This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
The “Taming”
Of The West-Not-Paul Newman’s Hombre-A Film Review
DVD Review
By Sam Lowell
Hombre, starring
Paul Newman, Barbra Rush, Frederic March, Martin Balsam, directed by Martin Ritt,
1967
When I was
growing up in the black and white in more ways than one 1950s “golden age” of
the cowboy sagas that festooned the television airways “the only good Injun was
a dead one.” Except maybe the sullen closed mouth Tonto but he was sidekick to
the Lone Ranger and so that didn’t count. Of course in the wake of the 1960s
and 1970s when all kinds of identity groups emerged I, we, some of us anyway,
began to get a better idea of what really happened when the white man and woman
went to “tame the West” back in the post-Civil War 1800s. Got a better idea
about how the Indians, Native Americans, indigenous peoples, take your
identifying pick, got the short end of the stick in about twenty different ways
when the whites wanted the land, their land, wanted it anyway they could get
it. In that sense a film like the one under review, Hombre, couldn’t have been successfully made in say 1955 but could
in the late 1960s although even then as this film demonstrates the Native
Americans still seemed to be view to be outsiders, as nothing but trouble.
In the big
battles between whites and Native Americans during the late 19th
century there were plenty of atrocities on both sides. No question, John Russell,
El hombre, played by very blue-eyed white-bread Paul Newman, had been affected
by that savagery and by the closing down of Native American hunter-gatherer
life literally with a bang (somebody put it very succinctly, somebody in the
Bureau of Indian Affairs, or with an ear into that agency-assimilation or
extermination, they tried both in policies that sound very familiar to early 21st
century ears). He had been captured by an Apache raiding party and had lived
among them in his formative years, went back with them too when he grew to
manhood although he had been previously raised by a white man, John Russell,
who gave him his name. When old man Russell died he left his hotel (a hotel of
sorts, a few rooms out in the godforsaken blanched desert) in Arizona to young
John. John didn’t want it and decided to sell it for a herd of horses (his
profession having been providing wild horses tamed to the stage coach company).
To do the deal he needed to get to another town and fatefully wound up taking a
stagecoach ride with assorted passengers, a rogue’s gallery of Western misfits
and outcasts.
The most
important passengers though were an Indian agent (played by weasely Frederic
March) and a desperado (played by surly rough-hewn and humored Richard Boone).
Two peas in pod. Why? Well the Indian agent was honorably “skimming” government
funds supposed to go to the reservation Indians in his charge. Nice, right. The
desperado because he knew that the Indian agent was skimming and was nothing
but a bad ass bandito. In an isolated desolate area near the desert Mister
Desperado and his confederates staged a hold-up figuring to grab the
saddle-bags full of dough and let the passengers fend for themselves. But the
best laid plans of mice and men sometimes go awry. Especially when a sullen
half-breed like Johnny boy decided that the dough should go back to those
hungry Native Americans on that stinking reservation.
John
Russell, sullen and alienated Johnny okay, listened to his own drummer so
rather than letting the banditos grab the dough he shot a couple of them dead,
grabbed the loot and was ready to head for the hills on his own. Problem: these
white gabachos, this motley crew of misfits and outcasts, who sneered at him
and had forced the stagecoach driver to have him ride outside the coach, started
following him figuring he knew the way
back to civilization, or to some place. He relented and let himself lead them
back toward where they had started from.
But see
although Johnny had killed without a thought those two banditos, Mister
Desperado and a couple of his henchmen were still at large-with horses and
water. So John lead them back to an old abandoned mining camp they had
previously passed. As they rested Mister Desperado and his ilk came tumbling
after them boxing them in with no safe from his guns place to go. The idea Mister
Desperado had was to force them out using the wife of the Indian agent whom
they had taken as hostage as bait.
Well one
John Russell might have hated the white man for what he did to people who had
been in the West long before them, might have listened to his own drummer on
all important matters but when the deal went down John Russell honorably went
down the hill for the inevitable shoot-out with the bad guys. Yeah, very
blue-eyed John Russell, RIP. In its day this one broke away from the normal
conventions about the taming of the West-about the hoary cowboy and Injun sagas
I had grown up on. Forty years later there is plenty wrong with the story line
but it had some high moments of drama and pathos. Enough said.
Click on the title to link to a Wikipedia entry forThe Postman Always Rings Twice.
Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some films that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. In the future I expect to do the same for books under a similar heading.-Markin
*******
DVD Review
The Postman Always Rings Twice, starring Jack Nicolson, Jessica Lange, written by James M. Cain
I admit to being a film noir fan of long standing. Maybe it was the fact of growing up in the time of black and white television and watching all those late night movies which were freely available at the time. Maybe it was that tight, if improbable, dialogue, the relatively simple plots and the dramatic effect of the shadows of black and white photography on mood. In any case, the Postman Always Rings Twice fits nicely into that mix. The plot line is fairly simple- unhappy California house wife, an older overbearing uncaring husband and a younger man at the door that turns out to be handy with a wretch- all the ingredients for a murder. Of course, as always the guilty parties will have to face justice. You know this is a modern morality play, after all. This remake starring the always watchable Jack Nicholson and forbiddingly sexual Jessica Lange is probably truer to Cain’s wicked designs but to my mind the old noir classic black and white starring John Garfield and Lana Turner is the definitive Postman. In any case one should read the book by James M. Cain to get a better feel for the language, the steamier sexual tension and better insight into the motivations of the parties.
Click on the headline to link to the "Leon Trotsky Internet Archive" for an online copy of the "Transitional Program" which deals, in part,with the question of who shall control the governmental apparatus in the transitional period from the workers state to socialism.
COMMENTARY
EMBLAZON ON OUR RED BANNER-IMMEDIATE RECALL OF ALL OFFICIALS FOR CAUSE
FORGET REPUBLICANS, DEMOCRATS AND GREENS! BUILD A WORKERS PARTY THAT FIGHTS FOR SOCIALISM!
