*A Honky Tonk Man Encore- The Troubled Life And Musicial Genius Of Hank Williams

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Hank Williams And The Drifting Cowboys Doing "Cold Cold Heart".

DVD Review

Hank Williams-Honky Tonk Blues, Hank Williams and other artist and commentators, PBS Productions- American Masters Series, 2004

In a May 2009 review of a Hank Williams tribute album, "Timeless" , released in 2003(the 50th Anniversary of his death) I noted the following that is germane to a review of this very informative and balanced PBS "American Masters" production of the life and times of one of the legends of American roots music -country and western branch (and maybe more):

"A musical performer knows that he or she has arrived when they have accumulated enough laurels and created enough songs to be worthy, at least in some record producer's eyes, of a tribute album. When they are also alive to accept the accolades as two out of the four of the artists under review are, which in these cases is only proper, that is all to the good. That said, not all tribute albums are created equally. Some are full of star-studded covers, others are filled with lesser lights that have been influenced by the artist that they are paying tribute to. As a general proposition though I find it a fairly rare occurrence, as I have noted in a review of the "Timeless" tribute album to Hank Williams, that the cover artist outdoes the work of the original recording artist. With that point in mind I will give my "skinny" on the cover artists here."

And that is the essential point that separates the musical greats like Hank Williams from the transitory stars of the day. Over fifty years after his death his songs, heartfelt, tragic, depressive, and on a few occasions whimsical still "speak" to musicians and modern listeners alike. His life`s story, as told here through commentary by those who knew and worked with him, including various members of his "Drifting Cowboys" back-up bands, his widow, his son and grandson Hank II and III respectively, his stepdaughter and various other hometown folks (Montgomery, Alabama although I swear he is a Cajun boy), musical collaborators and music historians unrolls very much like a... Hank Williams ballad. And that again is the point-here is a case where life and art are not so very far apart.

Since the music is what is eternal in this troubled man's life let me finish up here with a reposting of that "Timeless" tribute album review mentioned above. It is that simple yet profound music that gives the essence of the man, his seemingly eternal marriage troubles (and some joys too, I think), his losing battle against drugs and alcohol and his search back for the happier days of his poor boy roots in Alabama after fame and fortune proved too narrow to satisfy whatever was eating at him inside.

"To The Original Honk-Tonk Man

Timeless; A 50th Anniversary Tribute to Hank Williams, various artists, UMG Recordings, 2001

In a review of a Hank Williams anthology in this space ("Gold", a two disc CD of most of the best known songs) noted that I have been listening to a local weekend folk, rock and contemporary music interview show here in Boston for years. The format of the show is to interview, in depth, contemporary well-known singers, songwriters and musicians as well as young unknowns looking to make their mark. One of the questions always asked of each interviewee is about formative influences on their musical development. Although I do not believe that I have ever heard what I would consider a country singer interviewed on the show the name Hank Williams has come up many more times than any other from young and old interviewees alike. That tells the tale of the importance of this man's work, beyond the obvious country influence.

Here some of those well-known musicians mentioned above pay tribute to Hank's influence by covering his songs for a 50th Anniversary of his death edition. A strange occasion for a tribute one might say, although no so for the fast-living, hard-driving, hard drinking Mr. Williams. The likes of Bob Dylan (a subject of many tribute covers himself) on a rocking " Can't Get You Off Of My Mind", Johnnie Cash reciting (recital or maybe, better, talking blues being a Williams speciality) the tearful "I Dreamed About Mama Last Night" and Beck on the mournful "You're Cheatin' Heart" do his memory honor with their own interpretations. I would note, however that, unlike a number of other artists such as the above-noted Dylan, that cover versions of Hank's songs do not usually measure up to the verve and imprint on the mind of his original renditions. The great exception here is Lucinda Williams (no relation, as far as I know) whose rendition of "Cold, Cold Heart" captured all the pathos, and more, of that tune. So long, one more time, Honky-Tonk Man. Listen on."

And watch this documentary.

******************

COLD COLD HEART Lyrics

I tried so hard my dear to show that you're my every dream.
Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme
A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

Another love before my time made your heart sad and blue
And so my heart is paying now for things I didn't do
In anger unkind words are said that make the teardrops start
Why can't I free your doubtful mind,and melt your cold cold heart

You'll never know how much it hurts to see you sit and cry
You know you need and want my love yet you're afraid to try
Why do you run and hide from life,to try it just ain't smart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

There was a time when I believed that you belonged to me
But now I know your heart is shackled to a memory
The more I learn to care for you,the more we drift apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

Cool Water Lyrics


All [C] day I've faced the [G7] bar - ren waste
With [C] out the taste of [G7] wa-ter..... cool, [C] wa-ter.
Ole [F] Dan and I, with [G7] throats burned dry ,
and [C] souls that [F] cry
for [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C] wa-ter.

