*****A Voice From The Left-The Latest From The Steve Lendman Blog

*****A Voice From The Left-The Latest From The Steve Lendman Blog

                                  Henry Wallace 1948

 A link below to link to the Steve Lendman Blog

http://sjlendman.blogspot.com/

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Over the years that I have been presenting political material in this space I have had occasion to re-post items from some sites which I find interesting, interesting for a host of political reasons, although I am not necessarily in agreement with what has been published. Two such sites have stood out, The Rag Blog, which I like to re-post items from because it has articles by many of my fellow Generation of ’68 residual radicals and ex-radicals who still care to put pen to paper and the blog cited here, the Steve Lendman Blog.  The reason for re-postings from this latter site is slightly different since the site represents a modern day left- liberal political slant. That is the element, the pool if you will, that we radicals have to draw from, have to move left, if we are to grow. So it is important to have the pulse of what issues motivate that milieu and I believe that this blog is a lightning rod for those political tendencies. 

I would also add that the blog is a fountain of rational, reasonable and unrepentant anti-Zionism which became apparent once again in the summer of 2014 when defense of the Palestinian people in Gaza was the pressing political issue and we were being stonewalled and lied to by the bourgeois media in service of American and Israeli interests. This blog was like a breath of fresh air then. Still is.

An additional Jackman comment (Fall 2014):

The left-liberal/radical arena in American politics has been on a steep decline since I was a whole-hearted denizen of that milieu in my youth somewhere slightly to the left of Robert Kennedy back in 1968 say but still immersed in trying put band-aids on the capitalist system. That is the place where Steve Lendman with his helpful well informed blog finds himself. It is not an enviable place to be for anyone to have a solid critique of bourgeois politics, hard American imperial politics in the 21st century and have no ready source in that milieu to take on the issues and make a difference (and as an important adjunct to that American critique a solid critique of the American government acting as front-man for every nefarious move the Israeli government makes toward increasing the oppression of the Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank). 

Of course I had the luxury, if one could call it that, which a look at Mr. Lendman's bio information indicates that he did not have, was the pivotal experience in the late 1960s of being inducted, kicking and screaming but inducted, into the American army in its losing fight against the heroic Vietnamese resistance. That signal event disabused me, although it took a while to get "religion," on the question of the idea of not depending on bourgeois society to reform itself coming out of Democratic Party left-liberal politics, especially falling in love with Robert Kennedy’s idea of “seeking a newer world.” On specific issues like the fight against the death penalty, the fight for the $15 minimum wage, immigration reform and the like I have worked with that left-liberal/ radical milieu, and gladly, but as for continuing to believe against all evidence that the damn thing can be reformed that is where we part company. Still Brother Lendman keep up the good work and I hope you find a political home worthy of your important work.                  

A Jackman disclaimer:

I place some material in this space which I believe may be of interest to the radical public that I do not necessarily agree with or support. One of the worst aspects of the old New Left back in the 1970s as many turned to Marxism after about fifty other theories did not work out was the freezing out political debate with other opponents on the Left to try to clarify the pressing issues of the day. Those jackboot theories, mainly centered on some student-based movements that were somehow to bring down the beast without a struggle for state power, were theories that I earnestly adhered to sometimes more than one at the same time. Nevertheless by our exclusionism we were replicating the worst habits of the old Old Left (those who came of political age and fought the great class battles of the 1930s when kept their generation above water for a long time but which now despite the importance of studying have run out of steam). That freezing out , more times than I care to mention including my own behavior a few times, included physical exclusion and intimidation. I have since come to believe that the fight around programs and politics is what makes us different, and more interesting. The mix of ideas, personalities and programs, will sort themselves out in the furnace of the revolution as they have done in the past. 

Off-hand, as I have mentioned before, I think it would be easier, infinitely easier, to fight for the socialist revolution straight up than some of the “remedies” provided by the commentators in these various blogs and other networking media. But part of that struggle for the socialist revolution is to sort out the “real” stuff from the fluff as we struggle for that more just world that animates our efforts. So read on.  

February Is Black History Month- Hats Off To Heroes of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement

February Is Black History Month- Hats Off To Heroes of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement

 

DVD Review

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

 

Free at Last: Civil Rights Heroes, film documentary, Image Entertainment, 2005

 

[This documentary was produced and reviewed well prior to the rightly well-received Martin Luther King biopic, Selma, but still holds up well to acknowledge the man other who made the struggle down South the defining event of those times-Frank Jackman-2015

 

Every major (and most minor) progressive social struggle in America from the struggle for independence from Great Britain through to the struggle for slavery’s abolition up to the struggle for women’s rights and gender equality today has had more than its share of heroes and martyrs. The purpose of the documentary under review, Free At Last: Civil Rights Heroes, rightly, highlights some of those lesser known heroes and martyrs from the struggle for black civil rights that came to national prominence in the1950s and 1960s (although arguably that conscious struggle goes back to the 1930s and before).

Although, in the end the question of black equality had to be addressed (and still has to be addressed) nationally the thrust of the black civil rights movement that is featured in this film is the struggle for something like a democratic revolution by blacks and their supporters in the police state-like American South. That barbaric de jure and de facto Jim Crow system officially, as a matter state and social policy, held blacks in second class citizenship (or lower). The struggle to overcome that ingrained (and profitable, profitable for whites of almost all social strata) was almost, of necessity, going to create more than its share of heroes and martyrs.

The case of fourteen- year old Chicago resident Emmett Till and his horrible murder at the hands of white marauders in Mississippi in 1955, the first of the three separate segments that make up the film graphically highlights the problem. For the mere allegation of “whistling at a white woman while black” (if that allegation had any substance) young Emmett was brutally mangled and thrown into the local river. When his mother, righteously, made a cause out of this bestial murder all hell broke loose, at least on the surface. And the case galvanized blacks and whites nationally, alerting many for the first time to the hard fact that something was desperately wrong down in Mississippi (and not just there). But justice, Mississippi justice, to paraphrase poet Langston Hughes, is justice deferred. As detailed in almost all the cases highlighted in the film those directly responsible for the actions against the civil rights workers were either never brought to justice or only after something like a long drawn out legal civil war. No one should forget that aspect of the struggle either.

The other cases highlighted from the assassinated Medgar Evers to the four Birmingham girls murdered in their church when it was bombed to the three civil rights workers slain in Philadelphia, Mississippi that drew nation-wide attention to slain white civil rights workers Viola Liuzzo and Reverend James Reeb, murdered for “being white while working for black civil rights” exhibit those same kinds of sickening results. Let me put it this way after viewing the film footage here, especially Bull Connor’s attack dogs being let loose on civil rights demonstrators in the streets of Birmingham, Alabama that was one of the first visual images that drove me into the civil rights struggle, I still wanted to throw something at the screen. And you wonder why fifty or so years later I still say Mississippi (or fill in your preferred state) goddam. Kudos here.