At one time the currently beleaguered head of the World Bank Paul Wolfowitz was seen as one of the ‘best and brightest’ of his generation of neo-cons who had come to dominate the inner team of the Bush Administration. While one should not expect that Mr. Wolfowitz will wind up sleeping on a bench in Central Park his star has certainly lost its luster. First the quagmire in Iraq of which he was a central architect and now creating a 'safe haven' for his girl friend. Oh well. I personally will cry no tears over his fate. Will you? This case is, however, prima facie evidence for why, when the working class takes state power through workers councils, we will invoke the long time socialist tradition of immediate recall of governmental officials for cause. One should not have to go through a 'cold' international civil war at the World Bank, or anywhere else for that matter, just to get rid of a guy who is out to impress his girl friend.
Just one other little point on Mr. Wolfowitz’s personal history. Much has been made in the more political publications about the so-called Trotskyist past of a number of neo-cons, including Mr. Wolfowitz. One would get the impression that these were 'red' revolutionaries who saw the error of their youthful ways and on seeing their errors immediately offered their services as direct agents of American imperialism. Not so. They essentially spent five minutes going to some State Department socialist meetings of the American Socialist Party in the late 1950's or early 1960's.
What passes for the Trotskyism the publications are talking about is the Trostkyist past of one by then burned-out Max Shachtman of the Socialist Party, he of the support to the Bay of Pigs invasion and of the Vietnam War, or Irving Howe, social democratic editor of Dissent. By comparison with their progeny both Mr. Howe and Mr. Shachtman were serious about Trotsky's ideas and in the case of Shachtman had actually rendered valuable service to the Trotskyist movement at one time. But that was in their pasts. When the neo-cons arrived neither Howe nor Shachtman were Trotskyists. Christ, from their political positions I do not believe that by that time they knew how to spell the word. If one was looking for the semblance of Trotskyist ideas in America at that time the place to look was the Socialist Workers Party led by James P. Cannon. I do not see that political address on any neo-con resume. Enough said.
Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of the Beatles's performing "When I'm Sixty-Four" from the animated movie "Yellow Submarine."
Markin comment:
Many of those from the Generation of '68 will, if you can believe this, be turning sixty-four this year. So be it. But, so be the will to continue to struggle against the imperial "monster" as well.
When I'm Sixty-Four - The Beatles
When I get olded, loosing my hair, Many years from now Will you still be sending me the Valentine, Birthday greetings, bottle of wine
If I stay out till quarter to three Wold you lock the door Will you still need me, will you still feed me When I'm sixty-four.
You'll be older too, And if you say the word I could stay with you.
I could be handy mending a fuse When your lights have gone You can knit a sweater by the fireside Sunday morning go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds, Who could ask for more Will you still need me, will you still feed me When I'm sixty-four.
Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear We shall scrimp and save Grandchildren on your knee Vera, Chuck & Dave
Send me a postcard, drop me a line Stating point of view Indicate precisely what you mean to say Yours sincerely, wasting away
Give me your answer, fill in a form, Mine for evermore, Will you still need me, will you still feed me When I'm sixty-four.
In Honor Of May Day 2016-From The American Left History Blog Archives -From The May Day 2012
Organizing Archives –May Day 2013 Needs The Same Efforts Why You, Your Union,
Or Your Community Organization Needs To Join The May Day 2012 General Strike In
Boston-Stand Up!-Fight Back!
Last fall there were waves of
politically-motivated repressive police attacks on, and evictions of, various
Occupy camp sites throughout the country including where the movement started
in Zucotti (Liberty) Park. But even before the evictions and repression
escalated, questions were being asked: what is the way forward for the
movement? And, from friend and foe alike, the ubiquitous what do we want. We
have seen since then glimpses of organizing and action that are leading the way
for the rest of us to follow: the Oakland General Strike on November 2nd,
the West Coast Port Shutdown actions of December 12th, Occupy
Foreclosures, and other actions including, most recently, renewed support for
the struggles of the hard-pressed longshoremen in Longview, Washington. These
actions show that, fundamentally, all of the strategic questions revolve around
the question of power. The power, put simply, of the 99% vs. the power of the
1%.
Although the 99% holds
enormous power -all wealth is generated, and the
current society is built and
maintained through, the collective labor
(paid and unpaid) of the
99%-, we seldom exercise this vast collective power in our own interests. Too
often, abetted and egged on by the 1%, we fruitlessly fight among ourselves
driven by racism, patriarchy, xenophobia, occupational elitism, geographical
prejudice, heterosexism, and other forms of division, oppression and prejudice.
This consciously debilitating
strategy on its part is necessary, along with its control of politics, the
courts, the prisons, the cops, and the military in order for the 1% to maintain
control over side without worrying for a minute about their power and wealth.
Their ill-gotten power is only assured by us, actively or passively, working
against ourselves. Moreover many of us are not today fully aware of, nor
organized to utilize, the vast collective power we have. The result is that
many of us - people of color, women, GLBTQ, immigrants, those with less formal
educational credentials, those in less socially respected occupations or
unemployed, the homeless, and the just plain desperate- deal with double and
triple forms of oppression and societal prejudice.
Currently the state of the
economy has hit all of us hard, although as usual the less able to face the
effects are hit the hardest like racial minorities, the elderly, the homeless
and those down on their luck due to prolonged un and under- employment. In
short, there are too many people out of work; wage rates have has barely kept
up with rising costs or gone backwards to near historic post-World War II lows
in real time terms; social services like Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security
have continued to be cut; our influence on the broken, broken for us,
government has eroded; and our civil liberties have been seemingly daily
attacked en masse. These trends have has been going on while the elites of this
country, and of the world, have captured an increasing share of wealth; have
had in essence a tax holiday for the past few decades; have viciously attacked
our organizations of popular defense such as our public and private unions and
community organizations; and have increase their power over us through
manipulating their political system even more in their favor than previously.
The way forward, as we can
demonstrate by building for the May Day actions, must involve showing our
popular power against that of the entrenched elite. But the form of our power,
reflecting our different concepts of governing, must be different from the
elite’s. Where they have created powerful capital profit driven top down
organizations in order to dominate, control, exploit and oppress we must build
and exercise bottom-up power in order to cooperate, liberate and collectively
empower each other. We need to organize ourselves collectively and apart from
these top down power relationships in our communities, schools and workplaces
to fight for our interests. This must include a forthright rejection of their
attempts, honed after long use, to divide and conquer in order to rule us. A
rejection of racism, patriarchy, xenophobia, elitism and other forms of
oppression, and, importantly, a rejection of attempts by their electoral
parties, mainly the Democrats and Republicans but others as well, powerful special
interest groups, and others to co-opt and control our movement.