The [C] nights are cool and [G7] I'm a fool.
Each [C] star's a pool of [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter.
And [F] with the dawn I'll [G7] wake and yawn
and [C] car-ry [F] on
to [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C] wa-ter.

The [C] sha - dows sway and [G7] seem to say
To- [C] night we pray for [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter
And [F] way up there He'll [G7] hear our prayer
and [C] show us [F] where
there's [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C]wa-ter.

[C] Keep a-movin' Dan. Don't you [G7] listen to him Dan.
He's the [C] devil, not a man.
He [G7] spreads the burnin' sand with [C] wa-ter.
Say [F] Dan can't you see that [G7] big green tree,
where the [F] water's runnin' free.
It's [G7] waiting there for you and [C] me
and [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter.

Dan's [C] feet are sore he's [G7] yearnin' for
Just [C] one thing more than [G7] wa-ter.... cool, clear [C] wa-ter.
Like [F] me I guess he'd [G7] like to rest
where [C] there's no [F] quest
for [C] wa-ter.... [G7] cool, clear [C] wa-ter.


HALF AS MUCH Lyrics

Written by Curley Williams 1952
Used by permission of Brent L. Weldon, Curley's grandson

If you love me half as much as I love you
You wouldn't worry me half as much as you do
You're nice to me when there's no one else around
You only build me up to let me down

If you missed me half as much as I miss you
You wouldn't stay away half as much as you do
I know that I would never be this blue
If you only loved me half as much as I love you
repeat both verses

Hey Good Lookin' Lyrics

Say hey good lookin'
whatcha got cookin'
how's about cookin' something up with me
Hey sweet baby
don't you think maybe
we could find us a brand new recepie

I got a hot rod Ford and a two dollar bill
and I know a spot right over the hill
There's soda pop and the dancin's free
so if you wanna have fun come along with me

Say hey good lookin'
whatcha got cookin'
how's about cookin' something up with me

[ steel - fiddle - steel ]

I'm free and ready
so we can go steady
how's about savin' all your time for me
No more lookin'
I know I've been tooken
how's about keepin' steady company

I'm gonna throw my datebook over the fence
and find me one for five or ten cents
I'll keep it till it's covered with age
cause I'm writin' your name down on every page

Hey good lookin,whatcha got cookin
how's about cookin something up
how's about cookin something up
how's about cookin something up with meee




HONKY TONKIN' Lyrics

Words and music by Hank Williams, Sr.

When [G] you are sad and lonely and have no place to go
come to see me baby, and bring along some dough
And we'll go Honky Tonkin', Honky Tonkin'
Honky Tonkin', Honey Baby
We'll go Honky Tonkin' [D7] 'round this [G] town.

When you and your baby have a fallin' out
Just call me up sweet mama and we'll go steppin' out
And we'll go Honky Tonkin', Honky Tonkin'
Honky Tonkin', Honey Baby
We'll go Honky Tonkin' 'round this town.

We're goin' to the city - to the city fair
If you go to the city then you will find me there
And we'll go Honky Tonkin', Honky Tonkin'
Honky Tonkin', Honey Baby
We'll go Honky Tonkin' 'round this town.

Repeat first verse


I'm a Long Gone Daddy Lyrics

All you want to do is sit around and pout
And now I got enough and so I'm getting out

I'm leaving now
I'm leaving now
I'm a long gone daddy I don't need you anyhow

I been in the doghouse so doggone long
That when I get a kiss I think that something's wrong

(chorus)

I'll go find a gal that wants to treat me right
You go get yourself a man that wants to fight

(chorus)

You start your jaws a-wagging and it never stop
You never shut your mouth until I blow my top

(chorus)

I remember back when you were nice and sweet
Things have changed, you'd rather fight than eat

(chorus)

I'm a-gonna do some riding on the midnight train
I'm taking everything except my ball and chain

(chorus)

JAMBALAYA Lyrics

1. [D]Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh [A]my oh
Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the [D]bayou
My Yvonne, the sweetest one, me oh [A]my oh
Son of a gun, we'll have good fun on the [D]bayou

CHORUS:
[D]Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a file [A]gumbo
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see my ma cher a[D]mio
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be [A]gay-oh
Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the [D]bayou.

2. Instrumental Verse (Country Fiddle solo)

3. [D]Thibodeaux, Fontenot, the place is [A]buzzin'
Kinfolk come to see Yvonne by the [D]dozen
Dress in style, go hog wild, me oh [A]my oh
Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the [D]bayou.