Support Freedom For Class War Prisoners-Join And Support The Partisan Defense Committee

Support Freedom For Class War Prisoners-Join And Support The Partisan Defense Committee   

 

In Boston February 27th- Stand With Veterans Standing With Our Moslem Friends

In Boston February 27th- Stand With Veterans Standing With Our Moslem Friends 

*****Down At Duke’s Place-With Duke Ellington In Mind

*****Down At Duke’s Place-With Duke Ellington In Mind

 

 

From The Pen Of Bart Webber  

One night Sam Eaton was talking on his cellphone to his old friend from high school (Carver High, Class of 1967), Jack Callahan about how his grandson, Brandon, his oldest grandson of his daughter Janice from his first marriage (first of three all ending in divorce but that is merely a figure for the Census Bureau and not germane to what follows so enough) had beguiled him recently with his arcane knowledge of classical jazz (the jazz from the age of King Oliver say until the death of the big bad swings bands which died in the late 1940s for the most part giving way to cool ass be-bop and what followed). Jack braced himself for the deluge, got very quiet and did not say word one, since lately the music Sam mentioned, maybe even thought about mentioning the slightest thing connected with jazz he knew he was in for it, in for a harangue of unknown duration on the subject. Sam, recently more conscious that Jack, who hated jazz, hated it worse when as a child of rock and roll as Sam was, his father would endlessly play Count this, King that, Duke the other thing and not allow the family record player centered in the family living room to be sullied (his father’s word) by heathen stuff like Roll Over Beethoven or One Night With You, would go silent at the word “jazz” said not to worry he would only say a few words from his conversation with Brandon:        

No, Jack, my man, this will not be a screed about how back in the day, back in the 1950s the time of our complete absorption into rock and roll, when be-bop jazz was the cat’s meow, when cool was listening to the Monk trip up a note, consciously trip up a note to see if anybody caught it and then took that note to heaven and back, and worked it out from there or Dizzy burping then hitting the high white note all those guys were struggling against the limits of the instruments to get, high as hell on tea, you know what we called ganja, herb, stuff like that. Frankly I was too young, you too but I knew how you felt since I couldn’t listen to rock in my house either as the 1940s Andrews Sisters/Perry Como/Frank Sinatra/Peggy Lee cabal were front and center in our living room and I was reduced to listening on my transistor radio, way too young to appreciate such work then and I only got the tail end, you know when Hollywood or the popular prints messed the whole be-bop jazz “beat” thing up and we got spoon-fed Maynard G. Krebs faux black and white television beatnik selling hair cream oil or something like that, and ten thousand guys hanging around the Village on Saturday night in full beret and whatever they could put together for a beard from the outreaches of Tenafly, New Jersey (sorry but Fort Lee was out) and another ten thousand gals, all in black from head to toe, maybe black underwear too so something to imagine at least from Norwalk, Connecticut milling around as well. Square, square cubed.

No, this will not be some screed going back further in the hard times of the Great Depression and the slogging through World War II when “it did not mean a thing, if you ain’t got that swing” when our parents, the parents of the kids who caught the end of be-bop “swang,” did dips and twirls to counts, dukes, earls, princes, marquises even leading big band splashes to wash that generation clean. Come on now that was our parents and I wasn’t even born so no way I can “screed” about that. And, no, no, big time no, this will not be about some solitary figure in some dank, dusty, smoke-filled café, the booze flowing, the dope in the back alleys inflaming the night while some guy, probably a sexy sax player, blows some eternal high white note out against some bay, maybe Frisco Bay, and I was hooked, hooked for life on the be-bop jazz scene.

No, it never even came close to starting out like that, never even dreamed such scenes. Unlike rock and roll, the classic kind that was produced in our 1950s growing up time and which we have had a life-long devotion to or folk music which I came of age, political and social age too later in the early 1960s, jazz was a late, a very late acquisition to my understanding of the American songbook. Oh sure I would hear a phrase, a few bing, bang, bong notes blowing out the window, out the door, sitting in some bar over drinks with some hot date, maybe hear it as backdrop in some Harvard Square bookstore when I went looking for books (and, once somebody hipped me to the scene, looking for bright young women who also were in the bookstore looking for books, and bright young men but that scene is best left for another time), or at some party when the host tired of playing old-time folk music had decided to kick out the jams and let the jazz boys wreak their havoc. But jazz was, and to a great extent still is, a side bar of my musical tastes.          

About a decade ago, a little more, I got seriously into jazz for a while. The reason: the centennial of the birth of Duke Ellington being celebrated when I was listening to some radio show which was commemorating that fact and I heard a few faint bars which required me to both turn up the volume and to listen to the rest of the one hour tribute. The show played a lot of Duke’s stuff from the early 1940s when he had Ben Webster, Harry Carney, and Johnny Hodges on board. The stuff blew me away and as is my wont when I get my enthusiasms up, when something blows me away, I grabbed everything by the Duke and his various groupings and marveled at how very good his work was, how his tonal poems reached deep, deep down and caught something in me that responded in kind. Especially when those sexy saxs, when Johnny or Cootie blew me away if they let it all hang out.

Funny though I thought at the time that I hadn’t picked up on this sound before, this reaching for the soul, for the essence of the matter, before since there are very definitely elements of the blues in Brother Duke’s work. And I have been nothing but a stone blown blues freak since the early 1960s when I first heard Howlin’ Wolf hold forth practically eating that harmonica of his on Little Red Rooster and Smokestack Lightnin’. Moreover I had always been a Billie Holiday fan although I never drew the connection to the jazz in the background since it usually was muted to let her rip with that throaty sultry voice, the voice that chased the blues, my blues, away.

So, yes, count me among the guys who are searching for the guys who are searching for the great big cloud puff high white note, guys who have been searching for a long time as the notes waft out into the deep blue sea night. Check this out. Blowing that high white note out into the surly choppy Japan deep blue seas foaming and slashing out into the bay the one time I was sitting in fog-bound Frisco town, sitting around a North Beach bar, the High Hat maybe, back when Jimmy La Croix ran the place and a guy with a story, or a guy he knew could run a tab, for a while, and then settle up or let the hammer fall and you would wind up cadging swigs from flea-bitten raggedy- assed winos and sterno bums.

On Monday nights, a slow night in every venue you can name except maybe whorehouses and even then the business would only fall off a little since guys had to see their wives or girlfriends or both sometime, Jimmy would hold what is now called an “open mic” but then, I forget, maybe talent search something like that but the same thing. The “Hat” as everybody called it was known far and wide by ex hep-cats, aging beats, and faded flower child ex-hippies who had not yet got back to the “real” world once those trends petered out but were still looking, as I was, looking for something and got a little solace from the bottle and a dark place to nurse the damn thing where you could be social or just hang out was the place around North Beach where young talent took to the boards and played, played for the “basket” just like the folkies used to do back in the 1960s when that genre had its heyday, and probably get a few dollars from the mostly regular heavy drinker crowd that populate any gin mill on Monday, whether they have seen their loved ones or not. Jimmy would have Max Jenny on drums and Milt Bogan on that big old bass that took up half the stage, if you remember those guys when West Coast jazz was big, to back-up the talent so this was serious stuff, at least Jimmy played it that way.
 

Most of the stuff early on that night was so-so some riffs stolen from more famous guys like Miles Davis, Dizzie, Coltrane, the cool ass jazz from the fifties that young bud talent imitates starting out, maybe gets stuck on those covers and wind up, addled by some sister habit, down by the trolley trains on Market Street hustle dollars from weary tourists waiting to get up the damn hill. So nothing that would keep a steady drinker, me, from steady drinking in those days when I lifted low-shelf whiskeys with abandon. Maybe half a dozen other guys spread out around bar to prove they were there strictly for the drinking and chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes to fill up Jimmy’s ashtrays and give Red the bartender something to do between pouring shots (otherwise the guys hungry for women company would be bunched near the dance floor but they must have had it bad since Monday night the serious honeys were not at the “Hat” but home getting rested up for the long week ahead of fending guys off).
 

