Saturday, March 12, 2016

Veterans For Peace, Other LGBT Groups Banned Again from Boston’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade

Veterans For Peace, Other LGBT Groups Banned Again from Boston’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade

veterans for peace
Excluded from Boston’s St. Patrick’s Parade were Veterans for Peace, as well as other LGBTQ groups. Included this year again are: OUTVets and Boston Pride
SOUTH BOSTON— Once again Veterans who have honorably served this country, many in times of war with decorations and wounds to prove it, are being denied from walking in the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade. Veterans who have experienced war first hand and who now advocate and work for peace and peaceful resolution to conflicts – NEED NOT APPLY.
“It is shameful that the Allied War Veterans Council are once again disrespecting veterans on Saint Patrick’s Day by not allowing a small unit of Veterans For Peace to march in the traditional parade. What are they afraid of? Our rejection is solely based on the fact that we work for Peace,” stated Pat Scanlon, event organizer for VFP. “This continues to be an embarrassment to the City of Boston and the Boston Police Department who attempted to resolve the issue this year.”
On October 27th negotiations between Brian Mahoney, the then Commander of the Allied War Veterans Council, and Scanlon of Veterans For Peace, took place in Police Commissioner Bill Evan’s office to attempt to resolve the conflict. At the meeting, Veterans For Peace pared down their unit to simply a small contingent of between seventy-five and one hundred veterans, two banners, a couple of cars for disabled and elderly veterans, and flags. The lead banner would read, “Lieutenant Tony F. Flaherty U.S.N. Memorial Unit of Veterans For Peace,” named after their beloved member, long-time resident of South Boston who passed away peacefully in July. Tony at one time was best friends with John “Wacko” Hurley the long time Commander of Allied War Veterans Council. How fitting it would have been to honor both men, who held differing views on war and peace, with resolution of this long standing conflict.
At that time, a deal was struck in the Commissioner Evan’s office. The size and make up of VFP’s unit was acceptable. It was agreed that Veterans For Peace complied with all the stipulations and regulations of the AWVC application. The only thing left, according to Brian Mahoney was for the AWVC to vote to approve the agreement. Two months later the Council finally voted on three things: First, to ask OUTVets to remove the rainbow from their banner, second, to rescind the invitation to Boston Pride and deny their application and third, deny Veterans For Peace’s application. The then Commander of the AWVC, Brian Mahoney resigned at that moment in protest over the vote. 
Two months later the Council finally voted on three things: First, to ask OUTVets to remove the rainbow from their banner, second, to rescind the invitation to Boston Pride and deny their application and third, deny Veterans For Peace’s application. The then Commander of the AWVC, Brian Mahoney resigned at that moment in protest over the vote.

Mahoney stated, “Veterans For Peace, are veterans, have complied with every stipulation of the parade’s application and have pledged to abide by all the rules and regulations as defined by the Council and should be allowed to march in the parade. They are being denied because of what they think and this is not right.”
Once word of this vote was made public, Sylvan Bruni, President of Boston Pride and long time ally of Veterans For Peace and one of the organizers of the inclusive alternative St. Patrick’s Peace Parade, was livid. Both he and Scanlon contacted Mayor Walsh and Commissioner Evan’s offices. Significant pressure was placed upon the AWVC from City Hall resulting in the Council quickly reversing themselves on their decision regarding Out Vets and Boston Pride. Both of these groups will march in the parade this year, but not Veterans For Peace.
Mahoney stated, “Veterans For Peace, are veterans, have complied with every stipulation of the parade’s application and have pledged to abide by all the rules and regulations as defined by the Council and should be allowed to march in the parade. They are being denied because of what they think and this is not right.”

On Tuesday, February 2, a meeting was held at the VFW Post in South Boston to reconsider Veterans For Peace’s application. Police Commissioner Bill Evans, Police Superintendent Bernie O’Rourke and Scanlon from Veterans For Peace made the case for VFP to be allowed to walk in the parade. Scanlon answered every question presented to him. He emphasized that Veterans For Peace would comply with all the rules and regulations as defined by the Parade Organizers. Commissioner Evans stated why it is important to resolve this issue and allow Veterans For Peace into the parade. The Commissioner also said, “the exclusion of these veterans is an embarrassment to the City of Boston.” That evening, after their guests had departed, by a vote of seven to six the AWVC once again denied Veterans For Peace to walk in the parade.
“This decision by the AWVC to exclude Veterans For Peace once again is not in keeping with the opinions of the vast majority of residents of South Boston, it is shameful and disrespectful of veterans,” said Scanlon. “They gave no reason for the rejection. One can only conclude that Peace is still a dirty word in South Boston, as least for the fifteen or so members of the AWVC. Boston has changed, the neighborhood has changed. People appreciate that some veterans who have experienced war first hand, are committed to and continue to work for peace.”
“…The City of Boston should take back the management of the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, making it open and accessible to all, allowing all to be part of the historic celebration of the patron saint of Ireland, Saint Patrick, especially our veterans.”—Bob Funke, the Coordinator of Veterans For Peace

Bob Funke, the Coordinator of Veterans For Peace, a two tour veteran of Vietnam, and recipient of two silver stars, three bronze stars and three purple hearts stated, “Veterans For Peace contends the shortening the parade does not go far enough to rectify the intransigence of the AWVC. The City of Boston should take back the management of the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, making it open and accessible to all, allowing all to be part of the historic celebration of the patron saint of Ireland, Saint Patrick, especially our veterans.”
NOTE: In March of last year, TRT conducted an in-depth story about the AWVC and their “exclusive” parade, which only allowed OUT Vets and Boston Pride to march. Since then mentions were made that this year things would change and Boston Pride’s inclusion would help other LGBT groups to march this year. As of this date, no other LGBT group has been approved to march. Other TRT coverage of the St. Patrick’s Parade and the continuous exclusion of other groups, history, etc. can be found here.
[From a News Release]
Also From The Web

*For The Folkies From Muskogee And Elsewhere- The Bob Feldman Music Blog On "My Space"-Free Leonard Peltier

Click on the headline to link to the Bob Feldman Music Blog( for lack of a better name) on My Space.

Markin comment:

This is great stuff for any music aficionado, especially of folk, social protest, and roots music. I am going to be "stealing" entries off of this site periodically but you should be checking it out yourselves. Kudos, Bob Feldman.