The Occupy freedom of
assembly-driven encampments initially built the mass movement and brought a
global spotlight to the bedrock economic and social concerns of the 99%. They
inspired many of us, including those most oppressed, provided a sense of hope
and solidarity with our fellow citizens and the international 99%, and brought
the question of economic justice and the problems of inequality and political
voiceless-ness grudgingly back into mainstream political conversation. Moreover
they highlighted the need for the creation of cultures, societies and
institutions of direct democracy based on "power with"- not
"power over"- each other; served as convivial spaces for sharing
ideas and planning action; and in some camps, they even provided a temporary
space for those who needed a home. Last fall the camp occupations served a
fundamental role in the movement, but it is now time to move beyond the camp
mentality and use our energies to struggle to start an offensive against the
power of the 1%. On our terms.
Show Power
We demand:
*Hands Off Our Public Worker Unions! Hands Off All Our Unions!
* Put the unemployed to work! Billions for public works projects to fix
America’s broken infrastructure (bridges, roads, sewer and water systems,
etc.)!
*End the endless wars!
* Full citizenship rights for all those who made it here no matter how they got
here!
* A drastic increase in the minimum wage and big wage increases for all
workers!
* A
moratorium on home foreclosures! No evictions!
* A moratorium on student loan debt! Free, quality higher education for all!
Create 100, 200, many publicly-supported Harvards!
*No increases in public transportation fares! No transportation worker
lay-offs! Free public transportation!
To order to flex our collective bottom up power on May 1, 2012 we will be
organizinga wide-ranging series of mass collective participatory actions:
*We will be organizing within our unions- or informal workplace organizations
where
there is no union - a one-day general strike.
*We will be organizing where a strike is not possible to call in sick, or take
a personal day, as part of a coordinated “sick-out.”
*We will be organizing students to walk-out of their schools (or not show up in
the first place), set up campus picket lines, or to rally at a central
location, probably Boston Common.
*We will be calling in our communities for a mass consumer boycott, and with
local business support where possible, refuse to make purchases on that day.
These actions, given the
ravages of the capitalist economic system on individual lives, the continuing
feelings of hopelessness felt by many, the newness of many of us to collective
action, and the slender ties to past class and social struggles will, in many
places, necessarily be a symbolic show of power. But let us take it as a wakeup
call by a risen people.
And perhaps just as important
as this year’s May Day itself , the massive organizing and outreach efforts in
the months leading up to May 1st will allow us the opportunity to talk to our
co-workers, families, neighbors, communities, and friends about the issues
confronting us, the source of our power, the need for us to stand up to the
attacks we are facing, the need to confront the various oppressions that keep
most of us down in one way or another and keep all of us divided, and the need
for us to stand in solidarity with each other in order to fight for our
collective interests. In short, as one of the street slogans of movement
says–“they say cut back, we say fight back.” We can build our collective
consciousness, capacity, and confidence through this process; and come out
stronger because of it.
Watch this website and other social media sites for
further specific details of events and actions.
*****Searching For The American Songbook - In The Time Of The 1960s Folk Minute-The Joy Street Coffeehouse In Mind
Introduction
Sketches From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
I recently completed the second leg of this series, sketches from the time of my coming of age classic rock and roll from about the mid-1950s to the mid-1960s, a series which is intended to go through different stages of the American songbook as it has evolved since the 19th century, especially music that could be listened to by the general population through radio, record player, television, and more recently the fantastic number of ways to listen to it all from computers to iPods. This series was not intended to be placed in any chronological order so the first leg dealt, and I think naturally so given the way my musical interests got formed, with the music of my parents’ generation, that being the parents of the generation of ’68, those who struggled through the Great Depression of the 1930s and World War II in the 1940s.
This third leg is centered on the music of the folk minute that captured a segment of my generation of ’68 as it came of social and political age in the early 1960s. It is easy now to forget in the buzz of the moment that this segment was fairly small to begin with people who stayed with it for a few years and then like the rest of us got back to the new rock and roll that was taking center stage by the time of the summers of love. Today when talking to people, to those who slogged through the 1960s with me, those who will become very animated about Deadhead experiences, Golden Gate Park Airplane going-ons, their merry-prankster-like “on the bus” experiences, even death Altamont when I ask about the influence of folk they will look at me with pained blank expressions or cite ritualistically Bob Dylan confirms how small and where that folk minute was concentrated.
Early on though some of us felt a fresh breeze was coming through the land, were desperately hoping that it was not some ephemeral rising and then back to business as usual, although we certainly being young did not dwell on that ebb tide idea since like with our physical selves we thought our ideas once implanted would last forever. Silly kids. Maybe it was the change in political atmosphere pulling us forward as men (and it was mostly men then) born in the 20th century were beginning to take over from the old fogies (our father/uncle/godfather Ike and his ilk) and we would fall in behind them. Maybe it was the swirl just then being generated questioning lots of old things like the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) red scare investigations, like Mister James Crow in the South andthe ghettos of the North, like why did we need all those nuclear bombs that were going to do nothing but turn us into flames. Maybe it was that last faint echo of the “beats” with their poetry, their be-bop jazz, their nightly escapade trying to hold onto that sullen look of Marlon Brando, that brooding look of James Dean, that cool pitter-patter of Alan Ginsberg against the night-stealers. Heady stuff, no question.
Maybe too since it involved cultural expression (although we would be clueless to put what we felt in those terms, save that for the folk music academics complete with endnotes and footnotes after the fire had burned out) and our cultural expression centered around jukeboxes and transistor radios it was that we had, some of us, tired of the Fabians, the various Bobbys (Vee, Darin, Rydell, etc.), the various incarnations of Sandra Dee, Leslie Gore, Brenda Lee, etc., wanted a new sound, or as it turned out a flowing back to the roots music, to the time and place when people had to make their own music or go without (it gets a little mixed up once the radio widened the horizons of who could hear what and when). So, yes, we wanted to know what on those lonely Saturday nights gave our forebears pause, let them sit back maybe listen to some hot-blooded black man with a primitive guitar playing the blues (a step up from the kids’ stuff nailed one-eyed string hung from the front porch but nowhere near that coveted National Steel beauty they eyed in the pawnshop in town just waiting to rise up singing), some jazz, first old time religion stuff and then the flicker of that last fade be-bop with that solid sexy sax searching for the high white note, mountain music, all fiddles and mandolins, playing against that late night wind coming down the hills and hollows reaching that red barn just in time to finish up that last chance slow moaning waltz. Yes, and Tex-Mex, Western swing, Child ballads and the “new wave” protest sound that connected our new breeze political understandings with our musical interests.