Then I turned around toward the stage, turned around for no particular reason, certainly not to pay attention to the talent, when this young guy, young black guy, barely out of his teens, maybe sixteen for all I know and snuck out of the house to play, Jimmy wasn’t taking ID cards in those days and if the kid wasn’t drinking then what did it matter, to get play to reach the stars if that is what he wanted, slim a reed, dressed kind of haphazardly with a shiny suit that he probably wore to church with grandmother, string tie, clean shirt, couldn’t see his feet so can’t comment on that, maybe a little from hunger, or had the hunger eating him up. Kind of an unusual sight for ‘90s Frisco outside of the missions. But figure this, figure his eyes, eyes that I know about from my own bouts with sister, with the just forming sad sack yellow eyes of high king hell dope-dom and it all fit.

The kid was ready though to blow a big sexy tenor sax, a sax as big as he was, certainly fatter, blew the hell out of one note after another once he got his bearings, then paused, paused to suck up the universe of the smoke filled air in the place (a whiff of ganja from the back somewhere from some guy Jimmy must have known since usually dope in the place was a no-no), and went over to the river Jordan for a minute, rested, came back with a big blow that would get at least to Hawaii, rested again, maybe just a little uncertain where to go like kids always are, copy some somebody and let it go at that for the Monday crowd or blast away, but even I sensed that he had something going, so blew up a big cloud puff riff alternating with pauses hard to do, went at it again this time to the corner of paradise. Stopped, I thought he was done, he looked to hell like he was done, done in eyes almost closed, and then onward, a big beautiful dah, dee, dah, dee, dah, dee, blow, a “max daddy” blow then even an old chattering wino in a booth stopped to wonder at, and that big high white note went ripping down Bay Street, I swear I could see it, on into the fog-bound bay and on its way, not stopping until Edo, hell maybe back to Mother Africa where it all started.  He had it, that it means only “it” and if he never blew again he had that “it” moment. He left out the back door and I never saw him at the “Hat” again so maybe he was down on Mission or maybe he went somewhere, got some steady work. All I know was that I was there when a guy blew that high white note, yeah, that high white note. So yeah count me too among Duke’s boys, down at Duke’s place where he eternally searched for that elusive high white note.

See I didn’t take too long, right.             

  

 

Did You Hear John Hurt-With Mississippi John Hurt In Mind

Did You Hear John Hurt-With Mississippi John Hurt In Mind

 

By Bradley Fox 

“Are you going over to Harvard Square Friday night to hear that guy, John Hurt, everybody has been talking about at the Club Nana, the old guy that Mick Greenleaf discovered when he went on that trip down South to see if any of the old time blues singers were still around, or if anybody knew what had happened to them?,” Cecilia Taylor had inquired of Theresa Green, her college roommate at Boston University and more importantly to this conversation fellow folk aficionado. Folk aficionado on Theresa’s part ever since the previous fall when in the toss-up for roommates at the freshman dormitories on Bay State Road had produced Cecelia as her mate. Cecelia from Fort Lee on the New Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge had been a regular coffeehouse going on the weekends in the Village since her junior year of high school and she had kind of dragged Theresa in her wake. Theresa from Podunk Riverdale about forty miles south of Boston had never even heard of folk music, could not name one song off-hand and was furthermore clueless about blues, country blues of which Mississippi John Hurt was a representative as Cecelia called it a sub-set of folk.(Theresa if she had thought about that question of not knowing a folk song off-hand only had to think back to seven grade Music Appreciation class with Miss Enos and her attempts to get her charges to sing some song such as Woody Guthrie’s This Land Is Your Land to know that she knew at least that one national anthem of folk although in high school she had been so mired in teenage heartthrobs like Bobby Darin, Fabian, and Bobby Vee that any other thoughts about music were so much wind.)            

That Theresa “dragged along” by the way, aside from the question of whether she was, or was not going to the Club Nana Friday night, was made infinitely easier by Cecilia having thrown Mel Jackson out as a lure. Mel was well-known in the freshman class, by the girls at least, as one of the sexiest guys around. Moreover he had been learning to play the guitar and to sing some of the folk songs that were making the rounds in the clubs and coffeehouses at the Tuesday night “open mics” held at the Cafe Blanc on the other side of the street from the Club Nana on Mount Auburn Street in Cambridge. Cecelia had known Mel since day one of school since he had been in her freshman orientation class and on the round-robin question and answer period they had both mentioned an interest in the budding folk music movement running its course through a lot of college towns and other urban oases. They had subsequently had a couple of dates but the flame wasn’t there and so they became just friends.

That “just friends” status though had gotten Cecelia to meet Mel’s roommate Thorn Davis who did strike a flame. So one Friday night Cecelia who had been talking up her interest in the folk scene since they had become roommates talked Theresa, dateless and bored, into going on a double date with her and Thorn, Mel the bait. That night Tom Paxton, a new talent, a guy who was either in the Army or who had just gotten out down at Fort Dix in New Jersey was playing at Jerry’s Coffeehouse and so they spent the evening listening to his stuff (Jerry’s a notch below the Café Blanc and Club Nana which charged a cover and required that you at least had a cup of coffee in front of you to keep your seat so that the featured performer actually got paid from the admission fee did not charge admission. Jerry’s did as all such establishment did in Harvard Square at least require the cup of coffee and got the crowd that could not get into the formerly mentioned clubs or guys out on cheap dates with girls that they didn’t figure to get anywhere with. A whole treatise could be written on “getting anywhere with and dating etiquette back then, now to for that matter. Performers hated the set-up because they had to play for the “basket,” had to pass the hat in the audience to make their nightly wages to keep the landlord from their doors.)         

Although that night had been something of a disaster for the Mel-Theresa combination since Mel was serious about attempting to make a career out of folk music, that was his idea anyway and Theresa only knew as much about folk music as Cecelia had told her in quick flashes so she would not be totally adrift. Every time the conversation hit a  turn she would be clueless, for example, when they talked about Pete Seeger and his earlier career with the Weavers and they mentioned how the Weavers had made a big hit out of Leadbelly’s Goodnight, Irene she knew neither the Weavers nor the name Leadbelly ( except to think that it was an odd name for a singer or a person ). So that night Mel and Theresa had kind of flopped, except she did like Tom Paxton, especially his Last Thing On My Mind. That seemed to be about it, one date and done.

The next morning early Theresa woke Cecelia up and told her she needed a crash course in advanced folk (that is how she put the matter) since she had not slept a wink thinking about Mel’s blue eyes, bedroom eyes she called them and Cecelia knew exactly why she wanted that crash course. Cecelia passed Theresa her copy of Fred Allen’s A Layman’s Folk Music History  and told her to start reading from page one and then she could ask questions. Theresa thereafter learned about the roots of the roots of folk from the old country British mist of time ballads that were collected by Francis Child in the 19^th century which in bastardized versions were still played in places like Appalachia and Nova Scotia. The French-Canadian Arcadian traditions that would head south to the swamps of Louisiana and Cajun music. The key role of Delta and Piedmont blues in the black musical experience all the way up to those Newport “discoveries.” More importantly for the benefit of her Mel dreams to know who the hell Peter Seeger, the Weavers, Dave Von Ronk, Josh White and the rest of the current or near current batch of folk tradition aficionados.       