*****When The Tin Can Bended…. In The Time Of The Late Folk-Singer Dave Van Ronk’s Time

*****When The Tin Can Bended…. In The Time Of The Late Folk-Singer Dave Van Ronk’s Time
 
 
 
From The Pen Of Bart Webber
 

Sometimes Sam Lowell and his “friend” (really “sweetie,” long time sweetie, paramour, significant other, consort or whatever passes for the socially acceptable or Census Bureau bureaucratic “speak” way to name somebody who is one’s soul-mate, his preferred term) Laura Perkins whose relationship to Sam was just described in parenthesis, and righteously so, liked to go to Crane’s Beach in Ipswich to either cool off in the late summer heat or in the fall before the New England weather lowers its hammer and the place gets a bit inaccessible. That later summer  heat escape valve is a result of the hard fact that July, when they really would like to go there to catch a few fresh sea breezes, is not a time to show up at the bleach white sands beach due to nasty blood-sucking green flies swarming and dive-bombing like some berserk renegade Air Force squadron lost on a spree who breed in the nearby swaying mephitic marshes.

The only “safe haven” then is to drive up the hill to the nearby robber-baron days etched Crane Castle to get away from the buggers, although on a stagnant wind day you might have a few vagrant followers, as the well-to-do have been doing since there were well-to-do and had the where-with-all to escape the summer heat and bugs at higher altitudes. By the way I assume that “castle” is capitalized when it part of a huge estate, the big ass estate of Crane, now a trust monument to the first Gilded Age, not today’s neo-Gilded Age, architectural proclivities of the rich, the guy whose company did, does all the plumbing fixture stuff on half the bathrooms in America including the various incantations of the mansion. 

Along the way, along the hour way to get to Ipswich from Cambridge Sam and Laura had developed a habit of making the time more easy passing by listening to various CDs, inevitably not listened to for a long time folk CDs, not listened to for so long that the plastic containers needed to be dusted off before being brought along, on the car CD player. And is their wont while listening to some CD to comment on this or that thing that some song brought to mind, or the significance of some song in their youth.  One of the things that had brought them together early on several years back was their mutual interest in the old 1960s folk minute which Sam, a little older and having grown up within thirty miles of Harvard Square, one the big folk centers of that period along with the Village and North Beach out in Frisco town, had imbibed deeply. Laura, growing up “in the sticks,” in farm country in upstate New York had gotten the breeze at second-hand through records, records bought at Cheapo Records and the eternal Sandy's on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge and a little the fading Cambridge folk scene when she had moved to Boston in the early 1970s to go to graduate school.     

One hot late August day they got into one such discussion about how they first developed an interest in folk music when Sam had said “sure everybody, everybody over the age of say fifty to be on the safe side, knows about Bob Dylan, maybe some a little younger too if some hip kids have browsed through their parents’ old vinyl record collections now safely ensconced in the attic although there are stirrings of retro-vinyl revival of late according a report he had heard on NPR. Some of that over 50 crowd and their young acolytes would also know about how Dylan, after serving something like an apprenticeship under the influence of Woody Guthrie in the late 1950s singing Woody’s songs imitating Woody's style something  fellow Woody acolytes like Ramblin’ Jack Elliot never quite got over moved on, got all hung up on high symbolism and obscure references. Funny guys like Jack actually made a nice workman-like career out of Woody covers, so their complaints seen rather hollow now. That over 50s crowd would also know Dylan became if not the voice of the Generation of ’68, their generation, which he probably did not seriously aspire in the final analysis, then the master troubadour of the age.

Sam continued along that line after Laura had said she was not sure about the connection and he said he meant, “troubadour in the medieval sense of bringing news to the people and entertaining them by song and poetry as well if not decked in some officially approved garb like back in those olden days where they worked under a king’s license if lucky, by their wit otherwise but the 'new wave' post-beatnik flannel shirt, work boots, and dungarees which connected you with the roots, the American folk roots down in the Piedmont, down in Appalachia, down in Mister James Crow’s Delta. So, yes, that story has been pretty well covered.”  

Laura said she knew all of that about the desperate search for roots although not that Ramblin’ Jack had been an acolyte of Woody’s but she wondered about others, some other folk performers who she listened to on WUMB on Saturday morning when some weeping willow DJ put forth about fifty old time rock and folk things a lot of which she had never heard of back in Mechanicsville outside of Albany where she grew up. Sam then started in again, “Of course that is hardly the end of the story since Dylan did not create that now hallowed folk minute of the early 1960s. He had been washed by it when he came to the East from Hibbing, Minnesota for God’s sake (via Dink’s at the University), came into the Village where there was a cauldron of talent trying to make folk the next big thing, the next big cultural thing for the young and restless of the post-World War II generations. For us. But also those in little oases like the Village where the disaffected could put up on stuff they couldn’t get in places like Mechanicsville or Carver where I grew up. People who I guess, since even I was too young to know about that red scare stuff except to you had to follow your teacher’s orders to put your head under your desk and hand over your head if the nuclear holocaust was coming, were frankly fed up with the cultural straightjacket of the red scare Cold War times and began seriously looking as hard at roots in all its manifestations as our parents, definitely mine, yours were just weird about stuff like that, right, were burying those same roots under a vanilla existential Americanization. How do you like that for pop sociology 101.”

“One of the talents who was already there when hick Dylan came a calling, lived there, came from around there was the late Dave Van Ronk who as you know we had heard several times in person, although unfortunately when his health and well-being were declining not when he was a young politico and hell-raising folk aspirant. You know he also, deservedly, fancied himself a folk historian as well as musician.”    

“Here’s the funny thing, Laura, that former role is important because we all know that behind the “king” is the “fixer man,” the guy who knows what is what, the guy who tells one and all what the roots of the matter were like some mighty mystic (although in those days when he fancied himself a socialist that mystic part was played down). Dave Van Ronk was serious about that part, serious about imparting that knowledge about the little influences that had accumulated during the middle to late 1950s especially around New York which set up that folk minute. New York like I said, Frisco, maybe in small enclaves in L.A. and in precious few other places during those frozen times a haven for the misfits, the outlaws, the outcast, the politically “unreliable,” and the just curious. People like the mistreated Weavers, you know, Pete Seeger and that crowd found refuge there when the hammer came down around their heads from the red-baiters and others like advertisers who ran for cover to “protect” their precious soap, toothpaste, beer, deodorant or whatever they were mass producing to sell to a hungry pent-ip market.  

Boston and Cambridge by comparison until late in the 1950s when the Club 47 and other little places started up and the guys and gals who could sing, could write songs, could recite poetry even had a place to show their stuff instead of to the winos, rummies, grifters and conmen who hung out at the Hayes-Bickford or out on the streets could have been any of the thousands of towns who bought into the freeze.”     

“Sweetie, I remember one time but I don’t remember where, maybe the CafĂ© Nana when that was still around after it had been part of the Club 47 folk circuit for new talent to play and before Harry Reid, who ran the place, died and it closed down, I know it was before we met, so it had to be before the late 1980s Von Ronk told a funny story, actually two funny stories, about the folk scene and his part in that scene as it developed a head of steam in the mid-1950s which will give you an idea about his place in the pantheon. During the late 1950s after the publication of Jack Kerouac’s ground-breaking road wanderlust adventure novel that got young blood stirring, not mine until later since I was clueless on all that stuff except rock and roll, On The Road which I didn’t read until high school, the jazz scene, the cool be-bop jazz scene and poetry reading, poems reflecting off of “beat” giant Allen Ginsberg’s Howl the clubs and coffeehouse of the Village were ablaze with readings and cool jazz, people waiting in line to get in to hear the next big poetic wisdom guy if you can believe that these days when poetry is generally some esoteric endeavor by small clots of devotees just like folk music. The crush of the lines meant that there were several shows per evening. But how to get rid of one audience to bring in another in those small quarters was a challenge.