The folk music minute was for me, and not just me, thus something of a branching off for a while from rock and roll in its doldrums since a lot of what we were striving for was to make a small musical break-out from the music that we came of chronological age to unlike the big break-out that rock and roll represented from the music that was wafting through many of our parents’ houses in the early 1950s.
In preparing this part of the series I have been grabbing a lot of anecdotal remarks from some old-time folkies. People I have run into over the past several years in the threadbare coffeehouses and cafes I frequent around New England. You know, and I am being completely unfair here, those guys with the long beards and unkempt balding hair hidden by a knotted ponytail, flannel, clean or unclean, shirt regardless of weather and blue jeans, unclean, red bandana in the back pocket, definitely unclean and harmonica at the ready going on and on about how counter-revolutionary Bob Dylan was to hook up the treasured acoustic guitar to an amp in about 1965 and those gals who are still wearing those shapeless flour bag dresses, letting their hair grow grey or white, wearing the formerly “hip” now mandatory granny glasses carrying some autoharp or other such old-time instrument like they just got out of some hills and hollows of Appalachia (in reality mostly with nice Ivy League seven sisters resumes after their names)arguing about how any folk song created after about 1922 is not really a folk song both sexes obviously having not gotten the word that, ah, times have changed. In short those folkies who are still alive and kicking and still interested in talking about that minute. And continuing to be unfair not much else except cornball archaic references that are supposed to produce “in the know” laughs but which were corny even back then when they held forth in the old Harvard Square Hayes-Bickford of blessed memory where budding songwriters wrote on etched napkins the next great Kumbaya hit, non-songwriters tuned up their Yamaha guitars by ear, by ear, Jesus, to play for the “basket” out in the mean streets after they had their fill of the see-through coffee provided by the place, small-voiced poets echoed Ginsberg eve of destruction sonnets, and new guard writers wore down pencil stubs and erasers catching all the sounds and hubris around them mixed with sotted winos, sterno bums , con men, hustlers, misguided hookers, and junkies to fill the two in the morning air.
For those not in the know, or who have not seen the previously described denizens of the folk night in your travels, folk music is still alive and well (for the moment, the demographic trends are more frightening as the dying embers flicker) in little enclaves throughout the country mainly in New England but in other outposts as well. Those enclaves and outposts are places where some old “hippies,” “folkies,” communalists, went after the big splash 1960s counter-cultural explosion ebbed in about 1971 (that is my signpost for the ebb, the time when we tried to “turn the world upside down” in Washington over the Vietnam war by attempting to shut the government down if they refused to shut down the war and got nothing but teargas, police sticks and thousands of arrests for out troubles, others have earlier and later dates and events which seemed decisive but all that I have spoken to, or have an opinion on, agree by the mid-1970s that wave had tepidly limped to shore). Places like Saratoga, New York, Big Sur and Joshua Tree out in California, Taos, Eugene, Boise, Butte, Boulder, as well as the traditional Village, Harvard Square, North Beach/Berkeley haunts of memory. They survive, almost all of them, through the support of a dwindling number of aficionados and a few younger kids, kids who if not the biological off-spring of the folk minute then very much like those youthful by-gone figures and who somehow got into their parents’ stash of folk albums and liked what they heard against the current trends in music, in once a month socially-conscious Universalist-Unitarian church basement coffeehouses, school activity rooms booked for the occasional night, small local restaurants and bars sponsoring “open mics” on off-nights to draw a little bigger dinner crowd, and probably plenty of other small ad hoc venues where there are enough people with guitars, mandos, harmonicas, and what have you to while away an evening.
There seems to be a consensus among my anecdotal sourcesthat their first encounter with folk music back then, other than when they were in the junior high school music class where one would get a quick checkerboard of various types of music and maybe hear This Land Is Your Land in passing, was through the radio. That junior high school unconscious introduction of Woody Guthrie’s This Land Is Your Land had been my own introduction in Mr. Dasher’s seventh grade Music Appreciation class where he inundated us with all kinds of songs from everywhere like the Red River Valley and the Mexican Hat Dance. For his efforts he was innocently nicknamed by us “Dasher The Flasher,” a moniker that would not serve him well in these child-worried times by some nervous parents.
A few folkies that I had run into back then, fewer now, including a couple of girlfriends back then as I entered college picked up, like some of those few vagrant younger aficionados hanging around the clubs, the music via their parents’ record collections although that was rare and back then and usually meant that the parents had been some kind of progressives back in the 1930s and 1940s when Paul Robeson, Woody Guthrie, Josh White, Pete Seeger and others lit up the leftist firmament in places like wide-open New York City. Today the parents, my generation parents would have been in the civil rights movement, SDS or maybe the anti-war movement although the latter was drifting more by then to acid rock as the foundational music.
That radio by the way would be the transistor radio usually purchased at now faded Radio Shack by frustrated parents, frustrated that we were playing that loud unwholesome rock and roll music on the family record player causing them to miss their slumbers, and was attached to all our youthful ears placed there away from prying parents and somehow if you were near an urban area you might once you tired of the “bubble gum” music on the local rock station flip the dial and get lucky some late night, usually Sunday and find an errant station playing such fare.