REPEAT CHORUS

4. Instrumental Verse (Country Fiddle solo)

FINAL CHORUS:
[D]Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a file [A]gumbo
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see my ma cher a[D]mio
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be [A]gay-oh
Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the b[D]ayou.
Son of a [A]gun, we'll have big fun on the b[D]ayou.
Son of a [A]gun, we'll have big [A7]fun on the b[D]ayou.


YOU WIN AGAIN Lyrics

Recorded by Hank Williams, Sr.
Words and music by Hank Williams, Sr.

1st Verse:
[E] The [B7] news is [E] out - all over [A] town
That you've been [E] seen - a-runnin' [B7] 'round
I know that [E] I - should leave, but [A] then
I just can't [E] go - YOU [B7] WIN A- [E] GAIN.

1st Bridge:
This heart of [A] mine - could never [E] see
What ev'rybod - y knew but [B7] me
Just trusting [E] you - was my great [A] sin
What can I [E] do - YOU [B7] WIN A- [E] GAIN.

2nd Verse:
I'm sorry for - your victim now
'Cause soon his head - like mine will bow
He'll give his heart - but all in vain
And someday say - YOU WIN AGAIN.

2nd Bridge:
You have no heart - you have no shame
You take true love - and give the blame
I guess that I - should not complain
I love you still - YOU WIN AGAIN.


YOUR CHEATIN' HEART Lyrics

Your cheatin' heart,
Will make you weep,
You'll cry and cry,
And try to sleep,
But sleep won't come,
The whole night through,
Your cheatin heart, will tell on you...

When tears come down,
Like falling rain,
You'll toss around,
And call my name,
You'll walk the floor,
The way I do,
Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you...

Your cheatin' heart,
Will pine some day,
And crave the love,
You threw away,
The time will come,
When you'll be blue,
Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you...

When tears come down,
Like falling rain,
You'll toss around,
And call my name,
You'll walk the floor,
The way I do,
Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you...

Yet Again Starting Over Again-Forever Young-The Bart Webber Saga

Yet Again Starting Over Again-Forever Young-The Bart Webber Saga

By Fritz Taylor

Jack Callahan had to laugh one again, and probably not for the last time, at the love foibles of his old friend from high school days at Riverdale High, Bart Webber, who apparently is organically incapable of not leaving well enough alone. He had initially cornered Jack one night in their favorite watering hole, the Dee Drop Grille in Gloversville a few towns over from growing up hometown Riverdale and where Bart now lives, and after not hearing from Bart for about a year found out in detail about his third divorce, this one from Linda Evans which had lasted the longest. Naturally since it was Bart he had to go into the downfall of his previous two marriages as well to complete the scene.    

Subsequently, maybe two weeks later Bart “shocked” Jack with the information that he was back in the love hunt. This time though since he had no lady friend waiting in the wings and having been with Linda about twenty years and very rusty and behind in the why and wherefores of “senior” dating he had joined a senior dating site on the Internet, paid his dough, and created his profile. The reason that Bart again cornered Jack in their favorite watering hole was that after checking out some profiles he noticed that the age range that most woman did not seem to want to go above was sixty-five. At least for the fifty to sixty year old women that he was interested in meeting. Jack and Bart are now both seventy so you could see the dilemma coming a mile away. He pleaded, begged really, for Jack’s opinion about whether he should shave a few years off his age on his profile page to increase his chances. Jack had answered “no, no way” stuff like that catches up with you and had in the past for old Bart. Moreover unlike the fickle young, including them when they were younger, age is not as great a factor for older, oops, more mature women who have been through a few storms themselves.     

Of course Bart refused to pay any heed to Jack’s very reasonable remarks. Then last week for some reason he began hitting pay dirt with several women on the site. One in particular, a fifty-two year old hospital administrator who also liked folk music, Bart had been in a folk music group back in the early 1960s when the folk minute blew through the American shores, listened of all things to the same folk music station that he did (both are members), liked going to the ocean which Bart had always craved and to art museums a newly acquired taste since his retirement. She had startled him after a several site e-mails chatting about this and that when she asked if he would like to accompany her to the Museum of Fine Arts where a new exhibit was to open over the new weekend. The long and short of it was that he accepted her invitation and they made arrangements to meet for their first “date.” But now Bart is afraid that the chickens will come home to roost on the age question although because he had recently taken up running, well, jogging really he could probably “pass” for sixty-five or so. So Jack will wait with baited breathe to see what falls out this time. Jesus, Bart and his lady love affairs.        

