts up. Jerry Lee wild man
piano stuff, always ready to break out, jail break out ever since he popped the
question in high school confidential, Chuck leering at sweet little sixteens
and you know what I mean, Eddie Cochran giving us a summer time blues anthem to
hang our hopes on, and all kinds of one hit wonders trying to put a dent in our
angst, our special teen angst that was ready to boil over, to break out and be
free. Free from that invisible hand authority.
No wonder the wild boys had a field
day. Those impressionable girls, maybe Mimi too although we never talked about
such things, Jesus no, worried they would never get to “do it” but were fearful
to “do it” nevertheless in that Pill-less world. And guys hoping that the girls
were worrying about not “doing it” before the world exploded egged them on
although not with as much concern as necessary about consequences. The wild
boys, those easy riders, though said “take no prisoners” and that was
attractive, that and that promise of power that had many a girl restless late
at night.
So no wonder too some young thing in
the Jody Reynolds’ song “Endless Sleep”, maybe worried about getting pregnant
after she let lover boy go further than she (and he) expected decided to go
down to that sunless beach and let old Neptune have his way with her. And he,
lover boy, maybe with a wild boy sensibility on the surface but more the
weekend warrior when the deal went down, went looking for the dizzy dame, his
dizzy dame and left old Neptune in the lurch. And many years later, maybe in
some dream remembrance, they would throw the old records on the turntable, amp
up the teen angst, the teen alienation, then sit back and listen to maybe the
last minute in the 1950s when free-wheeling rock and roll blasted the night
away. And the motorcycle boys held forth in the thundering night.
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