Over time Theresa, granted with a great deal of help from Cecelia who after all had lived through that first crucial period of the folk revival, did become very knowledgeable about the folk scene and some folk history too although she had not seen Mel during that time she was getting tutored in the high points by Cecelia but she was determined if she did see him that she would do better than that first date. One afternoon toward the spring of 1963 she was walking along Commonwealth Avenue up by the Sherman Union and heard a guy singing a song, Come All You Fair And Tender Maidens and step closer to hear who was singing the song. Of course it was Mel. When he saw her he waved and smiled, a little. With that little encouragement after he had finished the song she went up to him and said all in one breathe, “I didn’t know that you were into mountain music, isn’t that a song that Dave Von Ronk covered on his Inside Dave Van Ronk album and didn’t that song get discovered by Cecil Sharpe, the British folklorist back in the early part of the century down in Kentucky.” Bingo. Mel asked if she was doing anything Friday night since Hedy West was playing at the Café Mark in Kenmore Square. And that was that.

So Cecelia asking Theresa if she was going to hear John Hurt was not an academic question. The answer though was “no” since she and Mel were going to the Village Friday afternoon in order to hear Dave Van Ronk at the Gaslight. She did ask Cecelia to tell her what Hurt’s playlist was and any impressions she had of him when she got back Sunday night.                                  

Sunday night came and Theresa was back. After putting her luggage away Theresa asked Cecelia how the Hurt concert had gone. Cecelia laughed, said the show was great. What she was laughing about was how she had been expecting some big old black guy, maybe the size of Howlin’ Wolf or something and then on stage came kind of haltingly this little wizened old man in an old rumbled suit and a straw hat that must have been older than him. He was so short that Mike Greenleaf had to keep adjusting the mic every couple of songs when he would change positions. He had this ratty old guitar too that he said he had bought for about six dollars in the Sear & Roebuck catalogue back in the 1920s. Then he told the story about how Mike and a couple of other guys had come down to Clarksville down in Mississippi looking for him after somebody in Jackson had told them about an old blues player in the Clarksville area named Hurt. Mike and the others had known exactly who their informants meant since they had all listened to him on one of Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music albums.

The way Hurt told the story here he was in this little shack of a house, a cabin I guess and had been picking cotton ever since he could remember after that minute of fame. Somebody from the audience then asked him, since some rumors were going around that Sid Dalton, his manager was working him too hard, taking too much dough for himself and not getting the best deals for his projected albums. Hurt had a funny answer, he said whatever arrangements Sid made were fine by him since playing “beats picking cotton for an old man” and he smiled his couple of teeth missing smile. He sang like heaven (played some very clean guitar picking which Thorn and Cecelia had never seen before). Sang Creole Belle, Frankie and Albert, his version of the traditional Frankie and Johnny song, Candy Man, Miss Collins Moans, Beulah Land, Coffee Spoon, and a few others they didn’t know but sounded good. “Too bad you guys couldn’t come,” Cecelia said. Theresa said wistfully that she wished they had too since Dave Van Ronk had been drinking heavily before his show and it showed-he had a very off night. And so it goes.         

From The Marxist Archives-From Leopold Trepper-The Trotskyists Remained Faithful to October Revolution

Workers Vanguard No. 1082 29 January 2016 LENIN                            TROTSKY The Trotskyists Remained Faithful to October (Quote of the Week) The heroic Soviet spy Leopold Trepper created the “Red Orchestra” that transmitted invaluable intelligence to the USSR from occupied Europe and Nazi Germany during World War II. In his memoirs, Trepper recalled the Trotskyists’ heroism in the face of Stalin’s purges in the 1930s. We Trotskyists of the International Communist League continued the struggle for unconditional military defense of the Soviet degenerated workers state against imperialism and counterrevolution as well as for proletarian political revolution to sweep away the parasitic Stalinist bureaucracy until the final destruction of the USSR through capitalist restoration in 1991-92. Today, we apply this same program to the remaining deformed workers states: China, Cuba, Laos, North Korea and Vietnam. The glow of October was being extinguished in the shadows of underground chambers. The revolution had degenerated into a system of terror and horror; the ideals of socialism were ridiculed in the name of a fossilized dogma which the executioners still had the effrontery to call Marxism. And yet we went along, sick at heart, but passive, caught up in machinery we had set in motion with our own hands. Mere cogs in the apparatus, terrorized to the point of madness, we became the instruments of our own subjugation. All those who did not rise up against the Stalinist machine are responsible, collectively responsible. I am no exception to this verdict. But who did protest at that time? Who rose up to voice his outrage? The Trotskyites can lay claim to this honor. Following the example of their leader, who was rewarded for his obstinacy with the end of an ice-axe, they fought Stalinism to the death, and they were the only ones who did. By the time of the great purges, they could only shout their rebellion in the freezing wastelands where they had been dragged in order to be exterminated. In the camps, their conduct was admirable. But their voices were lost in the tundra. Today, the Trotskyites have a right to accuse those who once howled along with the wolves. Let them not forget, however, that they had the enormous advantage over us of having a coherent political system capable of replacing Stalinism. They had something to cling to in the midst of their profound distress at seeing the revolution betrayed. They did not “confess,” for they knew that their confession would serve neither the party nor socialism. —Leopold Trepper, The Great Game (1977)

Those Who Fought The Nazis Are Kindred Spirits- Marcus Klingberg -1918—2015-Soviet Spy Remembered

Workers Vanguard No. 1082	29 January 2016

Marcus Klingberg -1918—2015-Soviet Spy Remembered

 

Courageous Soviet spy and accomplished epidemiologist Marcus Klingberg died in Paris on November 30 at the age of 97. Klingberg, a Polish Jew who worked for many years as a high-ranking scientist in Israel, passed critical information to the Soviet Union about the Israeli state’s stockpile of lethal chemical and bacterial weapons. He provided this information out of a deep loyalty to the Soviet Union for giving him the opportunity to fight the Nazis, who massacred his entire family during World War II. The Israeli government, which considered him to be “the most damaging spy in Israel’s history,” secretly tried and imprisoned Klingberg in 1983. He languished in prison for almost 16 years.

The obituaries of Klingberg in the bourgeois press paint a picture of a cold, calculating spy straight out of a Tom Clancy novel. But in his memoirs, Hameragel Ha’akharon (The Last Spy), published in Hebrew in 2007, Klingberg reveals the true nature of the man whom we honor for his service to humanity:

“I still believe in communism: It will likely not happen in my lifetime but in 10, 20, 50 years—I’m almost certain—the people will return to communism. It will happen when people are disappointed by unbridled capitalism, which strives to destroy the rights of workers everywhere.... Socialism will win in the end!”