That actually had been my experience one night, one Sunday night in the winter of 1962 (month and date lost in the fog of memory) when I was just flipping the dial and came upon the voice of a guy, an old pappy guy I assumed, singing a strange song in a gravelly voice which intrigued me because that was neither a rock song nor a rock voice. The format of the show as I soon figured out as I continued to listen that night was that the DJ would, unlike the rock stations which played one song and then interrupted the flow with at least one commercial for records, drive-in movies, drive-in theaters, maybe suntan lotion, you know stuff kids with disposable income would take a run at, played several songs so I did not find out who the singer was until a few songs later. The song was identified by the DJ as the old classic mountain tune “discovered” by Cecil Sharpe in the hills and hollows of Appalachian Kentucky in 1916 Come All You Fair And Tender Ladies, the singer the late Dave Von Ronk who, as I found out later doubled up as a very informative folk historian and who now has a spot, a street last I heard, in the Village in New York where he hailed from named after him, the station WBZ in Boston not a station that under ordinary circumstances youth would have tuned into then since it was mainly a news and talk show station, the DJ Dick Summer a very central figure in spreading the folk gospel and very influential in promoting local folk artists like Tom Rush on the way up as noted in a recent documentary, No Regrets, about Rush’s fifty plus years in folk music. I was hooked.
That program also played country blues stuff, stuff that folk aficionados had discovered down south as part of our generation took seriously the search for roots, music, cultural, family, and which would lead to the “re-discovery” of the likes of Son House (and that flailing National Steel guitar that you can see him flail like crazy on Death Letter Blues on YouTube these days), Bukka White (all sweaty, all feisty, playing the hell out of his National face up with tunes like Aberdeen, Mississippi Woman and Panama, Limited) Skip James (all cool hand Luke singing that serious falsetto on I’d Rather Be The Devil Than Be That Woman’s Man which got me in trouble more than one time with women including recently), and Mississippi John Hurt (strumming seemingly casually his moaning Creole Belle and his slyly salacious Candy Man).
I eventually really learned about the blues, the country stuff from down south which coincides with roots and folk music and the more muscular (plugged in electrically) Chicago city type blues that connects with the beginnings of rock and roll, which will be the next and final leg of this series, straight up though from occasionally getting late, late at night, usually on a Sunday for some reason, Be-Bop Benny’s Blues Hour from WXKE in Chicago but that is another story. Somebody once explained to me the science behind what happened on certain nights with the distant radio waves that showed up mostly because then their frequencies overrode closer signals. What I know for sure that it was not was the power of that dinky transistor radio with its two nothing batteries. So for a while I took those faraway receptions as a sign of the new dispensation coming to free us, of the new breeze coming through the land in our search for an earthly Eden. Praise be.
If the first exposure for many of us was through the radio, especially those a bit removed from urban areas, the thing that made most of us “folkies” of whatever duration was the discovery and appeal of the coffeehouses. According to legend (Dave Von Ronk legend anyway) in the mid to late 1950s such places were hang-outs for “beat” poets when that Kerouac/Ginsberg/Cassady flame was all the rage and folkies like him just starting out were reduced to clearing the house between shows with a couple of crowd-fleeing folk songs, or else they got the boot and the remnants of street singer life forlorn “basket” in front trying to make rent money.
The beauty of such places for poor boy high school students like me or lowly cash-poor college students interested in the folk scene was that for the price of a coffee, usually expresso so you could get your high a little off the extra caffeine but more importantly you could take tiny sips and make it last which you wanted to do so you could hold your spot at the table in some places, and maybe some off-hand pastry (usually a brownie or wedge of cake not always fresh but who cared as long as the coffee, like I said, usually expresso to get a high caffeine kick, was fresh since it was made by the cup from elaborate copper-plated coffeemakers from Europe or someplace like that), you could sit there for a few hours and listen to up and coming folk artists working out the kinks in their routines. Add in a second coffee unless the girl had agreed to an uncool “dutch treat,” not only uncool but you were also unlikely to get to first base especially if she had to pay her bus fare too, share the brownie or stale cake and you had a cheap date.
Occasionally there was a few dollar cover for “established” acts like Joan Baez, Tom Rush, the Clancy Brothers, permanent Square fixture Eric Von Schmidt, but mainly the performers worked for the “basket,” the passing around of the hat for the cheap date guys and others “from hunger” to show appreciation, hoping against hope to get twenty buck to cover rent and avoid starving until the next gig. Of course since the audience was low-budget high school students, college kids and starving artists that goal was sometimes a close thing and accordingly the landlord would have to be pieced off with a few bucks until times got better.
For alienated and angst-ridden youth like me (and probably half my generation if the information I have received some fifty years later stands up and does not represent some retro-fitted analysis filtered through a million sociological and psychological studies), although I am not sure I would have used those words for my feelings in those days the coffeehouse scene was the great escape from household independence struggles of which I was always, always hear me, at the short end of the stick. Probably the best way to put the matter is to say that when I read J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, over a non-stop weekend I was so engrossed in the page after page happenings, I immediately identified with Holden Caulfield whatever differences of time, place and class stood between us and when asked my opinion of him by my English teacher I made her and the whole class laugh when I said “I am Holden Caulfield”), or when I saw The Wild One at the retro-Strand Theater in downtown Carver I instinctively sided with poor boy Johnny and his “wanting habits” despite my painfully negative experiences with outlaw motorcycle guys headed by local hard boy Red Riley who hung out at Harry’s Variety Store as they ran through our section of town like the Huns of old. If I had been able to put the feelings into words and actions it would have been out of sympathy for the outcasts, misfits, and beaten down who I identified with then (not quite in the Jack Kerouac beaten down hipsters or night-dwellers who survived with a certain swagger and low hum existence sense). So yeah, the coffeehouses offered sanctuary.
For others (and me too on occasion) those establishments also provided a very cheap way to deal with the date issue, as long as you picked dates who shared your folk interests. That pick was important because more than once I took a promising date to the Joy Street Coffeehouse up on Boston’s Beacon Hill where I knew the night manager and could get in for free who was looking for something speedier like maybe a guy with a car, preferably a ’57 Chevy or something with plenty of chrome, and that was the end of that promise.For those who shared my interest like I said before for the price of two coffees(which were maybe fifty cents each, something like that, but don’t take that as gospel), maybe a shared pastry and a couple of bucks in the “basket” to show you appreciated the efforts, got you those hours of entertainment. But mainly the reason to go to the Square or Joy Street early on was to hear the music that as my first interest blossomed I could not find on the radio, except that Dick Summer show on Sunday night for a couple of hours. Later it got better with more radio shows, some television play when the thing got big enough that even the networks caught on with bogus clean-cutHootenanny-type shows, and as more folkies got record contracts because then you could start grabbing records at places like Sandy’s in between Harvard and Central Squares.