*****When The Fight To Turn The World Upside Down Was In Full Flower- With The Doors The Unknown Soldier In Mind

*****When The Fight To Turn The World Upside Down Was In Full Flower- With The Doors The Unknown Soldier In Mind

 

 

Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier

Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living, dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier
Hut, hut, hut ho hee up
Hut, hut, hut ho hee up
Hut, hut, hut ho hee up
Comp'nee, halt
Present, arms
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over
The war is over
It's all over
War is over

Well, all over, baby
All over, baby
Oh, over, yeah
All over, baby

Ooh, ha, ha, all over
All over, baby
Oh, woah, yeah, all over
All over, heh
Add song meaning

Songwriters
Robbie Krieger;John Densmore;Jim Morrison;Ray Manzarek

From The Pen of Zack James

There was no seamless thread that wrapped the counter-cultural dominated 1960s up tightly, wrapped it up neatly in a pretty bow all set for posterity except for the media types who lived day by day in those merciful times for scraps to feed the teletype hot wires and by on-the-make politicians who to this day attempt to make capital making sport of what in the final analysis was a half-thought out desire to create the “newer world” that some old-time English poet was harping about. That seamless thread business had been distracting Frank Jackman’s attention of late now that a new generation of media-types are at hand who want to refight that social battle and the politicians are whipping   up the raw meat good old boys and girls and the staid as well to provide the troops for that new battle against some phantom in their heads. Despite all the rhetoric, despite all the books written disclaiming any responsibility by those who led the march, despite all those who have now “seen the light” and have hopped back into the fold in academia and the professions (in fact that march back to what everybody used to call bourgeois society started the day after the whole movement ebbed or the day they got their doctorates or professional degrees) there was some question even in Franks’ own mind about whether “the movement” for all its high gloss publicity and whirlwind effect dominated the play as much as he and his kindred had thought then or can lay claim to these forty plus years later.

Place plenty of weight on Frank’s observation, maybe not to take to the bank but to have some knowledge about the limits to what a whole generation in all its diversity can claim as its own mark on society and history. Place plenty of weight for the very simple reason that he went through the whole thing in almost all of its contradictions. Had been raised under the star of parents who slogged through the Great Depression although that was a close thing, a very close thing for some like Frank’s parents who were desperately poor. His poor besotted mother having to leave home and head west looking, looking for whatever there was out there before coming back home with three dollars in hand, and maybe her virtue how can you ask that question of your mother when you wouldn’t think to look at her when young, later too, that she was capable of sex, not the sex you had at your pleasure with some sweet Maryjane. His father out of the Southern winds, out of tar-roof shack of a cabin, half naked, down in the coal-rich hills and hollows of Appalachia, the poorest of the poor, leaving that desperate place to seek something, some small fame that always eluded him. They together, collectively, slogged through the war, World War II, his father through Pacific fight, the most savage kind, had his fill of that damn island hopping and his mother waiting, fretfully waiting for the other shoe to drop, to hear her man had laid his head down for his country in some salted coral reef or atoll whatever they were. Get this though, gladly, gladly would lay that head down and she if it came right down to it would survive knowing he had laid that precious head down. That was the salts they were made of, the stuff this country was able to produce even if it had very little hand in forming such faithful servants so no one would, no one could deny their simple patriotism, or doubt that they would pass that feeling on to their progeny.

Made that progeny respect their music too, their misty, moody I’ll see you tomorrow, until we meet again, I’ll get by, if I didn’t care music, music fought and won with great purpose. But Frank balked, balked young as he was, with as little understanding as he had, the minute he heard some serious rhythm back-beat absent from that sugary palp his parents wanted to lay on him and he would, young as he was, stand up in his three brother shared room (when they were not around of course for they older “dug” Patti Page and Rosemary Clooney, stuff like that) and dance some phantom dance based on that beat he kept hearing in his head, and wondered whether anybody else heard what he heard (of course later when it was show and tell time in the 1960s that beat would be the thing that glued those who were kindred together, funny they were legion). Caught the tail end of the “beat” thing that those older brothers dismissed out of hand as faggy, as guys “light on their feet” and gals who seemed black-hearted blank and neurotic. But that was prelude, that, what did somebody in some sociology class call it, the predicate.                      

As the 1960s caught Frank by his throat, caught him in its maw as he liked to call it to swishy-dishy literary effect he got “religion” in about six different ways. Got grabbed  when the folk minute held sway, when guys like Bob Dylan and Dave Von Ronk and gals like Joan Baez preached “protest” to the hinterlands, reaching down to places like Frank’s Carver, nothing but a working poor town dependent on the ups and downs of the cranberry business. At one time the town was the cranberry capital of the world or close to it. That up and down business depending too on whether people were working and could afford to throw in cranberry sauce with their turkeys come Thanksgiving and Christmas or would be reduced to the eternal fallback beans and franks. But see Carver was close enough, thirty or forty miles south of Boston to Beacon Hill and Harvard Square to be splashed by that new sound and new way of going on dates too, going to coffeehouses or if times were tough just hang around the Harvard Square’s Hayes-Bickford watching with fascination the drunks, hipsters, dipsters, grifters, winos, hoboes, maybe  an odd whore drinking a cup of joe after some John split on her, but also guys and gals perfecting their acts as folk-singers, poets, artists and writers.