Presto, if you wanted to clear the house just bring in some desperate “from hunger” snarly nasally folk singer for a couple, maybe three songs, and if that did not clear the high art be-bop poetry house then that folk singer was a goner. A goner until the folk minute of the 1960s who probably in that very same club then played for the 'basket.' You know the 'passed hat' which even on a cheap date, and a folk music coffeehouse date was a cheap one in those days like I told you before and you laughed at cheapie me and the 'Dutch treat' thing, you felt obliged to throw a few bucks into to show solidarity or something.  And so the roots of New York City folk according to the 'father.'

Laura interrupted to ask if that “basket” was like the buskers put in front them these days and Sam said yes. And asked Sam about a few of the dates he took to the coffeehouses in those days, just out of curiosity she said, meaning if she had been around would he have taken her there then. He answered that question but since it is an eternally complicated and internal one I have skipped it to let him go on with the other Von Ronk story. He continued with the other funny story like this-“The second story involved his [Von Ronk's] authoritative role as a folk historian who after the folk minute had passed became the subject matter for, well, for doctoral dissertations of course just like today maybe people are getting doctorates in hip-hop or some such subject. Eager young students, having basked in the folk moment in the abstract and with an academic bent, breaking new ground in folk history who would come to him for the 'skinny.' Now Van Ronk had a peculiar if not savage sense of humor and a wicked snarly cynic’s laugh but also could not abide academia and its’ barren insider language so when those eager young students came a calling he would give them some gibberish which they would duly note and footnote. Here is the funny part. That gibberish once published in the dissertation would then be cited by some other younger and even more eager students complete with the appropriate footnotes. Nice touch, nice touch indeed on that one, right.”

Laura did not answer but laughed, laughed harder as she thought about it having come from that unformed academic background and having read plenty of sterile themes turned inside out.       

As Laura laugh settled Sam continued “As for Van Ronk’s music, his musicianship which he cultivated throughout his life, I think the best way to describe that for me is that one Sunday night in the early 1960s I was listening to the local folk program on WBZ hosted by Dick Summer, who was influential in boosting local folk musician Tom Rush’s career and who was featured on that  Tom Rush documentary No Regrets we got for being members of WUMB, when this gravelly-voice guy, sounding like some old mountain pioneer, sang the Kentucky hills classic Fair and Tender Ladies. It turned out to be Von Ronk's version which you know I still play up in the third floor attic. After that I was hooked on that voice and that depth of feeling that he brought to every song even those of his own creation which tended to be spoofs on some issue of the day.”

Laura laughed at Sam and the intensity with which his expressed his mentioning of the fact that he liked gravelly-voiced guys for some reason. Here is her answer, “You should became when you go up to the third floor to do your “third floor folk- singer” thing and you sing Fair and Tender Ladies I hear this gravelly-voiced guy, sounding like some old mountain pioneer, some Old Testament Jehovah prophet come to pass judgment come that end day time.”
They both laughed. 

Laura then mentioned the various times that they had seen Dave Von Ronk before he passed away, not having seen him in his prime, when that voice did sound like some old time prophet, a title he would have probably secretly enjoyed for publicly he was an adamant atheist. Sam went on, “ I saw him perform many times over the years, sometimes in high form and sometimes when drinking too much high-shelf whiskey, Chavis Regal, or something like that not so good. Remember we had expected to see him perform as part of Rosalie Sorrels’ farewell concert at Saunders Theater at Harvard in 2002 I think. He had died a few weeks before.  Remember though before that when we had seen him for what turned out to be our last time and I told you he did not look well and had been, as always, drinking heavily and we agreed his performance was subpar. But that was at the end. For a long time he sang well, sang us well with his own troubadour style, and gave us plenty of real information about the history of American folk music. Yeah like he always used to say-'when the tin can bended …..and the story ended.'

As they came to the admission booth at the entrance to Crane’s Beach Sam with Carolyn Hester’s song version of Walt Whitman’s On Captain, My Captain on the CD player said “I was on my soap box long enough on the way out here. You’re turn with Carolyn Hester on the way back who you know a lot about and I know zero, okay.” Laura retorted, “Yeah you were definitely on your soap-box but yes we can talk Carolyn Hester because I am going to cover one of her songs at my next “open mic.” And so it goes.                      

*From The "HistoMat" Blog- The Uses Of "Facebook"?

Click on the headline to link to a "HistoMat" blog entry concerning the possible uses of "Facebook" as an organizing tool for our leftist politics.


Markin comment:

This is hardly my, or anyone's, last word on the the possible uses of technology as such uses are always a necessary consideration as they evolve for those of us that fight for our communist future. One only needs to look at the use of such technologies ("Twitter","Facebook", "YouTube",blogs, etc.)in the initial organizing of the opposition in Iran to understand these possibilities. But there are limitations to the use of any such vehicles as effective tools for our side, our communist side, especially given our current tasks. The hard facts for us today are the necessity to recruit, teach, and maintain the cadre who will raise hell now(as the linked article in the blog details)but also be there when a revolutionary opportunity opens up. That cadre creation no cyberspace technology can act as a substitute for, at least if history is any guide.

Friday, March 11, 2016

In Honor Of Women’s History Month – Poet Jesse Baxter’s In Pharaoh Times


In Honor Of Women’s History Month – Poet Jesse Baxter’s In Pharaoh Times



In Pharaoh Times

Isis, daughter of Isis major, mother- wife-sister of the human sun god

Awoke, awoke with a start weary from brother couplings; and stray poppy laden abandoned copulations

Configurations only a deacon priest filled with signs and amulets could fathom, or some racked court astrologer

To face the stone-breaking day, a day filled to the brim, overflowing, with portents

Arisen, washed, fragranced, headed to the balcony to observe unseen and to be observed seen beneath the cloudless skies      

Out in the ocean sea of whirling sand, out in the endless chiseled stone sun blazing day; her sea visage on down heads, eyes averted

Hittites, Gilts, Samians, Cretans, Nubians, Babylonians all conquered all down heads and averted eyes

Out on the ocean see, a lone sable warrior defeated, defeated with down head and upward eye disturbed the blistering heat day

Isis, daughter of Isis major, mother-wife-sister-child of the human sun king   shrinks back in fear, fear time has come

That black will devour Nubian and rise, rise

Yes, rise in Pharaoh times       

Jesse Baxter had never been so angry in his young black and be damned life as he had been at his, well, let’s call her his lady friend, even though strictly speaking she was more than a lady friend and the term had lost some of its urgency in the rush to proclaim a new estate for women which included cutting down to size such terms but lady friend for private consumption, Louise Crawford, since he was not sure whether girlfriend in the intricate relationship networks of the 1960s in quirky old Greenwich Village in the depths of trail-blazing New Jack City was an appropriate designation for their newly flowered relationship. Jesse a budding poet, a very hopeful poet who had just begun to get noticed in that rarified Village air had become one of Louise Crawford ‘s, ah, “conquests” on her way to tasting  all that the Bohemian night offered (not quite “beat,”  that had become passĂ© by then and not quite “hip” as in hippie that would become the fashion later in the decade so bohemian, meaning out on the cultural outer edge, would do, would do as long as Jesse thought such a term was appropriate).