Of course sometimes if you did not have dough, or if you had no date, and yet you still had those home front civil wars to contend with and that you needed to retreat from you could still wind up in the Square. Many a late weekend night, sneaking out of the house through a convenient back door which protected me from sight, parents sight, I would grab the then all-night Redline subway to the Square and at that stop (that was the end of the line then) take the stairs to the street two steps at a time and bingo have the famous (or infamous) all-night Hayes-Bickford in front of me. There as long as you were not rowdy like the winos, hoboes, and con men you could sit at a table and watch the mix and match crowds come and go. Nobody bothered you, certainly not the hired help who were hiding away someplace at those hours, and since it was cafeteria-style passing your tray down a line filled with steam-saturated stuff and incredibly weak coffee that tasted like dishwater must taste, you did not have to fend off waitresses. (I remember the first time I went in by myself I sat, by design, at a table that somebody had vacated with the dinnerware still not cleared away and with the coffee mug half full and claimed the cup to keep in front of me. When the busboy, some high school kid like me, came to clear the table he “hipped me” to the fact that nobody gave a rat’s ass if you bought anything just don’t act up and draw attention to yourself. Good advice, brother, good advice.)
Some nights you might be there when some guy or gal was, in a low voice, singing their latest creation, working up their act in any case to a small coterie of people in front of them. That was the real import of the place, you were there on the inside where the new breeze that everybody in the Square was expecting took off and you hoped you would get caught up in the fervor too. Nice.
As I mentioned in the rock and roll series, which really was the music of our biological coming of age time, folk was the music of our social and political coming of age time. A fair amount of that sentiment got passed along to us during our folk minute as we sought out different explanations for the events of the day, reacted against the grain of what was conventional knowledge. Some of us will pass to the beyond clueless as to why we were attuned to this music when we came of age in a world, a very darkly-etched world, which we too like most of our parents had not created, and had no say in creating. That clueless in the past about the draw included a guy, me, a coalminer’s son who got as caught up in the music of his time as any New York City Village Jack or Jill or Chi Old Town frat or frail. My father in his time, wisely or not considering what ill-fate befell him later, had busted out of the tumbled down tarpaper shacks down in some Appalachia hills and hollows, headed north, followed the northern star, his own version, and never looked back and neither did his son.
Those of us who came of age, biological, political, and social age kicking, screaming and full of the post-war new age teenage angst and alienation in the time of Jack Kennedy’s Camelot were ready for a jail-break, a jail-break on all fronts and that included from the commercial Tin Pan Alley song stuff. The staid Eisenhower red scare cold war stuff (he our parents’ organizer of victory, their gentile father Ike). Hell, we knew that the world was scary, knew it every time we were forced to go down into some dank school basement and squat down, heads down too, hoping to high heaven that the Russkies had not decided to go crazy and set off “the bomb,” many bombs. And every righteous teenager had restless night’s sleep, a nightmare that, he or she, was trapped in some fashionable family fall-out shelter bunker and those loving parents had thoughtfully brought their records down into the abyss to soothe their savage beasts for the duration. Yelling in that troubled sleep please, please, please if we must die then at least let’s go out to Jerry Lee’s High School Confidential. And as we matured Bob Dylan’s Blowin’ In The Wind.
We were moreover, some of us anyway, and I like to think the best of us, driven by some makeshift dreams, ready to cross our own swords with the night-takers of our time, and who, in the words of Camelot brother Bobby, sweet ruthless Bobby of more than one shed tear in this quarter, quoting from Alfred Lord Tennyson, were “seeking a newer world.” Those who took up the call to action heralded by the new dispensation and slogged through the 60s decade whether it was in the civil rights/black liberation struggle, the anti-Vietnam War struggle or the struggle to find one’s own identity in the counter-culture swirl before the hammer came down were kindred. And that hammer came down quickly as the decade ended and the high white note that we searched for, desperately searched for, drifted out into the ebbing tide. Gone.
The truth of each sketch is in the vague mood that they invoke rather than any fidelity to hard and fast fact. They are all based on actual stories, more or less prettified and sanitized to avoid any problems with lose of reputation of any of the characters portrayed and any problems with some lingering statute of limitations. That truth, however, especially in the hands of old-time corner boys like me and the other guys who passed through the corner at Jack Slack’s bowling alleys must always be treated like a pet rattlesnake. Very carefully.
Still the overall mood should more than make up for the lies thrown at you, especially on the issue of sex, or rather the question of the ages on that issue, who did or did not do what to whom on any given occasion. Those lies filled the steamy nights and frozen days then, and that was about par for the course, wasn’t it. But enough of that for this series is about our uphill struggles to make our vision of the our newer world, our struggles tosatisfy our hunger a little, to stop that gnawing want, and the music that in our youthwe dreamed by on cold winter nights and hot summer days.
*****Support "Courage To Resist"-The Organization Supporting Military Resisters And Chelsea Manning
Frank Jackman comment on Courage To Resist and military resisters:
During the early stages of the Vietnam War, say 1965, 1966, frankly, I was annoyed at, dismayed by, appalled by and perplexed by guys my age, who were refusing to be drafted, refusing in some cases to even sign up for the draft (although I admit I was “late” signing up myself not for political or moral reasons but because I was not living at home having left on the first of about six estrangements from my family and did not receive the letter about the legal requirement to register until much later). Refusing and making a big public deal out of it. And this draft resistance movement was not some faraway situation heard on the news out in the suburbs about actions in the big cities or on some ivy-covered Ivy League elitist campuses but because while I was going to school I supported myself by getting up very early and servicing coffee- making machines in various locales in downtown Boston, including near the landmark draft resistance center, the Arlington Street Church (now U/U –Universalist-Unitarian but then I believe home to only one of the two having subsequently united but I am not sure which denomination ruled the roost at that location then although I believe it was the blessed Unitarians, now blessed for their generous help in the struggles against war and lesser known place of refuge for vagrant monthly folk-music friendly coffeehouses.)
The Arlington Street Church moreover held itself out as a main sanctuary protecting under long time religious principles draft-resisters who had taken shelter there in order to avoid being arrested by federal law enforcement agents. So many mornings there would be a bee-hive of activity outside and around the church in support of the resisters. The sight of straggly guys and their supporters protesting would get my blood pressure rising.