Grabbed on the basis of that protest music to the civil rights movement down South, putting Frank at odds with parents, neighbors and his corner boys around Jack Slack’s bowling alleys. Grabbed too the dope, the hope and every girl he could get his hands on, or get this to tell you about the times since he was at best an okay looking guy, they could get their hands on him, on those bedroom blue eyes of his they called it more times than not, that came with the great summers of love from about 1965 on.

Here’s where the contradictions started get all mixed up with things he had no control over, which he was defenseless against. So grabbed too that draft notice from his friends and neighbors at the Carver Draft Board and wound up a dog soldier in Vietnam for his efforts. Wound up on cheap street for a while when he came back unable to deal with the “real” world for a while. That failure to relate to the “real” world cost him his marriage, a conventional marriage to a young woman with conventional white picket fence, a little lawn, kids, and dogs dreams which only had happened because he was afraid that he would not come back from “Nam in one piece, would never get to marriage for what it was worth. Grabbed the streets for a while before he met a woman, a Quaker woman, who saved him, for a while until he went west with some of his corner boys who had also been washed by the great push. Did the whole on the road hitchhike trip, dope, did communes, did zodiacs of love, did lots of things until the hammer came down and the tide ebbed around the middle of the 1970s. So yeah Frank was almost like a bell-weather, no, a poster child for all that ailed society then, and for what needed to be fixed.      

That decade or so from about 1964 to about 1974 Frank decided as he got trapped in old time thoughts and as he related to his old friend Jack Callahan one night at his apartment in Cambridge as they passed a “joint” between them (some things die hard, or don’t die) was nevertheless beginning to look like a watershed time not just for the first wave immediate post-World War II baby-boomers like him, Jack, Frankie Riley, the late Peter Markin, Sam Lowell and a lot of other guys he passed the corner boy night with (the ones like him born immediately after the war as the troops came home, came off the transports, and guys and gals were all hopped up to start families, figure out how to finance that first white picket fence house and use the GI bill to get a little bit ahead in the world, at least get ahead of their parents’ dead-end great depression woes) who came of social and political age then washed clean by the new dispensation but for the country as a whole. More so since those of the so-called generation of ’68, so called by some wag who decided that the bookends of the rage of the American Democratic Convention in Chicago that year and the defeat of the revolutionary possibilities in France in May of that year signaled the beginning of the ebb tide for the whole thing, for those who are still up for a fight against the military monster who is still with us are continuing to fight a rearguard action to keep what little is left of accomplishments and the spirit of those time alive.

Thinking back a bit to that time, Frank as the dope kicked in, a thousand things, or it seemed like a thousand things, some things new in the social, economic, political or cultural forest came popping up out of nowhere in many cases, came together in pretty rapid succession to draw down in flames the dread red scare Cold War freezes of their  childhoods (that time always absurdly symbolically topped off by the sight of elementary school kids, them , crouched under some rickety old desk arms over their heads some air-raid drill practice time as if, as the residents of Hiroshima and Nagasaki who are still alive from that time can attest to, that would do the slightest bit of good if the “big one,” the nuclear bombs hit.

Yeah, the Cold War time too when what did they know except to keep their obedient heads down under their desks or face down on the floor when the periodic air-raid shelter tests were performed at school to see if they were ready to face the bleak future if they survived some ill-meant commie atomic blast. (Personally Frank remembered telling somebody then that he would, having seen newsreel footage of the bomb tests at Bikini, just as soon take his  chances above desk, thank you, for all the good the other maneuver would do them.)

For a while anyway Frank and the angel-saints were able to beat back that Cold War mentality, that cold-hearted angst, and calculated playing with the good green world, the world even if they had no say, zero, in creating what went on. Not so strangely, although maybe that is why people drifted away in droves once the old bourgeois order reasserted itself and pulled down the hammer, none of those who were caught up in the whirl thought it would be for only a while or at least thought it would fade so fast just as they thought, young and healthy as they were, that they would live forever. But if you, anybody when you really think about the matter, took a step back you could trace things a little, could make your own “live free” categories of the events that chipped away the ice of those dark nights.