Avraham Mordechai Klingberg, known as Marcus or Marek, was born into an Orthodox Jewish family in October 1918 in Warsaw, Poland. He studied medicine at the University of Warsaw and became an anti-fascist activist on the eve of World War II. At this time, he was also first exposed to Marxist ideas. After the Nazi invasion of Poland in September 1939, Klingberg heeded his father’s insistence that “at least one of us has to survive” and fled to Minsk in the Soviet Republic of Byelorussia (now Belarus), where he was able to complete his studies. In his memoirs, Klingberg notes that what convinced his father to encourage him to leave was a conversation with an officer in the German army who warned him that all Jews in Poland were going to be exterminated.

On the very day that Germany invaded the USSR, 22 June 1941, Klingberg volunteered for the Soviet Red Army in order to fight the fascists. In the conflict between imperialist powers—primarily the U.S. and Britain against Germany and Japan—World War II was a reactionary struggle on all sides to seize new arenas of exploitation and defend existing ones. Workers had no stake in that interimperialist conflict. However, it was the duty of the international proletariat to defend the USSR—the homeland of the Russian Revolution—against imperialist attack. The Soviet Union, then a degenerated workers state, carried out the overwhelming brunt of the fighting against Hitler’s Germany, and it was the Red Army that defeated the Nazi scourge, at the cost of 27 million Soviet lives.

The Soviet Union’s military might, even under bureaucratic Stalinist rule, was a testament to the power of a planned, collectivized economy, which catapulted Russia, a backward peasant country, into becoming a modern industrial and military powerhouse. The Bolshevik Revolution of October 1917 was the first time in history that the working class took and held power. The establishment of the Soviet workers state, tied to the spread of revolution internationally, offered the prospect of development toward a socialist society of genuine equality and abundance for all. However, the defeat of revolutionary opportunities, most importantly in Germany, left the Soviet workers state isolated. Amid conditions of material scarcity, exacerbated by imperialist invasion and civil war, a conservative bureaucratic caste centered on Stalin usurped political power in the Soviet Union starting in 1923-24. The Stalinist bureaucracy renounced the struggle for international workers revolution in the name of “building socialism in one country” and seeking “peaceful coexistence” with imperialism. The gains won by the 1917 Revolution were endangered by Stalinist rule and were ultimately overthrown through capitalist counterrevolution in 1991-92, a catastrophic defeat for the working class worldwide.

During WWII, Klingberg worked as a medical officer on the front lines until wounded in the leg by shrapnel. After this injury, he continued to serve in the Red Army, leading an anti-epidemic unit in Molotov (now Perm) near the Urals. One of his many accomplishments was stopping the spread of a typhus outbreak that would have infected untold numbers of Soviet soldiers; he rose to the rank of captain by the end of the war. When Klingberg returned to Poland in 1944, he learned that his parents and only brother had perished in the Treblinka extermination camp.

Klingberg never forgot his debt to the Soviet Union, a country that allowed him to not only survive but also become a world-class scientist. In his memoirs, Klingberg writes: “When I arrived in the Soviet Union, I was a penniless Polish Jewish refugee who had not completed his medical studies. When I left in December 1944, I was the chief epidemiologist of Byelorussia...and an ardent communist.”

In 1948, Klingberg emigrated to Israel with his daughter and wife, Wanda, who was a survivor of the Warsaw Ghetto and a fellow scientist. For years, he moved comfortably in elite Zionist intellectual and political circles, despite his leftist and openly pro-Soviet views. From his memoirs, it is clear that Klingberg was always very critical of the Zionist government’s treatment of Palestinians and other Arabs.

Klingberg rapidly climbed the ladder of the Israeli medical establishment and later became deputy scientific director of the top-secret Israel Institute for Biological Research (IIBR) in Ness Ziona, where research was conducted on chemical and biological weapons. The IIBR stockpiled at least 43 types of unconventional weaponry, from viruses to poison derived from mushrooms. These could certainly have been used against neighboring Arab states and against Palestinians in the occupied territories. Klingberg also believed that the Zionists shared this information with imperialist powers like the U.S. and Britain.

Klingberg’s service in providing information to the Soviets about experimental weapons research earned him the Order of the Red Banner of Labor, the Soviet Union’s second-highest honor. In the preface to his memoirs, Klingberg notes, “I had nothing to do with nuclear secrets, but I am still convinced today that the information I handed to the Soviet Union prevented the U.S. from employing certain weapons during the Cold War.”

Klingberg was not alone in exposing Israel’s arsenal of death. In prison, his cell was next to that of Israeli nuclear technician Mordechai Vanunu. In 1986, Vanunu exposed that the Zionist rulers had produced enough nuclear weapons and delivery systems not only to incinerate every Arab capital but also to bomb major cities in the Soviet Union. Vanunu was finally released from prison in 2004. However, he is still forbidden from leaving Israel, where he is under strict surveillance. Just last year, he was detained and put under house arrest simply for giving a TV interview. We continue to defend Mordechai Vanunu and call for Israel to allow him to leave immediately!

While the Israelis suspected Klingberg of being a spy for years, it was not until the early 1980s, when the CIA passed on a tip to Shin Bet (Israeli secret police) from a Soviet defector, that they acted against him. Around that time, Klingberg also happened to be quite vocal about his research debunking U.S. claims that Laos and Vietnam had used a Soviet-supplied biological weapon against counterrevolutionary forces. Klingberg had correctly concluded that the so-called “yellow rain” was, in fact, nothing more than naturally occurring bee feces.

On 19 January 1983, Shin Bet kidnapped Klingberg and interrogated him for days. To explain his disappearance, the Israeli government circulated rumors that Klingberg had entered an insane asylum in Switzerland or possibly abandoned his wife and daughter and fled to the Soviet Union. After his arrest, Klingberg was tried in secret by a military tribunal, convicted of espionage and sentenced to 20 years in prison. Klingberg’s jailers assigned him a false name and he spent ten years in solitary confinement. During his incarceration, he had several strokes and suffered from a number of other ailments. Wanda Klingberg, who had also spied for the Soviets but avoided imprisonment, did not live to see her husband’s release.

After nearly 16 years in prison, Marcus Klingberg was moved to house arrest in Israel until 2003, when he was finally able to leave the country. He was allowed to emigrate to Paris to be with his family on the condition that he would never speak of his work at Ness Ziona.

In a review of Klingberg’s memoirs, the Haaretz journalist Yossi Melman was scandalized that Klingberg does not express “one iota of regret for his deeds.” Damn right. In a 2010 article, Klingberg reaffirmed that he never regretted passing weapons secrets to the Soviets: “My feelings about this remain with me despite the fall of the Soviet Union—a country to which not only I owe my life, as well as my career in epidemiology and my most useful work; but, above all, the opportunity to fight fascism.”

*****Ain’t Got No Time For Corner Boys Down In The Street Making All That Noise

*****Ain’t Got No Time For Corner Boys Down In The Street Making All That Noise

 

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

 

Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night-- When Billie Ruled The Roost- Second First Take

He was the first. A certified 1958 A-One prime custom model first. Yes, Billie was the first. Billie, William James Bradley that is if you did not know his full moniker, was the first. No question about it, no controversy, no alternate candidates, no hemming and hawing agonizing about this guy’s attributes or that guy’s style and how they lined up against Billie’s shine in order to pick a winner. No way, get it.