Now it was not that I was particularly pro-war even then, probably had not been in favor of escalation of that war and support to the South Vietnamese government since about the time of the Diem regime, the time before Jack Kennedy was murdered in 1963. Somehow I sensed that with each tragic turn there the noose of the draft would tighten around my own neck. But in those days, whatever else I held politically sacred, I, a working class guy from North Adamsville, held all of the usual patriotic sentiments about country, about service and about military duty of my neighborhood and upbringing.
As my grandfather, a veteran of World War I, said of his own experience of volunteering when President Wilson pulled the hammer down looking for recruits back then, never volunteer but if called you go, say you went willingly if anybody asked. So the thought of anybody “shirking” their duty if called really rankled me and while later I did a complete turn-around about the draft resisters, especially the ones who chose jail rather military service then I was disgusted. Disgusted as well by what I perceived vaguely as a class-bias about who was refusing to go and who had to go if those who would normally be called refused to go-working class and minority guys. Don’t hold me to some kind of prescience on that because that was just a vague underpinning for my general reasons of patriotic duty but in the case when I did my own military service, my infantryman grunt service guess who the other guys in the barracks and tents were-yeah, working class and minority guys.
I, on the other hand, have always admired military resisters since my knowledge of them and their actions came later after I had begun my sea-change of views. Knowing too by personal experience that “bucking” the Army system and winding up in the stockade, or worse the dreaded Fort Leavenworth every drill sergeant made a point of telling us about if we screwed up. But I was no resister having, frankly, done my time in the military, Vietnam time, without any serious reflection about the military, my role in the military, or what was just and unjust about that war until after I got out. After I got out and began to see things without “the fog of war” and its infernal “do it for your buddies” which is what a lot of things came down to in the end blinding me and got serious “religion” on the questions of war and peace from several sources.
At first I began working with the Cambridge Quakers who I had noticed around the fringes of anti-war GI work in the early 1970s when there was a serious basis for doing such work as the American army, for one reason or another whether the craziness of pursuing the war, racism, or just guys being fed-up with being cannon-fodder for Mister’s war, was half in mutiny and the other half disaffected toward the end of American involvement in that war. The Quakers front and center on the military resisters just as they had been with the draft resisters at a time when there was a serious need as guys, guys who got their “religion” in the service needed civilian help to survive the military maze that they were trying to fight. This connection with the Quakers had been made shortly after I got out of the service when my doubts crept in about what I had done in the service, and why I had let myself be drafted and why I hadn’t expressed serious anti-war doubts before induction about what the American government was doing in Vietnam to its own soldiers. But, more importantly, and this was the real beginning of wisdom and something I am keenly aware every time the American government ratchets up the war hysteria for its latest adventure, to the Vietnamese who to paraphrase the great boxer Mohammed Ali (then Cassius Clay) had never done anything to me, never posed any threat to me and mine. But as much as I admired the Quakers and their simple peace witness, occasionally attended their service and briefly had a Quaker girlfriend, I was always a little jumpy around them, my problem not theirs, since their brand of conscientious objection to all wars was much broader than my belief in just and unjust wars.
Later I worked with a couple of anti-war collectives that concentrated on anti-war GI work among active GIs through the vehicle of coffeehouses located near Fort Devens in Massachusetts and Fort Dix down in New Jersey. That work was most satisfying and rewarding as I actually worked with guys who knew the score, knew the score from the inside, and had plenty to tell, especially those who had gotten “religion” under fire although that experience was short-lived once American on the ground involvement in Vietnam was minimalized and the horrific draft was abolished as a means of grabbing “cannon fodder” for the damn war. Once the threat of being sent to Vietnam diminished the soldiers drifted off and the anti-war cadre that held things together as well.
What really drove the issue of military resistance home to me though, what caused some red-faced shame was something that I did not find out about until well after my own military service was over. A few years later when I went back to my hometown on some family-related business (another futile attempt to rekindle the family ties) I found out after meeting him on the street coming out of a local supermarket that my best friend from high school, Sean Kiley, had been a military resister, had refused to go to Vietnam, and had served about two years in various Army stockades here in America for his efforts. Had done his “duty” as he saw it. Had earned his “anti-war” colors the hard way.
See Sean like me, like a lot of working-class kids from places like our hometown up in Massachusetts, maybe had a few doubts about the war but had no way to figure out what to do and let himself be drafted for that very reason. What would a small town boy whose citizens supported the Vietnam War long after it made even a smidgen of sense, whose own parents were fervent “hawks,” whose older brother had won the DSC in Vietnam, and whose contemporaries including me did their service without a public murmur know of how to maneuver against the American military monster machine. But what Sean saw early on, from about day three of basis training, told him he had made a big error, that his grandmother who grew up in Boston and had been an old Dorothy Day Catholic Worker supporter had been right that there was no right reason for him to be in that war. And so when he could, after receiving orders for Vietnam, he refused to go and did his time in the military that way.
[In an earlier version of this sketch I mentioned that I would fill in more about Sean’s anti-war military resister story when I got a chance to talk to him about some of the details of that story that I had forgotten. We recently got together as part of a contingent from Boston Veterans for Peace that went up to Maine to walk part of the way in the Maine VFP-led sixteen day walk from Ellsworth up near Bar Harbor along U.S. Route One to the Portsmouth Naval Base in New Hampshire calling for the demilitarization of the seas. As fate would have it a Quaker woman, Sally Rich, who had helped to publicize Sean’s case had joined the walk in Freeport where she now lives. This surprise encounter led to the two of them talking one evening during a pot luck supper in Portland about Sean’s case. Other younger walkers were very interested in hearing the story and so Sean told it and these are my recollections of what he said that night. I checked with him to make sure I had it right so this is pretty close to what happened back then.]
“You know I haven’t told this story in years, haven’t had to since the draft went down in flames back in the 1970s and except for people like most of you, people who won their spurs in the peace movement way back in the 1960s, maybe before, there had been not need to tell it. It really is the story of why almost fifty years later I am pounding the bloody pavements of Maine something I would probably not be doing if the fates had worked otherwise. Certainly I would not use the story, most of it anyway, if we were out counter-recruiting in the high schools because with the volunteer military it would go over their heads. But you can relate to this story because you, somebody you know, or knew, some guy anyway back then had to face the draft and what to do, or not do about it.