We should take note of that budding poet business since David Logan, the influenicial critic for Poetry Today, the bible of the trade, among others had proclaimed Jesse the cleanest voice around since Langston Hughes put pen to paper. But see just then no young black poet (or any kind of cultural artist for that matter) wanted to be compared to any old Tom-ish figure who went “white” when the deal went down, didn’t want to incur LeRoi Jones soon to return to his Africa name  and his ilk’s wrath much less exile Jimmy Baldwin’s. Needed to show that he could tell Mister Whitey to take himself and his cultural apparatus that was a yoke on his or blackness to go to hell with his brethren down among the Mister James Crow brethren. Above all did not want to be tarred with some hokey David Logan Poetry Today-funded by one of the Lowells, not real poet Robert’s branch by the textile one, brush as the great “white” hope to assuage liberal guilt or whatever guilt needed assuaging after four hundred years of letting the rednecks have their way. So paint one Jesse Baxter officially as an angry black artists who was going to tell the world what was what and be damned straight about it too.      

Here’s the funny little contradiction, the little blind spot white spot in which Jesse was hardly alone. Jesse had seen Louise around the Village several times at the trendy art shows (the first of the Soho-Warhol doings away from the “official” modernist art of the Village and MoMa),  upbeat coffeehouses beginning to emerge from “beat” poetry and jazz scenes to retro folk revival stuff where he was able to get still get play because he had been befriended by Dave Von Ronk who was the father figure of that revival, and at a few loft parties large enough to get lost in without having met everybody or anyone, if that was what one wanted. He had heard of her “exploits,” exploits tramping through the budding literati but had only become acquainted with Louise through her “old” lover, Jose, Jose Guzman, the surrealist-influenced painter who was beginning to make a splash for himself in the up and coming art galleries emerging over in that nearby Soho previously mentioned (emerging as much because the penniless young artists were priced out of the Village once the suburban kids with father’s dough started renting dig in that hip locale. And either she had tired of Jose (possible once he tried one of his forever Picasso-Dali painterly tirades) or he had tired of her (more probable since Jose was thrown off right from the beginning by her “bourgeois “command manner and her overweening need to seem like a white hipster under every circumstance although she was quote, Jose, quote, square, unquote but a good tumble, a very good tumble under the sheets) and so one night she had hit on Jesse at a coffeehouse, Mike’s across from the Gaslight where he was reading and that was that. (Strangely in the folk mythology Mike Greenleaf the owner of Mike’s had actually in the late 1950s gone with several other NYU students to “discover” the old bluesmen like John Hurt, Bukka White, Skip James, guys like that who then came up and played the Gaslight and Geddes since the small Mike-style coffeehouses couldn’t afford the gaff and so the homeless poets, black and beat, or both found refuge there.)   

But enough of small talk and back to Jesse’s rage. At one up-scale party held on Riverside Drive among the culturati, or what passed for such in downtrodden New York,  as they had become an “item” Louise had introduced Jesse as the “greatest Negro poet since Langston Hughes and the Harlem Renaissance.” Jesse was not put off by the comparison with the great Hughes, no way, that would come later under the influence of black protest poets like Jones and the ever-hovering presence of Baldwin, he accepted that designation with a certain sense of honor, although qualified a bit by the different rhythm that motivated Langston’s words, be-bop jazz, and his own Bo Diddley /Chuck Berry-etched  “child of rock and roll” beat running in his head. What he was put off by was that “negro”  designation, a term of derision just then in his universe as young blacks, especially young black men, were moving away from the negro Doctor King thing and toward that Malcolm freedom term, black, black as night, black is beautiful. Jesus, hadn’t she read his To Malcolm –Black Warrior Prince. (Apparently one of the virtues of tramping through the literati was an understanding that there was no actual need to read, look, hear, anything that your new “conquest” had written, drawn or sung. In the case of Louise she had made something of an art form out of that fact once confessing to Jesse that she had only actually read, and re-read, his Louise Love In Quiet Time written by him after some silly spat since she was the subject. His other work she had somebody summarize for her. Jesus, again.) 

And it was not like Louise Crawford, yes, that Crawford, the scion-ess [sic] of the Wall Street Crawfords who had (have) been piling up dough and gouging profits since the start of the republic, was not attuned to the changes going on underneath bourgeois society just then but was her way to “own” him, own him like in olden times. While he was too much the gentile son of W.E.B. Dubois’ “talented tenth” (his parents both school teachers down in hometown Trenton who however needed to scrimp and safe to put him through Howard University) to make a scene at that party latter in the cab home to her place in the Village (as the well-tipped taxi driver could testify to, if necessary). Jesse lashed into her with all the fury a budding poet and belittled black man could muster.

In short, he would not be “owned” by some white bread woman who was just “cruising” the cultural and ethnic out-riggings before going back to marry some son of some sorry family friend stockbroker and live on Riverside Drive and summer in the Hamptons and all the rest while he struggled to create his words, his black soul-saturated word .

The harangue continued up into her loft and then Jesse ran out of steam a little (he had had a little too much of high-shelf liquors and of hits on the bong pipe to last forever in that state). Louise called for a truce, said she was sorry, sorry for being a square, and called him to her bed, pretty please to her bed. He, between the buzz in his head from the stimulants and the realization that she was good in bed, if nothing else, followed. And that night they made those sheets sweat with their juices. After they were depleted Jesse thought to himself that Louise might be just slumming but he would take a ticket and stay for the ride and fell asleep. Louise on the other hand, got up and went to the window to look out at her city, lit a cigarette and pondered some of Jesse’s words, pondered them for a while and got just a little bit fearful for her future as she went back to her bed and lay down next to the sleeping Jesse.

Later when he awakened just before dawn Jesse wrote his edgy poem In Pharaoh Times partially to contain the edges of his left-over rage and partially to take his distance from a daughter of Isis…

And hence this Women’s History Month contribution.                      