Billie, first in what anyway? Billie, first, see, first in line of the then ever sprouting young schoolboy king corner boy wannabes. Wannabes because the weres (or the alreadys if you want to put a time frame on the matter), the corner boy weres (ditto on the alreadys), the already king corner boy weres (no need for ditto alreadys after this one), the older, say sixteen to twenty somethings since after that the only corner they were hanging in was in some county or state pen doing that first nickel for armed robbery or threat of armed robbery which is the same thing if you are a frightened Mom and Pop store owner or a kid gas jockey at a filling station), mainly not schoolboys or, christ, not for long schoolboys (for about six different reasons from being too stone cold dumb to get out of eight grade and hence too old to be robbing fellow students of lunch money to the best one when Red Radley hung the headmaster out to dry from his office and was asked to leave under penalty of three to five somewhere), mainly not working, jesus, mainly not working (working relegated to what their poor sap fathers were up to and thus square, double square) mainly just hanging around ("lying about," not laying about, was a name for it from Grandma Radley who had a distinct sneer on her face when she utter the sounds, a fit name at that) were already playing, really hip-swaying, lazily hip-swaying if you wanted to win games, wizard pinball machines in the sacred corner boy small town mom and pop variety night (not the same locale not that anybody had heard ant they would where a frightened Mom or Pop was held up at gunpoint) or cueing up in some smoke-filled big town pool hall (and playing high school kids for vagrant quarters to feed the jukebox).

Or working on hot souped-up cars (half the materials stolen from “midnight auto” the rest from Joe’s Junkyard the burial grounds for has-been automobile or ill-fated ones which did not survive the two o’clock in the morning “chicken runs” down the far end of Adamsville Boulevard to see who was the king hell king of the hot rod night not an unimportant title among that crowd), a touch of grease like some sacred balm pressed, seemingly decaled pressed, into their uniform white tee-shirts (no dopey vee-necks or muscle shirts need apply) and always showed, showed an oily speck anyway, on their knuckles (black-rimmed layered fingernails that never seemed to get clean no matter how much Borax was applied, an unspoken given).

To impressionable working poor boys coming up behind them and unaware of what pranks produced such efforts (having only sad sack nose-to-the grindstone fathers as alternative models) the cars were to die for, sleek tail-finned, pray to god two-toned cherry red and white if you put the finish on right (no going to some hack paint shop, no way, not for this baby, not for that ’57 Chevy), dual exhaust, big cubic engine numbers that no amateur had a clue to but just knew when sighted that thing would fly (well, almost fly) into the boulevard night, that sea air, sex-charged boulevard night. Tuned-up just right for that cheap gas to make her run, yah, that cheap City Service gas that was even cheaper than the stuff over at the Merit gas station, by two cents (neither station’s gas jockeys known to have been subject to the gunpoint whims that would have them peeing in their pants).

Or talking some boffo (that’s the word look it up if you think it is a lie -meaning with that certain something that would get a guy going if she got to sit next to him in that “boss” cherry red and white Chevy and he wouldn’t have to coax her like some bloody rosary bead novena frail with the Bible, okay the damn Bible between her knees), usually blonde (although frankly who could tell if her natural hair was really that condition or from a bottle and it did not really matter if she was boffo but subject of conversation from early on to the question of how anybody, how any guy could tell unless she, or they, took her underpants off for investigation,  and that talk created adolescent fervid dreams), although not always, maybe a cute rosy red-lipped and haired number (meaning in that neighborhood some Irish Catholic girl who had left those rosary beads and novenas far behind even if she still went to communion at Sunday morning eight o’clock Mass after a night of “playing the flute,” or being checked out for the natural color of her hair), in a pinch, a soft, sultry, svelte brunette (who loved to “play the flute” to be able to sit in the front seat of that “boss” car and a guy did not have to investigate her natural hair color since she would show and tell all sassy and sweaty), tight cashmere sweater-wearing (showing a proud nipple to a candid world whether aroused or not), all, tight Capri pant-wearing (meaning nothing more than a guy was going to have some work to do to check out what was under the underpants or she mercifully sliding them off to avoid rough handling), all, hustled out of her virtue (or maybe into her virtue) down by the seashore after some carnival-filled night (or maybe the “reserved” area of the drive-in movies meaning the place where no responsible parent would bring their young children and where nobody saw nothing but fogged up windows, cars rocking a little and hearing low moans).

A night that had been filled with arcade pinball wizardry, cotton candy, salt-water taffy, roller coaster rides, and a few trips in the tunnel of love, maybe win a prize from the wheel of fortune game too. A night capped with a few illicit drinks from some old Tom, or johnny, Johnny Walker that is, rotgut to make that talking easier, and that virtue more questionable, into or out of. All while the ocean waves slap innocently against the shore, drowning out the night’s heavy breathed, hard-voiced sighs.

Or, get this, because it tells a lot about the byways and highways of the high-style corner boy steamy black and white 1950s night, preparing, with his boys, his trusted unto death boys, his Omerta-sworn boys, no less to do some midnight creep (waylaying some poor bedraggled sap, sidewalk drunk or wrong neighborhooded gee, with a sap to the head for dough, or going through some back door, and not gently, to grab somebody’s family heirlooms or fungibles, better yet cash on hand) in order to maintain that hot car, cheap gas or not, or hot honey, virtuous or not. Yah, things cost then, as now.

And, yah, in 1958, in hard look 1958, those king hell corner boy "weres" already sucked up the noteworthy, attention-getting black and white television, black and white newsprint night air. Still the lines were long with candidates and the mom and pop variety store-anchored, soda fountain drugstore-anchored, pizza parlor-anchored, pool hall-anchored corners, such as they were, were plentiful in those pre-dawn mall days. But see that is the point, the point of those long lines of candidates in every burg in the land or, at least became the point, because in 1948, or 1938, or maybe even 1928 nobody gave a rat’s ass, or a damn, about corner boys except to shuffle them out of town on the first Greyhound bus.

Hell, in 1948 they were still in hiding from the war, whatever war it was that they wanted no part of, which might ruin their style, or their dough prospects. They were just getting into those old Nash jalopies, revving them up in the "chicken run" night out in the exotic west coast ocean night. In 1938 you did not need a Greyhound bus coming through your town to put them on board  because these guys were already on the hitchhike road, or were bindled-up in some railroad jungle, or getting cracked over the head by some “bull”, in the great depression whirlwind heading west for adventure, or hard-scrabble work. And in 1928 these hard boys were slugging it out, guns at the ready, in fast, prohibition liquor-load filled cars, and had no time for corners and silly corner pinball wizard games (although maybe they had time for running the rack at Gus’s pool hall and a quick back seat blow job between hauls, if they lived long enough).

That rarified, formerly subterranean corner boy way of life, was getting inspected, dissected, rejected, everything but neglected once the teen angst, teen alienation wave hit 1950s America. You heard some of the names, or thought you heard some of the names that counted, but they were just showboat celebrities, celebrities inhabiting Corner Boy, Inc. complete with stainless tee-shirt, neatly pressed denim jeans, maybe a smart leather jacket against the weather’s winds, unsmoked, unfiltered cigarettes at the ready, and incurably photogenic faces that every girl mother could love/hate.

Forget that. Down in the trenches, yah, down in the trenches is where the real corner boys lived, and lived without publicity most days, thank you.