Start in with the mid-1950s if you like, which is where Frank liked to start dating his own sense of the new breeze coming through although being a pre-teenager then he told Jack he would not have had sense enough to call it that, with the heat of the black struggle for some semblance of civil liberties down South in the fight for voter rights and the famous desegregation of buses in Montgomery and the painful desegregation of the schools in Little Rock (and some sense of greater  equality up North too as organizations like the NAACP and Urban League pushed an agenda for better education and housing). Also at that same time, and in gathering anecdotal evidence Frank had found that these too are a common lynchpin, the first break-out of music with the crowning of rock and roll as the wave of the future (black rhythm and blues, scat, rockabilly music all mixed up and all stirred up), and the “discovery” of teen alienation and angst exemplified by sullen movie star  James Dean, who lived fast, and died fast a metaphor that would work its way through youth culture over the next generation. (And throw in surly “wild one” movie star Marlon Brando in The Wild One and a brooding Montgomery Cliff in almost anything during those days, take The Misfits for one, to the mix of what they could relate to as icons of alienation and angst .)   

An odd-ball mix right there. Throw in, as well, although this was only at the end and only in very commercial form, the influence of the “beats,” the guys (and very few gals since that Jack Kerouac-Neal Cassady-William Burroughs-Allen Ginsberg mix was strictly a male bonding thing) who listened to the guys who blew the cool be-bop jazz and wrote up a storm based on that sound, declared a new sound, that you would hear around cafés even if you did not understand it unlike rock and roll, the guys who hitchhiked across the American landscape creating a wanderlust in all who had heard about their exploits, and, of course, the bingo bongo poetry that threw the old modernists like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound out with a bang.

Then start to throw in the struggles against the old authority in places like Frisco town where they practically ran the red-baiters in the HUAC out of town (what Frank, and some of his friends although not the Carver corner boys except Markin, would learn to call “bourgeois authority working hand in hand with the capitalists”), the old certitudes that had calmed their parents’ lives, made them reach out with both hands for the plenty in the “golden age of plenty.”

Of course the biggest event that opened the doors for liberals, radicals, hell, even thoughtful conservatives was the sweet breeze coming down the road from Boston with the election of Jack Kennedy. Ike, the harmless uncle, the kindly grandfather, was for parents Frank wanted guys who set the buzz going, let them think about getting some kicks out of life, that maybe with some thought they would survive, and if they didn’t at least we had the kicks.

That event opened up a new psyche, that it was okay to question authority, whatever the limitations and shortness of the Camelot times with the struggles against some hoary things like segregation, the death penalty, nuclear proliferation, the unevenness of social life which would get propelled later in the decade with fight for women’s liberation, gay liberation, and the fight against the draft, the damn war in Vietnam that drove a nail into the heart of Frank’s generation. A river of ideas, and a river of tears, have been, and can be, shed over that damn war, what it did to young people, those who fought, maybe especially those who fought as Frank got older and heard more stories about the guys who like him didn’t make it back to the “real” world after “Nam, didn’t have a sweet mother Quaker lady like Frank to save them, those guys you see downtown in front of the VA hospitals, and those who refused to, that lingers on behind the scenes even today.

There were more things, things like the “Pill” (and Frank would always kid Jack who was pretty shy talking about sex despite the fact that he and Chrissie, his high school sweetheart, had had four kids when he asked what pill if you need to know what pill and its purpose where have you been) that opened up a whole can of worms about what everyone was incessantly curious about and hormonally interested in doing something about, sex, sex beyond the missionary position of timeless legends, something very different if the dramatic increase in sales of the Kama Sutra meant anything, a newer sensibility in music with the arrival of the protest folk songs for a new generation which pushed the struggle and the organizing forward.

Cultural things too like the experimenting with about seven different kinds of dope previously the hidden preserve of “cool cat” blacks and white hipsters (stuff that they only knew negatively about, about staying away from, thru reefer madness propaganda, thru the banning of some drugs that were previously legal like sweet sister cocaine and taunt Nelson Algren hard life down at the base of society in films like The Man With The Golden Arm), the outbreak of name changes with everybody seemingly trying to reinvent themselves in name (Frank’s moniker at one time was Be-Bop Benny draw what you will out of that the idea being like among some hipster blacks, although with less reason, they wanted to get rid of their  slave names)  fashion (the old college plaid look fading in the face of World War II army surplus, feverish colors, and consciously mismatched outfits and affectation (“cool, man, cool” and “right on’ said it all). More social experiments gathering in the “nation” through rock concerts, now acid-etched, new living arrangements with the arrival of the urban and rural communes (including sleeping on more than one floor in more than one church or mission when on the road, or later on the bum). They all, if not all widespread, and not all successful as new lifestyles all got a fair workout during this period as well.     