A View From The Left-U.S. Out of the Near East!-Syria: Imperialists Fuel Bloodbath

Workers Vanguard No. 1084
26 February 2016
 
U.S. Out of the Near East!-Syria: Imperialists Fuel Bloodbath
 
FEBRUARY 22—For four years, the U.S. imperialists and a host of lesser powers have been stirring the Syrian cauldron, inflicting untold bloodshed on the Syrian people. The result of this all-sided intervention and carnage: Much of Syria has been laid waste, its economy is in ruins, and more than half its population has been driven from their homes, either as displaced persons within the country or as refugees abroad.
The Western bourgeois press explains those refugees as caused solely by the undeniable crimes of the Bashar al-Assad regime and its barrel bombs dropped on civilian populations. What about U.S. bombing? Kobani was “liberated” from the control of the reactionary fundamentalist Islamic State (ISIS) by being leveled. Likewise, in Iraq, Ramadi was retaken from ISIS by an Iraqi army that heretofore had proven itself to be a hollow shell. The secret of that remarkable success? The city was first reduced to rubble by U.S. airstrikes.
The rebel forces in Syria have received arms and financing from countries intent on pursuing their own agendas at the expense of the Syrian people. The Sunni Arab regimes of Saudi Arabia and Qatar are determined to deliver a blow to the Assad regime, which is based on the Alawites, followers of an offshoot of Shi’ite Islam. Shi’ite Iran, the great bugbear of these Gulf states, is Assad’s principal backer, and in recent months Russia has provided air support to the Syrian army. Turkey wants to see Assad replaced by a compliant Sunni fundamentalist regime that would serve as a platform for projecting Turkish power and influence in the Near East. Since the start of the war, Turkey has opened its borders to the flow of jihadists into Syria and provided funds and military hardware to support them.
Meanwhile, the U.S. imperialists, backed up on occasion by their junior imperialist partners Britain and France, are mainly directing their bombs against ISIS, while providing support to “moderate” rebel forces. Most recently, the U.S. carried out airstrikes in Libya on February 19 to target an ISIS camp, killing over 40 people, including two Serbian hostages held by ISIS. Libya itself has been fractured by fighting between warring factions since the U.S.-backed overthrow and murder of Libya’s former bourgeois strongman, Muammar el-Qaddafi, in 2011.
As Marxists, our starting point is that the main enemy, not only of the Syrian people but of the working masses of the world, is U.S. imperialism, as well as the other imperialist powers involved. The bloody mayhem that has been visited upon the Syrian people is the direct consequence of imperialist domination of the Near East. We have no side in the Syrian civil war, which is reactionary on all sides. But we do have a side against U.S. imperialism.
Any defeat or setback inflicted upon the imperialists in the Near East is in the interests of working people internationally, not least in the U.S., where workers have been ground down by years of economic crisis and a “recovery” from which they have not benefited. Thus, while we are die-hard opponents of everything the reactionary cutthroats of ISIS stand for, we are for the military defense of ISIS when it aims its fire against the imperialist armed forces and their proxies in the region. These include the Syrian Kurdish nationalists as well as the Baghdad government, the Shi’ite militias in Iraq and the Kurdish pesh merga in northern Iraq, who have all acted as the ground troops of the U.S. military intervention in the area.
Any blow that helps to impede the imperialists’ designs in the Near East can only aid the proletariat and oppressed of the region. The peoples of the Near East will not know peace, prosperity or justice until bourgeois rule is overthrown through a series of socialist revolutions. Only in a socialist federation of the Near East will there be a full and equal place for all the myriad peoples of the area—Sunnis, Shi’ites and Christians as well as the Kurdish, Palestinian Arab and Israeli Jewish nations.
Syrian Hellhole
The focus of recent fighting in Syria is a crucial strip of land linking Aleppo, once the country’s largest city and industrial hub, to the border with Turkey. Here various forces backed by regional and international rivals are clashing in what could well be a turning point in the war.
From the south, the Syrian army has pushed to within 15 miles of the Turkish border, threatening to seal off what for years has been the main conduit of aid to rebel forces battling Assad. After suffering serious setbacks, the regime’s military has been greatly strengthened by almost five months of escalating intervention by Russian warplanes, which have been bombing rebel positions and residential neighborhoods.
From the east, U.S.-backed Kurdish fighters in northern Syria, also benefiting from Russian airstrikes, have rapidly seized territory lining the Turkish border—sometimes battling other forces supported by the U.S. Kurdish advances have infuriated Turkey’s rulers, who throughout the Syrian war have sought to prevent the consolidation of a semi-autonomous Kurdish zone in northern Syria. This is all the more vital to Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdogan now that he is engaged in a brutal offensive against the nationalist Kurdistan Workers Party (PKK) based in Turkey. Since February 13, Turkey has been shelling positions in Syria held by the Kurdish Democratic Union Party (PYD) and its military wing, the People’s Protection Committees (YPG), which are affiliated to the PKK.
The YPG declared its intention to seize the entire 68-mile-long stretch of border from the Euphrates River to the town of Azaz, essentially uniting the western and eastern border regions that it controls. Turkey’s prime minister threatened “a severe response” if that happened. He warned: “We will not let Azaz fall.”
Washington’s alliance with the YPG has heightened tensions between the U.S. and Turkey. Addressing his U.S. ally, Erdogan asked: “Are you on our side or the side of the terrorist PYD and PKK organizations?” From Washington’s point of view, the answer is both: On the one hand, Turkey is a key U.S./NATO ally, and Washington joins Ankara in labeling the PKK “terrorist.” On the other hand, the Syrian PYD/YPG fighters have served as the ground troops for the U.S. imperialist intervention, coordinating battlefield operations with U.S. military planners, operating with U.S. special ops forces and serving as spotters for U.S. bombing runs.
The close cooperation between the Kurdish nationalists and their supposed U.S. benefactors will not stop the latter from turning on them. Last July, in exchange for use of the Incirlik Air Base in Turkey to launch operations against ISIS, the U.S. gave the Ankara regime the green light to launch airstrikes in northern Iraq against the PKK. As we have warned, by selling their souls to the U.S. imperialists, the Kurdish nationalists have committed a crime for which the long-dispossessed Kurdish masses will pay the price.
The struggle for Kurdish self-determination—that is, to form a Kurdish state—is a just one, requiring the defeat of four capitalist states: Syria, Turkey, Iraq and Iran. We have long raised the call for a Socialist Republic of United Kurdistan. However, in Syria and Iraq the Kurdish nationalists have subordinated the fight for Kurdish self-determination to their alliance with U.S. imperialism. Any fight for Kurdish independence must take as its starting point opposition to U.S. imperialist intervention and to the nationalist parties that serve it.
In recent weeks, Ankara has called on the U.S. and its coalition partners to launch a ground invasion in northern Syria. So far, the U.S. has sidestepped the issue of a possible ground invasion of Syria—the Obama administration has limited itself to sending special ops forces. Turkey has also reiterated its longstanding call for imposing a no-fly zone in northern Syria. This is a not-so-veiled threat against Russia, which has provided the crucial air support for the rapid advances by the Syrian army and the YPG. In November, Turkish forces shot down a Russian jet as it was carrying out raids in Syria’s northern Latakia province, an area where rebel Turkmen militias have operated with artillery support from the Turkish military across the border. In response, Russian president Vladimir Putin denounced the Erdogan regime as “accomplices of terrorists.”
Our main opposition is to the imperialists, but we also oppose the other capitalist powers involved in Syria and call on them to leave. That includes not only Turkey and Saudi Arabia but also the Russian and Iranian forces, which were invited in by the Syrian government.
Imperialist Depredations and Aspiring Commanders-in-Chief
U.S. policy in Syria is as incoherent and bumbling as it is ruinous to the masses of the Near East. Behind this incoherence is the fact that Saudi Arabia and Turkey are among the U.S.’s key allies in the region. At the same time, Washington’s main target is ISIS, which is tacitly backed by Riyadh and Ankara.