Guys like Red Hickey, tee-shirted, sure, denim-jeaned, sure, leather-jacketed, sure, chain-smoking (Lucky Strikes, natch), sure, angelic-faced, sure, who waylaid a guy, put him in an ambulance waylaid, just because he was a corner boy king from another cross-town corner who Red thought was trying to move in, or something like that. Or guys like Bruce “The Goose” McNeil, ditto shirted, jeaned, jacketed, smoked (Camels), faced who sneak-thieved his way through half of the old Adamsville houses taking nothing but high-end stuff from the swells. Or No Name McGee, corner boy king of the liquor store clip. Yah, and a hundred other guys, a hundred no name guys, except maybe to the cops, and to their distressed mothers, mainly old-time Irish and Italian novena-praying Catholic mothers, praying against that publicity day, the police blotter publicity day.

But you did not, I say, you did not hear those Hickey, McNeil, No Name stories in the big town newspapers or in some university faculty room when those guys zeroed in on the corner boy game trying to explain, like it was not plain as the naked eye to see, and why, all that angst and alienation. And then tried to tell one and all that corner boy was a phase, a minute thing, that plentiful America had an edge, like every civilized world from time immemorial had, where those who could not adjust, who could not decode the new American night, the odorless American night, the pre-lapsarian American night shifted for themselves in the shadows. Not to worry though it was a phase, just a phase, and these guys too will soon be thinking about that ticky-tack little white house with the picket fence.

Yah, but see, see again, just the talk through the grapevine about such guys as Red, The Goose, No Name, the legendary jewelry store clip artist, Brother Johnson (who set himself apart because he made a point of the fact that he didn’t smoke, smoke cigarettes anyway), and a whole host of guys who made little big names for themselves on the corners was enough to get guys like Billie, and not just primo candidate Billie either, hopped-up on the corner boy game. Yah, the corner boys whose very name uttered, whose very idea of a name uttered, whose very idea of a name thought up in some think-tank academy brain-dust, and whose very existence made a splash later (after it was all over, at least the public, publicity all over, part), excited every project schoolboy, every wrong side of the tracks guy (and it was always guys, babes were just for tangle), every short-cut dreaming boy who could read the day’s newspaper or watch some distended television, or knew someone who did.

And Billie was the first. The star of the Adamsville elementary schoolboy corner boy galaxy. No first among equals, or any such combination like that either, if that is what you are thinking. Alone. Oh sure his right-hand man, Peter Paul Markin, weak-kneed, book-wormy, girl-confused but girl-addled, took a run at Billie but that was seen, except maybe by Peter Paul himself, as a joke. Something to have a warm chuckle over on dreary nights when a laugh could not be squeezed out any other way. See, Peter Paul, as usual, had it all wrong on his figuring stuff. He thought his two thousand facts knowledge about books, and history, and current events, and maybe an off-hand science thing or two entitled, get this, entitled him to the crown. Like merit, or heredity, or whatever drove him to those two thousand facts meant diddley squat against style, and will.

Billie tried to straighten him out, gently at first, with a short comment that a guy who had no denim blue jeans, had no possibility of getting denim blue jeans, and was in any case addicted to black chinos, black cuffed chinos, has no chance of leading anybody, at any time, in anything. Still Peter Paul argued some nonsense about his organizing abilities. Like being able to run a low-rent bake sale for some foolish school trip, or to refurbish the U.S.S. Constitution, counted when real dough, real heist dough, for real adventures was needed. Peter Paul simmered in high-grade pre-teen anguish for a while over that one, more than a while.

Billie and Peter Paul, friends since the first days of first grade, improbably friends on the face of it although Billie’s take on it was that Peter Paul made him laugh with that basketful of facts that he held on to like a king’s ransom, protecting them like they were gold or something, finally had it out one night. No, not a fist fight, see that was not really Billie’s way, not then anyway or at least not in this case, and Peter Paul was useless at fighting, except maybe with feisty paper bags or those blessed facts. Billie, who not only was a king corner contender but a very decent budding singer, rock and roll singer, had just recently lost some local talent show competition to a trio of girls who were doing a doo wop thing. That part was okay, the losing part, such things happen in show biz and even Billie recognized, recognized later, that those girls had be-bopped him with their cover of Eddie, My Love fair and square. Billie, who for that contest was dressed up in a Bill Haley-style jacket made by his mother for the occasion, did the classic Bill Haley and the Comets Rock- Around-The-Clock as his number. About halfway through though one of the arms of his just made suit came flying off. A few seconds later the other arm came off. And the girls, the coterie of Adamsville girls in the audience especially, went crazy. See they thought it was part of the act.

After that, at school and elsewhere, Billie was besieged daily by girls, and not just stick-shaped girls either, who hung off all his arms, if you want to know. And sensitive soul Peter Paul didn’t like that. He didn’t care about the girl part, because as has already been noted, and can be safely placed on golden tablets Peter Paul was plenty girl-confused and girl-addled but girl-smitten in his funny way. What got him in a snit was that Billie was neglecting his corner boy king duty to be on hand with his boys at all available times. Well, this one night the words flew as Billie tired, easily tired, of Peter Paul’s ravings on the subject. And here is the beauty of the thing, the thing that made Billie the king corner boy contender. No fists, no fumings, no forget friendships. Not necessary. Billie just told Peter Paul this- “You can have my cast-offs.” Meaning, of course, the extra girls that Billie didn’t want, or were sticks, or just didn’t appeal to him. “Deal,” cried Peter Paul in a flash. Yah that was corner boy magic. And you know what? After that Peter Paul became something like Johnson’s Boswell and really started building up Billie as the exemplar corner boy king. Nice work, Billie.

You know Freddie Jackson too took his shots but was strictly out of his league against the Billie. Here it was a question not of facts, or books, or some other cranky thing bought off, bought off easily, by dangling girls in front of a guy a la Peter Paul but of trying to out dance Billie. See Freddie, whatever else his shortcomings, mainly not being very bright and not being able to keep his hands out of his mother’s pocketbook when he needed dough so that he had to stay in many nights, worst many summer nights, could really dance. What Freddie didn’t know, and nobody was going to tell him, nobody, from Peter Paul on down if they wanted to hang with Billie was that Billie had some great dance moves along with that good and growing singing voice. See, Freddie never got to go to the school or church dances and only knew that Billie was an ace singer. But while Freddie was tied to the house he became addicted to American Bandstand and so through osmosis, maybe, got some pretty good moves too.

So at one after-school dance, at a time when Freddie had kept his hands out of his mother’s pocketbook long enough not to be house-bound, he made his big move challenge. He called Billie out. Not loud, not overbearing but everybody knew the score once they saw Freddie’s Eddie Cochran-style suit. The rest of the guys (except Billie, now wearing jeans and tee-shirt when not on stage in local talent contests where such attire got you nowhere) were in chinos (Peter Paul in black-cuffed chinos, as usual) and white shirts, or some combination like that, so Freddie definitely meant business. Freddie said, “If I beat you at dancing I’m running the gang, okay?” (See corner boys was what those professors and news hawks called them but every neighborhood guy, young or old, knew, knew without question, who led, and who was in, or not in, every, well, gang). Billie, always at the ready when backed up against the wall, said simply, “Deal.” Freddie came out with about five minutes of jitter buggery, Danny and the Juniors At The Hop kind of moves. He got plenty of applause and some moony-eyedness from the younger girls (the stick girls who were always moony-eyed until they were not stick girls any more).