Plenty of Frank’s kindred in retrospective would weigh the various combinations of events differently in figuring out how the uprising started just as plenty of them had their specific dates for when the tide began to ebb, when the mean-spirited and authoritarian began their successful counter-offensive that they still lived with for not taking the omens more seriously. (Frank’s ebb tide, as he had  described to Frankie Riley one time, was the events around May Day 1971 when they seriously tried, or thought they were seriously trying, to shut down the government in D.C. if it would no shut down the war and got nothing but billy-clubs, tear gas, beatings and mass arrests for their efforts. After those days Frank, and others, figured out the other side was more serious about preserving the old order than they were about creating the new and that they had better rethink how to slay the monster they were up against and act accordingly.)

Then Frank passed Jack a photograph that he had taken from a calendar put out by the New England Folk Song Society that his wife, Sarah, who worked to put the item out to raise funds for folk music preservation (see above) that acted as another catalyst for this his short screed, and which pictorially encapsulated a lot of what went then, a lot about “which side were you on” when the deal went down. This photograph Frank pointed out to Jack was almost impossible to imagine without some combination of that hell broth anti-war, anti-establishment, pro-“newer world” mix stirred up in the 1960s.

Three self-assured women (the “girls” of photograph a telltale sign of what society, even hip, progressive society thought about women in those slightly pre-women’s liberation time but they would learn the difference) comfortable with the loose and individualistic fashion statements of the day from floppy hats to granny dresses to bare legs, bare legs, Jesus, that alone would have shocked their girdled, silk stocking mothers, especially if those bare legs included wearing a mini-skirt (and mother dread thoughts about whether daughter knew about the pill, and heaven forbid if she was sexually active, a subject not for polite society, not for mother-daughter conversation, then she damn better well know, or else).

They are also uncomfortable about the damn Vietnam war, no, outraged is a better way to put the matter, that was eating up boyfriends, brothers, just friends, guys they knew in college or on the street who were facing heavy decisions about the draft, Canada exile, prison or succumbing to the worst choice, Frank’s choice if you could call his induction a choice what else could he have done gone to Canada, no,  military induction, at a heavy rate and they unlike their mothers who came through World War II waiting patiently and patriotically for their military heroes to come home, come home in one piece, have a very different sense of the heroic. A sense of the heroic going back to ancient times, Greek times anyway, when one group of women like their stay-at-home-waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop World War II mothers demanded that their men come home carried on their shields if they had to rather than speak of defeat. Others, the ones that count here, refusing their potential soldier boys any favors, read sexual favors, okay, if they went off to war, providing a distant echo, a foundation to make their request stand on some authority, for these three women pictured there.

Frank wondered how many guys would confess to the lure of that enticement if they had refused induction. His own wife, quickly married at the time was if anything more gung-ho about stopping the red menace than his parents. Frank did not refuse induction for a whole bunch of reasons but then he did not have any girlfriends like that sweet mother Quaker woman later, who made that demand, his girl- friends early on, and not just his wife if anyway were as likely to want him to come back carried on a shield as those warrior-proud ancient Greek women. Too bad. But Frank said to Jack as Jack got up ready to head home to Hingham and Chrissie that he liked to think that today they could expect more women to be like the sisters above. Yeah, more, many more of the latter, please as Frank and his comrades in Veterans for Peace continue to struggle against the night-takers in the nightmare world of endless war

Fight Deportations-Join Veterans For Peace At The US-Mexico Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

Fight Deportations-Join Veterans For Peace At The US-Mexico  Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

Fight Deportations-Join Us At The US-Mexico Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

Fight Deportations-Join Us At The US-Mexico  Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

 

VFP's Ann Wright Among Missing Participants of Women's Boat to Gaza - Zaytouna-Oliva

 

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Veterans For Peacevia vfp=veteransforpeace.org

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	Zaytouna-Oliva Taken in International Waters: Whereabouts of Participants Unknown Click image above to view video This afternoon, the Women's Boat to Gaza was making good progress to the shores and the women were emotional about meeting all the people in Gaza who were waiting for them. Some of the Palestinians had spent the night at the beach to greet them. At 9:58 (EST) organizers lost total contact with the Zaytouna-Oliva. The US embassy confirmed that the boat was intercepted. We do not know where our friends are. It is important to know that this happened in international waters and it is not only illegal but sets a bad precedent in giving a greenlight for other nations to attack civilian ships in international waters. The Zaytouna-Oliva was carrying no material aid. This was by design because Israel, as a premise for their attacks, would claim that weapons and contraband were on board. The owner of Zaytouna-Oliva is Israeli. Ann Wright is a decorated former US diplomat, a member of Veterans For Peace and on our Advisory Board.  On board with her were three parliamentarians, an Olympic athlete and Nobel Peace Laureate, Mairead Maguire. They were committed to nonviolence as much as they were committed to breaking the blockade. Ann has traveled thousands of miles and made a great sacrifice for human rights.  We can help her with a few small efforts: Contact President Barack Obama:  (202) 456-1111 Contact Secretary John Kerry's Chief of Staff: FinerJJ@state.gov Unlike other nations that have women on the boat, we Americans provide military equipment to Israel that may very well have been used against Ann and our international friends.  Please ask Secretary Kerry and President Obama to demand Israel immediately release the women and that they do an investigation on the incident as there are a number of troubling circumstances that are against US and international law. And don't forget to say that the blockade on Gaza must end.
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Starting Over, Again- Forever Young- A Bart Webber Saga