When the U.S., Turkey and the Gulf states began heavily supporting the Syrian rebels four years ago, Washington filled the airwaves with horror stories about the brutality of the Assad regime. In fact, in earlier years of the “war on terror,” the U.S. shipped suspects to Damascus for “interrogation”—i.e., torture. When the civil war escalated, the U.S. expected Assad’s military would collapse. After all, the Alawites, who constitute the regime’s main base of support and account for most of the officer corps, make up a mere 12 percent of the country’s population. Yet the Syrian regime, defying the imperialists’ expectations, showed remarkable staying power. Meanwhile, the U.S. rulers, blinded by their great-power arrogance, could not fathom why rebel groups owned and operated by the CIA did not strike a chord among the Syrian people.
It soon dawned on important figures in U.S. ruling circles that Barack Obama’s goal of “regime change” necessarily meant replacing Assad with Islamic fundamentalists. As reported by Seymour Hersh in the London Review of Books (January 7), the Pentagon, starting in the autumn of 2013, went so far as to secretly funnel military intelligence and tactical advice to the Assad regime to be used against the very rebels that the White House was backing. Today, rebel forces are reportedly worried that the Obama administration is preparing to abandon them as it seeks to negotiate, centrally with Russia, a “political transition” that would keep Assad in power, at least for a period of time.
However, even that “peace plan” is in trouble. An administration official recently opined that there may in fact be a military solution in Syria—“just not our solution” but that of Putin’s Russia. Perhaps. Putin might also use his strengthened position in Syria to bargain for concessions on sanctions against Russia or on the growing NATO presence in the Baltics and elsewhere in East Europe. While the U.S. is eager to curb Russia’s influence in the Near East, it also feels compelled to cut some kind of deal with Putin on Syria.
What explains the Assad regime’s unexpected resilience? While most of the Syrian military, including a significant number of its generals, are—like the rebel forces—Sunni Muslim, defections by individuals were not accompanied by the predicted breaking away of chunks of the army. More generally, the inescapable fact is that for many in Syria the Islamic jihadists are scarcely viewed as an improvement over the Assad dictatorship.
In ISIS-controlled territory, as has been widely reported, those who are not Sunni are beheaded if they refuse to convert; untold numbers of women have been kidnapped and sold into forced marriages. Less widely reported by the servile media is the fact that sharia law has also been imposed by sections of the Free Syrian Army, the so-called “moderates” touted by Washington. Rebel groups have repeatedly perpetrated massacres in Alawite, Christian and other minority villages. Likewise, Sunni Arab and Turkmen villagers have been driven out by YPG forces.
Both candidates for the Democratic Party presidential nomination have positioned themselves to carry on U.S. imperialism’s devastating policy in Syria. As secretary of state, Hillary Clinton was consistently on the more hawkish side within the Obama administration. She was a chief proponent of the air war against Libya and pushed hard for retaining a stronger military force in Iraq and for supplying arms to Syrian rebels. Robert Gates, who was defense secretary under both George W. Bush and Obama, recalled in Duty: Memoir of a Secretary at War (2014) how he and Clinton teamed up in 2009 to force the decision to escalate the war in Afghanistan and, the following year, to delay the drawdown of forces.
Clinton calls for the establishment of a no-fly zone in Syria, a position shared by Republican presidential hopefuls Marco Rubio and John Kasich. The Obama administration has not ruled out the idea, but a number of Congressional Democrats have voiced (understandable) fears that such a move would risk military conflict with Russia. Clinton countered that the U.S. needs to stand up to Russian “bullying.”
Democratic candidate Bernie Sanders, while calling the no-fly zone idea “very dangerous,” has also been a loyal supporter of the administration’s bellicose policy in Syria and elsewhere (see “Bernie Sanders: Imperialist Running Dog,” WV No. 1083, 12 February). Both he and Clinton agree on “regime change” in Syria—the overthrow of Assad. Sanders simply proposes a different policy to advance U.S. imperialism’s interests in the region, calling for “putting together a coalition of Arab countries who should be leading the effort” to defeat ISIS. This effectively means calling on Arab countries to provide the ground troops in Syria to support Washington’s objectives.
In fact, the country that would be “leading” Sanders’s “coalition” is Washington’s main Arab partner, Saudi Arabia, which claims adherence to the extreme, Wahabi variant of Sunni fundamentalism from which ISIS derives its theology. In Saudi Arabia, women are not allowed to drive. Without the consent of a male guardian, they cannot go to university or (if under the age of 45) travel abroad, and they risk being stoned to death for adultery. As for beheadings, the Saudi kingdom does not take a backseat to ISIS. In recent years, hundreds of people have been beheaded in Saudi Arabia for offenses including blasphemy, apostasy, homosexuality and sorcery. In a country where public observance of any religion besides Islam is forbidden, foreign workers, with their own religious practices, are especially vulnerable to being convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to 1,000 lashes, long prison terms or beheading. (A special police agency, the Anti-Witchcraft Unit, is tasked with investigating alleged witches, neutralizing their paraphernalia and nullifying their spells.) The bodies of those beheaded are often crucified and publicly displayed for several days, their heads either sewn back onto their bodies or suspended above corpses in plastic bags.
Defeat U.S. Imperialism Through Socialist Revolution!
Next month will mark the 13th anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, which resulted in a pro-Iran regime in Baghdad and unleashed Sunni and Shi’ite fundamentalist militias that have carried out pogroms against each other’s peoples. This set the stage for the current bloody unraveling of the region, in particular by sharply intensifying the conflict between the Sunni Gulf states and Shi’ite Iran. At home, the handmaiden to that war, the occupation of Afghanistan and the U.S.’s other military adventures has been the American rulers’ onslaught against working people, minorities and most everyone else.
The U.S. working class must be won to the understanding that its enemy is its “own” ruling class and that it needs to oppose imperialist aggression abroad. Many working people are understandably repelled by the medieval brutality of groups like ISIS. But the gruesome crimes of ISIS pale in comparison to those of U.S. imperialism, responsible for the slaughter of tens of millions around the world. It is in the interest of American workers that U.S. imperialism suffer setbacks and defeats in its military aggressions and designs.
It is not ISIS, Al Qaeda or some other Islamist force that has taken income inequality here to virtually unprecedented heights. The same ruling class that wreaks death and destruction abroad gorges itself on profits while the workers it exploits have their jobs slashed and their health and pension benefits torn up. This same ruling class unleashes its cops to kill black youth on America’s streets, holds nearly one-quarter of the world’s prison population in its dungeons, lets this country’s infrastructure rot and outright poisons cities like Flint.
What is desperately needed is class struggle against the capitalist rulers, which would both defend the interests of workers at home and hinder the ambitions of U.S. imperialism abroad. On at least a superficial level, many working people in the U.S. perceive that the hardships they endure here are somehow related to the exploitation and oppression carried out by their rulers abroad. Our aim is to win the most conscious layers of the working class to the understanding that what is necessary is the overturn of the U.S. capitalist order through socialist revolution, which is the only way out of this system predicated on exploitation, racist oppression and imperialist war.
We fight to build a workers party, the necessary instrument to lead the multiracial proletariat in the struggle for power. Such a party—section of a reforged Fourth International—must be built in opposition to all capitalist parties and through political struggle against the misleaders of the trade unions, who chain the proletariat to its capitalist class enemy, not least by promoting the lie that the working class and the capitalist rulers share common interests. Only victorious workers revolutions on an international scale can end imperialist slaughter and ethnic bloodletting, opening the road to eliminating material scarcity and building an egalitarian socialist society.