Billie came sauntering out, tee-shirt rolled up, tight jeans staying tight and just started to do the stroll as the song of the same name, The Stroll, came on. Now the stroll is a line dance kind of thing but Billie is out there all by himself and making moves, sexual-laden moves, although not everybody watching would have known to call them that. And those moves have all the girls, sticks and shapes, kind of glassy-eyed with that look like maybe Billie needed a partner, or something and a “why not me” look. Even Freddie knew he was doomed and took his lost pretty well, although he still had that hankering for mom’s purse that kept him from being a real regular corner boy when Billie got the thing seriously organized.

Funny thing, Lefty Wright, who actually was on the dance floor the night of the Freddie-Billie dance-off, pushed Billie with the Freddie challenge. And Freddie was twenty times a better dancer than Lefty. Needless to say, join the ranks, Lefty. Canny Danny O’Toole (Cool Donna O’Toole’s, a stick flame of Billie’s, early Billie, brother) was a more serious matter but after a couple of actions (actions best left unspecified) he fell in line. Billie, kind of wiry, kind of quick-fisted as it turned out, and not a guy quick to take offense knew, like a lot of wiry guys, how to handle himself without lots of advertising of that fact. He was going to need that fist-skill when the most serious, more serious than the Canny Danny situation came up. And it did with Badass Bobby Riley, Badass was a known quality, but he was a year older than the others and everybody knew was a certified psychopath who eventually drifted out of sight. Although not before swearing his fealty to Billie. After taking a Billie, a wiry Billie, beating the details of which also need no going into now. And there were probably others who stepped up for a minute, or who didn’t stay long enough to test their metal. Loosey Goosey Hughes, Butternut Walsh, Jimmy Riley (no relation to Badass), Five Fingers Kelly, Kenny Ricco, Billy Bruno, and on and on.

But such was the way of Billie’s existence. He drew a fair share of breaks, for a project kid, got some notice for his singing although not enough to satisfy his huge hunger, his way out, he way out of the projects, projects that had his name written all over them(and the rest of his boys too). And then he didn’t draw some breaks after a while, got known as a hard boy, a hard corner boy when corner boy was going out of style and also his bluesy rockabilly singing style was getting crushed by clean-cut, no hassle, no hell-raising boy boys. And then he started drawing to an outside straight, first a couple of frame-up show trial juvenile clip busts, amid the dreaded publicity, the Roman Catholic mother novena dread publicity, police blottered. Then a couple of house break-ins, taking fall guy lumps for a couple of older, harder corner boys who could make him a fall guy then, as he would others when his turn came. All that was later, a couple of years later. But no question in 1958, especially the summer of 1958 when such things took on a decisive quality, Billie, and for one last time, that’s William James Bradley, in case anyone reading needs the name in order to look it up for the historical record was Billie's time. Yah, 1958, Billie, ah, William James Bradley, and corner boy king.

Funny, as you know, or you should know, corner boys usually gain their fleeting fame from actually hanging around corners, corner mom and pop variety stores, corner pizza parlors, corner pool halls, corner bowling alleys, corner pinball wizard arcades, becoming fixtures at said corners and maybe passing on to old age and social security check collection at said corner. Or maybe not passing to old age but to memory, memory kid’s memory. But feature this, in Billie’s great domain, his great be-bop night kingship, and in his various defenses of his realm against smart guys and stups alike, he never saw so much as a corner corner to rest his laurels on. And not because he did not know that proper etiquette in such matters required some formal corner to hang at but for the sheer, unadulterated fact that no such corner existed in his old-fashioned housing project (now old-fashioned anyway because they make such places differently today), his home base.

See, the guys who made the projects “forgot” that, down and out or not, people need at least a mom and pop variety store to shop at, or nowadays maybe a strip mall, just like everybody else. But none was ever brought into the place and so the closest corner, mom and pop corner anyway, was a couple of miles away up the road. But that place was held by a crowd of older corner boys whose leader, from what was said, would have had Billie for lunch (and did in the end).

But see here is where a guy like Billie got his corner boy franchise anyway. In a place where there are no corners to be king of the corner boy night there needs to be a certain ingenuity and that is where “His Honor” held forth. Why not the back of the old schoolhouse? Well, not so old really because in that mad post-World War II boom night (no pun intended), schools, particularly convenient elementary schools even for projects kids were outracing the boomers. So the school itself was not old but the height of 1950s high-style, functional public building brick and glass. Boxed, of course, building-boxed, classroom-boxed, gym-boxed, library-ditto boxed. No cafeteria-boxed, none necessary reflecting, oddly, walk to school, walk home for lunch, stay-at-home mom childhood culture even in public assistance housing world. And this for women who could have, if they could have stood the gaff from neighbor wives, family wives, society wives screamed to high heaven for work, money work. That was Billie world too, Billie day world. Billie September to June world.

But come dusk, summer dusk best of all, Billie ruled the back end of the school, the quiet unobserved end of the school, the part near the old sailors’ graveyard, placed there to handle the tired old sailors who had finished up residing at the nearby but then no longer used Old Sailors’ Rest Home built for those who roamed the seven seas, the inlet bays, and whatever other water allowed you to hang in the ancient sailors’ world. There Billie held forth, Peter Paul almost always at hand, seeking, always seeking refuge from his hellfire home thrashings. Canny Danny, regularly, same with Lefty and Freddie (when not grounded), and Bobby while he was around. And other guys, other unnamed, maybe unnamable guys who spent a minute in the Billie night. Doing? Yah, just doing some low murmur talking, most nights, mostly some listening to Billie dreams, Billie plans, Billie escape route. All sounding probable, all wistful once you heard about it later. All very easy, all very respectful, in back of that old school unless some old nag of a neighbor, fearful that the low murmur spoke of unknown, unknowable conspiracies against person, against the day, hell, even against the night. Then the cops were summoned. But mainly not.

And then as dusk turned to dark and maybe a moon, an earth moon (who knew then, without telescope, maybe a man-made moon), that soft talk, that soft night talk, turned to a low song throat sound as Billie revved up his voice to some tune his maddened brain caught on his transistor radio (bought fair and square up at the Radio Shack so don’t get all huffy about it). Say maybe Frankie Lymon and The Teenagers Why Do Fools Fall In Love? and then the other ragamuffins would do harmony. Yah, that was twelve, maybe thirteen year old night, most nights, the nights of no rough stuff, the nights of dreams, maybe. But like some ancient siren call that sound penetrated to the depths of the projects and soon a couple of girls, yes, girls, twelve and thirteen year old girls, what do you expect, stick girls and starting shape girls, would hover nearby, maybe fifty yards away but the electricity was in the air, and those hardly made out forms drove Billie and his choir corner boys on. Maybe Elvis’ One Night as a come on. Then a couple more girls, yes, twelve and thirteen year old girls, have you been paying attention, sticks and starting shapes, join those others quietly swaying to the tempo. A few more songs, a few more girls, girls coming closer. Break time. Girl meets boy. Boy meets girl. Hell, even Peter Paul got lucky this night with one of Billie’s stick rejects. And as that moon turned its shades out and the air was fragrance with nature’s marshlands sea air smells and girls’ fresh soap smells and boys’ anxiety smells the Billie corner boy wannabe world seemed not so bad. Yah, 1958 was Billie’s year. Got it.