Starting Over, Again- Forever Young- A Bart Webber Saga   

By Fritz Taylor

 

Jack Callahan’s old friend Bart Webber a guy he had known at least since back in high school at old Riverdale High where they first hung out together at Jimmy Jack’s bowling alleys over on Beacon Street looking, well, looking for the heart of Saturday night, Friday too and in summer most every night never could draw a break in the love game, in the until forever do not us part anyway. Bart always envied Jack who had stayed with the same high school sweetheart, Kathy Kelly, ever since despite battle royals when Jack was younger and as a high school and college football hero had the pick of whatever he wanted come three touchdown Saturday evening. Bart, well Bart had just struck out for the third time, third married time and a slew of kids to show for his efforts if not much else after a fairly long term for him marriage to Linda Evans, the mother of his last two of six children.       

The way that Jack knew about Bart’s new found “single” condition since they had not seen each other for about a year as Bart had been in a deep freeze over the burnt embers of that last marriage was the night a few weeks ago when they met at their old watering hole, The Dew Drop Grille and Bart laid the latest chapter in the Bart saga. Naturally Bart, being Bart and always something of dramatist in dealing with his various love affairs whether they led to marriage or not, had to retail every sordid detail of his three marriages starting with the first ill-advised marriage to his own high school sweetheart, Diana Nelson, whom he married in a rush once he got infantrymen orders to Vietnam and he did not want to face young death without having been married in his short sweet life. All that produced was the mandatory two kids and endless infidelities by him once he turned anti-war G.I. when he got back to the “real” world and he, in his turn, could have his pick of any “hippie chick” that he wanted.

Onward. As Jack knew the Bart litany on wife number two Mellissa Loring who in her turn other than producing those two kids had her own endless infidelities at just the time that Bart was slowing down in the skirt –chasing department (although never completely what are you kidding he was organically incapable of such righteous behavior). And then the seemingly happy longest marriage to Linda. What Jack did not know but that Bart was more than happy to fill him in on was that Linda could not take Bart’s change in behavior once he started having a whole series of medical problems the past few years, was taking a slew of pills for about seven ailments stretching back to Vietnam and was having trouble dealing with the onset of his own mortality. Moreover Linda who was prone to try every New Age fad the denizens of the alternative health cabal in Cambridge could muster up at prices that would shock the shock-less Western medicine guys and gals had drifted into her own netherworld. Her parting words were that she had to seek “something” on a journey of her own to reach a new spirituality level wished well Bart and that he should take stock of his own journey as well.    

Some guys never learn, never learn in the love game and Bart Webber was and is prima facie evident for that proposition. A few weeks after the Bart soul-bearing at the Dew Drop he called Jack on his and asked his “advise.” Should he acknowledge his actual age, three score and ten, seventy, or clip a few years off that raggedy sum. Jack listened but he knew in the back of his mind that Bart was on the love trail. Jack told Bart to tell the truth about his age and take what comes. Why? Well it seems that Bart, having lost some of his edge in the dating game and having no ready women friends to console him had decided at seventy, goddam, seventy, that he would join a “senior” dating service and see what came up in the local area. What Bart had noticed was that most of the women on the site, women between fifty and sixty which was his meat, had their own cut-offs at sixty-five. Like seventy was just too old. Jesus, some guys never learn. Step up to the plate, brother, step right up to the sorrow plate.    

From Socialist Alternative Cancel Student Debt At U/Mass

Socialist Students fight the cuts at UMass! View this email in your browser

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Wednesday October 12th 3:15 PM - UMass Boston Plaza Increasing tuition and student fees, cuts to classes and programs, and threatening layoffs to staff and faculty while at the same time spending tons for inflated administration salaries that they’re making us pay for - is this what the UMass administration means by “serving the public good of our city”? With threats of further attacks like decreasing the Campus Shuttle schedule, increasing parking fees, and more layoffs that will undermine our quality of education hanging over our heads, it’s more important now than ever that we fight back and say no! If we get organized and active, together we can defeat these attacks and keep UMass a university for working people. Come out on October 12th to stand with us and say our education is not a business - no cuts or hikes at UMass! Cancel student debt!