Now I was a college student back in Boston in the mid-1960s as the crescendo of anti-Vietnam War activity came through the campuses and so I was vaguely anti-war, probably as much as any Boston college student but not actively. Strangely on that issue I was kind of behind the curb since on social issues; the war on poverty, civil rights in the South which meant black civil rights, abolition of capital punishment, and nuclear disarmament I was well left of center, left of Bobby Kennedy my political hero then whom I worked for that fateful spring of 1968 until he was assassinated. I wasn’t into draft resistance, street protests, that kind of thing although I wasn’t hostile to any such efforts. Mostly though I was interested in my girlfriend, having sex, doing a little drugs, not much by the standards of the day but enough, going to rock concerts and letting tomorrow take care of itself, stuff like that and working for candidates like Bobby who were in the system since I wanted my own Democratic Party career, something like that.
After graduation I had planned to go to law school as a way to put off the draft question that as the escalations in Vietnam continued and as the American body count got larger I started to focus on a bit more. Especially since by 1968 the need for ground troops was growing faster than guys were volunteering or being dragooned by their National Guard units into active service and they were no longer exempting law school students from the draft. Then in the fall of 1968 I got my notice to appear for a physical and subsequently after successfully completing that physical I got my notice to report to the Boston Army Base for induction.
Here’s where everything gets tricky though, or really my whole past, who I was, where I came from got me caught in a web. My girlfriend’s brother was in Vietnam, I had come from a family, a working class family where military service was expected, my father was a Marine in World War II and one of my uncles a lifer who would eventually become Sergeant-Major of the Army, the highest enlisted man, a couple of guys on my small street had been killed in Vietnam already so there was no social support for doing anything but take the induction. I wasn’t a CO, I didn’t even consider jail or Canada they were really not even on the radar and so although I had my qualms, maybe fears of getting killed mixed in too, I was inducted in early 1969 and sent to Fort Gordon down in Georgia, Augusta where they play the Masters golf tournament every year.
About three days, maybe four days, in I realized that I had made a very serious mistake, had not thought how contrary to my self-identity that whole basic training scene was. I was getting “religion” on the questions of war and peace very quickly. As the weeks in basic went by I got stronger in my resolve to not go to Vietnam but kept quiet about it since I was in the middle of nowhere with no resources to do anything except eat that rich red Georgia clay we grabbed every day in training. After basic I was assigned to Advanced Infantry Training, AIT, at Fort McClellan in goddam Alabama the die was cast, the noose was getting tighter since the only place for infantry men, grunts, 11 Bravos, cannon fodder was in Vietnam. The only thing I knew was when I got home I was getting some help, some outside help in order to resist orders to Vietnam that were inexorably coming at the end of that training.
After I got my orders to report to Fort Lewis in Washington for transit to Vietnam I got to go home for thirty days on leave before reporting, the standard procedure then but a mistake by the Army in my case. After checking in with my girlfriend who was not sympathetic with my situation and whom I decided to forsake (okay dump) I went to AFSC in Cambridge since although I did not know that much about Quakers I did know that they were historically against war and knew something about CO status. I was counselled there by a guy, I forget his name, do you remember him, Sally, a tall guy with a long ponytail [Sally: no] who laid out some options without telling me what to do but with a wink. What I did was go AWOL for thirty-three days since once you have passed thirty days you are automatically dropped from the rolls of the place you were assigned to they called it. Which meant that those orders to Fort Lewis were no longer in effect since I didn’t belong there at that point. I turned myself in up at Fort Devens, the closest Army post in the area and was put in what they called a Special Detachment Unit (SPD), a unit for AWOLs and other problem children after I told them I wanted to put in for CO status.
Now in those days except for Quakers, religious people with long histories of pacifism, it was hard to get CO status from civilian draft boards much less from the Army although federal court cases were coming through that would help both classes of cases, would help me eventually. So I put in my application, went through the procedure which I won’t go through since while I was termed “sincere” which would also help me later I was turned down. Turned down in the Army meant to get those orders to Vietnam again.
I was not going, no way not after that trial by fire in my head and that is when after a ton of thought I decided that I was going to refuse to wear the uniform at the weekly Monday morning head count, the morning report they called it to see who was in and who was missing, AWOL. I did so also carrying a sign when said “Bring The Troops Home.” Needless to say I was in trouble, deep trouble, deep trouble in the immediate sense because two burly lifer-sergeants tackled me to the ground, handcuffed me and escorted me to the stockade where they put me in solitary for a while I guess to see what kind of monster they had on their hands. I was given what they called a special court martial which was not bad since it meant the maximum they could give me was six months which they did and which I served in full at the Devens stockade. When I was released from the stockade though because of some legal action my civilian attorney provided by AFSC who had gotten before a judge to keep me at Devens I had to go through the whole refusal thing again and again received a six month sentence. Most of which I served.
I have to laugh when I think about it now but I could have endlessly been given six months sentences for refusing to wear the uniform and still been in the stockade or some such place today. That is where the extra civilian legal help came in to save my ass. The key point was that all the Army paperwork said I was sincere so my civilian lawyer, Steve Larkin, who worked out of an office in Central Square in Cambridge and had done a bit of military resistance work previously submitted a writ of habeas corpus to the Federal District Court in Boston stating that I had been “arbitrarily and capriciously,” those words have legal significance, denied my CO status by the Army. Of course as you know the courts take a while to make decisions on anything so I waited in jail for the decision. Steve had said to expect the worse though since the judge in the case was not known for being sympathetic to such cases. What helped was the “sincere” part and the fact that the United States Supreme Court had loosened up the standards for CO status so the judge granted the writ and after few minor delays I was honorably discharged from the Army and told never to return to a military base in this lifetime.
I, a short time later, joined in the anti-war GI resistance work at a coffeehouse outside Fort Devens and later at Fort Dix down in New Jersey. Where Sally and others had come in on my case was to organize rallies at the front gate of the fort against the war and calling for my release. As every political prisoner knows, people like Chelsea Manning today, a case that I have been involved in supporting, that outside public help went a long way toward keeping my spirits up especially after that second court-martial. So again kudos to Sally and the others who came out in support.”
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