Howling At The Moon-When Howlin’ Wolf Held Forth

Howling At The Moon-When Howlin’ Wolf Held Forth  

 

 

 From The Pen Of Bart Webber


One night when Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris were sitting in Johnny D’s over in Somerville [this night was several years before the recent 2015 announcement that that central spot for the blues tradition and up and coming newer musical genre was closing after a forty year run], over near the Davis Square monster Redline MBTA stop sipping a couple of Anchor Steam beers, a taste acquired by Sam out in Frisco town in the old days on hot nights like that one waiting for the show to begin and picked up by Ralph along the way when drinking his life-time scotch whiskey became verboten after a bad medical check-up about ten years before Ralph mentioned that some music you acquired kind of naturally. A lot of their conversations of late, the last few years as they slid into retirement Ralph giving the day to day operations of his specialty electrical shop over to his youngest son and Sam giving the day to day management of his high volume printing business to his longtime employee, Jimmy Jones, who held the place together at the beginning while Sam headed West with a gang of other Carver corner boys in search of the great blue-pink American West night that animated much of the late 1960s had centered on their lifetime of common musical interests (except folk music which Sam came of age with, caught the drift as it came through Harvard Square where he would hang out to get out of the house when tensions boiled  o to some extent but which mostly even with Bob Dylan anti-war protest songs made him grind his teeth.

By naturally Ralph meant, you know like kids’ songs learned in school. Songs like The Farmer in the Dell, which forced you a city kid like Ralph born and raised in Troy, New York a strictly working class town then, and now,  although you might not have designated yourself as such at that age to learn a little about the dying profession of family farmer and about farm machinery; Old MacDonald, ditto on the family farmer stuff and as a bonus all the animals of the farm kingdom and their distinctive noises that still rattled Ralph’s head on hard drinking night if he got melancholy for his tortured childhood; Humpty Dumpty, a silly grossly overweight holy goof of the rankest order, an egghead to boot and that didn’t mean intellectual, far from it, who couldn’t maintain his balance come hell or high water although you might not have thought of that expression, that hell or high water expression, or used it in the high Roman Catholic Saturday-go-to-confession-to confess those damns, hells, and fucks that had entered you vocabulary through osmosis and Sunday-go-to-communion-to-absolve-all-sins Morris household out in Troy where Ralph still lives; and,  Jack and Jill and their ill-fated hill adventure looking for water like they couldn’t have gone to the family kitchen sink tap for their needs but thinking about it later what were they really doing up there. All this total recall, or mostly total recall showing indeed whether you designated yourself as a city kid or not you were one of the brethren, etc. you have embraced that music as a child in case you have forgotten. Music embedded in the back of your mind, coming forth sometimes out of the blue even fifty years later (and maybe relating to other memory difficulties among the AARP-worthy but we shall skip over that since this sketch is about the blues, the musical blues and not the day to day getting old blues).

Sam nodded his head in agreement then chimed in with his opinion the music of junior high school as he thought, looking behind the bartender’s head to the selection of hard liquors displayed with the twinkle of an eye, about switching over to a high-shelf scotch whiskey, Haig &Haig, his natural drink of late, despite the hot night and hot room beginning to fill up with blues aficionados who have come to listen to the “second coming,” the blues of James Montgomery and his back-up blues band. (Sam unlike Ralph suffering no medical warning about the dire consequences to his system about throwing down a few shots since his health was in better shape than Ralph, Ralph having taken a beating in that department with whatever hellious chemical his government, or rather the American government for which he refused to take any credit or blame, was throwing on the ground of Vietnam from the nightmare skies during that long, bloody lost war).

That “second coming” referring to guys, now greying guys, who picked up the blues, especially the citified electric blues after discovering the likes of Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Magic Slim and James Cotton back in their 1960s youth, made a decent living out of it and were still playing small clubs and other venues to keep the tradition alive and to pass it on to the kids who were not even born when the first wave guys came out of the hell-hole Delta South of Mister James Crow sometime around or after World War II and plugged  their guitars into the next gin mill electric outlet in places off of Maxwell Street in Chicago, nursing their acts, honing their skills.  

Yeah, getting back to junior high, Sam thinking about that hormonal bust out junior high weekly music class with Mr. Dasher which made Sam chuckle a bit, maybe that third bottle of beer sipping had gotten him tipsy a little, as he thought about the old refrain, “Don’t be a masher, Mister Dasher” which all the kids hung on the poor, benighted man that time when the rhyming simon craze was going through the nation’s schools. Thinking just then that today if some teacher or school administrator was astute enough to bother to listen to what teenage kids said amongst themselves, an admittedly hard task for an adult in any era, in an excess of caution old Mister Dasher might be in a peck of trouble if anyone wanted to be nasty about the implication of that innocent rhyme.  Yeah, Mr. Dasher, the mad monk music teacher (who on the side in those days, not unlike these days, when teachers couldn’t live on their teaching incomes led an old-time, old time to Sam and his classmates Benny Goodman-style swing and sway big band at special occasions and as a regular at the Surf Ballroom over in Plymouth on Friday nights), who wanted his charges to have a well-versed knowledge of the American and world songbooks. Thus  you were forced to remember such songs as The Mexican Hat Dance, God Bless America, and Home On The Range under penalty of being sent up to the front of the room songbook in hand and sing the damn things. Yes, you will remember such songs unto death.

Sam and his corner boys at Doc’s Drugstore found out later that the Dasher was motivated by a desperate rear-guard action to wean his charges away from rock and roll, away from the devil’s music although he would not have called it that because he was too cool to say stuff like that, a struggle in which he was both woefully overmatched by Elvis, Jerry Lee, Chuck, Bo, and the crowd and wasting his breathe as they all lived for rock and roll at Doc’s Drugstore after school where he had a jukebox at his soda fountain. And they were not putting their three selections for a quarter to hear hokey Home on the Range.   

Ralph agreed running through his own junior high school litany with Miss Hunt (although a few years older than Sam he had not run through the rhyming simon craze so had no moniker for the old witch although now he wished he had as he chuckled to himself and turned a little confession red although he not been into that stifling confession box on his gamy knees in many years, and it would not be nice either). Ralph added that some of the remembered music reflected the time period when you were growing up but were too young to call the music your own like the music that ran around in the background of your growing up house on the mother housewife radio or evening record player which in Ralph’s case was the music that got his parents through his father’s soldierly slogging on unpronounceable Pacific islands kicking ass against the Nips (his father’s term for the dirty bastard Japanese) and mother anxiously waiting at home for the other shoe to fall or the dreaded military officer coming up to her door telling her the bad news World War II.

You know, guys like Frank (Sinatra, the chairman of the board, that all the bobbysoxer girls, the future mothers of Sam’s and Ralph’s generation swooned over), The Andrew Sisters  and their rums and coca colas, Peggy Lee fronting for Benny Goodman and looking, looking hard for some Johnny to do right, finally do right by her, etc. Other music, the music of their own generation, classic rock and rock came more naturally since that is what they wanted to hear when they had their transistor radios to their ear up in their bedrooms or could hardly wait to hear when the jukebox guy came into Doc’s to put the latest selections in (and to have his hand greased by Doc for “allowing” those desperately desired songs onto his jukebox to fill his pockets with many quarters, see he was “connected” and so along with the jukebox hand over fist money-maker cam the hand).

That mention of transistor radios got Ralph and Sam yakking about that old instrument which got them through many a hard teenage angst and alienation night. That yakking reflecting their both getting mellow on the sweet beer and thinking that they had best switch to Tennessee sipping whisky when the wait person came by again since they had moved from the bar to a table near the stage to get a better view of the band if they were to make it through both sets that night (and Ralph thinking, just this once, just for this bluesy night he would “cheat” a little on that scotch whiskey ban). This transistor thing by the way for the young who might wonder what these old geezers were talking about since it was clearly not iPods was small enough to put in your pocket and put up to your ear like an iPod or MP3 except you couldn’t download or anything like that.

Primitive technology okay but life-saving nevertheless. Just flip the dial although the only station that mattered was WJDA, the local rock station (which had previously strictly only played the music that got all of our parents through their war before the rock break-out made somebody at the station realize that you could made more advertising revenue selling ads for stuff like records, drive-in movies, drive-in restaurants, and cool clothes and accessories than refrigerators and stoves to adults).

Oh yeah, and the beauty of the transistor you could take it up to your bedroom and shut out that aforementioned parents’ music without hassles. Nice, right. So yeah, they could hear Elvis sounding all sexy, her word whether she knew the exact meaning or not, meaning all hot and bothered, according to one girl Sam knew even over the radio and who drove all the girls crazy once they got a look at him on television. Chuck Berry telling our parents’ world that Mr. Beethoven and his crowd, Frank’s too, all had to move over because there was a new sheriff in town.  Bo Diddley asking a very candid question about who put the rock in rock and roll and offering himself up as a candidate. Buddy Holly crooning against all hope for his Peggy Sue (or was it Betty Lou), Jerry Lee inflaming all with his raucous High School Confidential from the back of a flatbed truck, etc. again.

The blues though, the rarified country and electric urban blues of the likes of Son House, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, James Cotton, and Howlin’ Wolf was an acquired taste. Acquired by Sam through listening to folk music programs on that very same transistor radio in the early 1960s after flipping the dial one Sunday night once he got tired of what they claimed was rock music on WJDA and caught a Boston station, WBZ and later WCAS. The main focus was on other types of roots music but when the show would take a break from down home mountain music, western swing ballads, and urban protest music the DJ would play some cuts of country or electric blues. See all the big folkies, Dylan, Tom Rush, Dave Van Ronk, people like that were wild to cover the blues in the search for serious roots music from the American songbook. So somebody, Sam didn’t know who, figured if everybody who was anybody was covering the blues in that folk minute then it made sense to play the real stuff.  (Sam later carried Ralph along on the genre after they had met down in Washington, D.C. in 1971, had been arrested and held in detention at RFK Stadium for trying to shut down the government if it did not shut the Vietnam War, had become life-long friends and Ralph began to dig the blues when he came to Cambridge to visit Sam although he would shutter his ears if Sam played some folk stuff).

The real stuff having been around for a while, having been produced by the likes of Muddy and Howlin’ Wolf going back to the 1940s big time black migration to the industrial plants of the Midwest during World War II when there were plenty of jobs just waiting (and plenty taken away when the soldiers and sailors, white soldiers and sailors came home on the overcrowded troop transports looking to start life over again and raise those families they dreamed about in the muds of Europe and the salty brine of the atoll Pacific). But also having been pushed to the background, way to the background with the rise of rock and roll (although parts of rock make no sense, don’t work at all without kudos to blues chords, think about Ike Turner’s Rocket 88 and Big Joe Turner’s Shake, Rattle and Roll, check it out). So it took that combination of folk minute and that well-hidden from view electric blues some time to filter through Sam’s brain.

What did not take a long time to do once Sam got “religion” was going crazy over Howlin’ Wolf when he saw him perform down in Newport when everybody who was anybody that high school and college kids wanted to hear in that folk minute showed up there.  Once Sam had seen him practically eat that harmonica when he was playing that instrument on How Many More Years. There the Wolf was all sweating, running to high form and serious professionalism (just ask the Stones about that polished professionalism when he showed them how to really play Little Red Rooster which they had covered early on in their career as they had covered many other Chess Records blues numbers, as had in an ironic twist a whole generation English rockers in the 1960s while American rockers were basically clueless until the Brits told them about their own roots music) and moving that big body to and fro to beat the band. Playing like god’s own avenging angel, if those angels played the harmonica, and if they could play as well as he did.
They both hoped that greying James Montgomery, master harmonica player in his own right, blew the roof off of the house as they spied the wait person coming their way and James moving onto the stage getting ready to burn up the microphone. And he and his band did just that. Yes, that blues calling from somewhere deep in the muds is an acquired taste and a lasting one.