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 Night When The World
Came Down Upon Peter Paul Markin’s Head-With Roy Lichtenstein’s 1968 Time Magazine Cover Of Bobby Kennedy In
Mind
By Bart Webber (with the
ghost hand of Sam Lowell on his shoulder)
The ghost of the late
sorely lamented Peter Paul Markin has hovered over this publication long after
his early, too early demise back in the 1970s (and in its sister publications
as well as a quick recent glance indicated starkly to me upon investigation).
Maybe it because we have begun reaching a milestone, 50th anniversary
commemorations of various youth-defining events, maybe arbitrary, maybe as the
late scientist Steven Jay Gould was fond of saying mere man-made constructs and
no more but which has infested a number of us older writers some of who knew
Markin personally and others who have been influenced by the hairy tales of his
existence. (The younger writers mostly, as one told me, could give a fuck about
an old junkie has been who didn’t have sense enough to not try some crazy
scheme to get rich quick in the cocaine trade against the growing Columbian
cartels so what could he expect.) Almost every event during this commemoration
period had Markin’s imprint on it. (We always called him Scribe but I will
stick with his surname here.)
Therefore it does not take
much to flicker a flame if something going back to those days jumpstarts
renewed thoughts of Markin. That happened one afternoon recently when Si Lannon
was on assignment to do an article on the Cezanne
Portraits exhibition at the National Gallery and as is his wont (and Sam
Lowell’s too especially if Laura Perkins is along) he runs up to the National
Portrait Gallery to see what is up there. Not much since the last time he was
there except on a wall on the first floor under the title Remembrance there was Roy Lichtenstein’s famous Time magazine cover
of Robert Kennedy done in the spring of 1968 shortly before his assassination
in California after his primary victory over Eugene in June of that year. Si
was so shaken by that picture that he immediately called me and I thereafter
called a few other guys and the mere mention of that cover got us back to
Markin square one.
See Markin, beyond being
the guy who in our circle named the fresh breeze coming through the land for
what would be called by others the Generation of ’68 and which we thanks to
Markin we were card-carrying members was also far and away the most political
of us all. Saw that any dreams of that newer world he was always hassling us
about was going to require serious changes in the political winds. Moreover
Markin had from I don’t remember how early on but as long as I had known him
tied his fate to becoming some kind of politician, some kind of mover and
shaker in that newer world. As for me I could have given a damn about politics
then since I was starting up my printing business and, truth, was busy trying
to get into my girlfriend’s pants. Not Markin though he had spent that whole
spring working his ass off for Robert Kennedy, had gone up and down the East
Coast trying to recruit resistant students not only to vote for Bobby but get
out on the trail. That student resistance factored in by the fact that Bobby
had not gotten into the presidential contest until after Lyndon Baines Johnson
the sitting President and odds on favored in 1968 to win the election decided
after the debacle of Vietnam, of Tet, not to run and the previously “Clean for
Gene” crowd was reluctant to go with Bobby. Saw him as an interloper.
Here is the beauty, maybe
treachery now that I think about the matter, of that bloody bastard Markin
before Lyndon blew himself up and Bobby entered the fray he was sitting on his
freaking hands perfectly willing to
give Johnson a pass as vile
as Vietnam was against the expected contest against Richard Nixon. Didn’t think
whatever lukewarm and ill-formed sympathy he had for McCarthy’s anti-war
positions he could beat Nixon (or anybody else he once mentioned after the New
Hampshire primary upended politics for good that year with McCarthy’s better
than expected showing-wasn’t Bobby-like ruthless enough). Two minutes after
Bobby announced he called up some Bobby operatives he knew from the Boston
mayor’s fight in 1967 and was on his way.
When Bobby went down I
think, and this is only speculation on my part since I didn’t see him much
after he went into the Army and then afterward headed out to California to
start “a new life,” something went out of Markin, some sense that the whole
thing had been a mirage and that he was doomed. He always thought of himself as
doomed, spoke of it sometimes when he was depressed, or things were tough at home.
So as the ghost of Bobby Kennedy showed up on that Lichtenstein cover know this
the ghost of Markin is right there too.
Once Again, The Voice of The Generation Of '68?- Bob Dylan Unplugged
A YouTube's film clip of Bob Dylan performing "Blowin' In The Wind" in 1963.
CD REVIEW
The Times They Are A-Changing, Bob Dylan, Columbia, 1963
In this selection we have some outright folk classics that will endure for the ages like those of his early hero Woody Guthrie have endured. "The Times They are A-Changing" still sounds good today although the generational tensions and the alienation from authorities highlighted there is markedly less now than than in those days-not a good thing, by the way. "The Ballad of Hollis Brown" is a powerful tale out of John Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath" about the plight of an up against the wall family farmer out on the then hardscrabble prairies (and it has only gotten worst since and Dylan made one of his periodic 'comebacks' doing this song at a Farm Aid concert in the 1980's).
"With God On Our Side" like "Masters of War" is a powerful anti-war song although some of the tensions of the Cold War period in which it was written have gone (only to replaced today by the fears generated by the `war on terrorism'). "Only A Pawn In Their Game" was a powerful expression of rage after the murder of civil rights worker Medgar Evers. The "Hattie Carroll" song shows Dylan's range by dealing with injustice from a different perspective (and a different class) than "Only A Pawn In Their Game". But with no let up in highlighting blatant discrimination and animus in either case. Finally, in reviewing these early Dylan albums (and some of the later ones, as well) I have noticed that they are not complete without at least one song about lost love, longing or perfidy. Here, there is no exception to that rule with the haunting, pleading voice of "Boots of Spanish Leather".
posted by markin at 10:49 AM
7 Comments: Kim said... The problem is that Dylan himself clearly states that Masters of War is not an anti-war song:
Q: Give me an example of a song that has been widely misinterpreted.
A: Take "Masters Of War." Every time I sing it, someone writes that it's an antiwar song. But there's no antiwar sentiment in that song. I'm not a pacifist. I don't think I've ever been one. If you look closely at the song, it's about what Eisenhower was saying about the dangers of the military-industrial complex in this country. I believe strongly in everyone's right to defend themselves by every means necessary... you are affected as a writer and a person by the culture and spirit of the times. I was tuned into it then, I'm tuned into it now. None of us are immune to the spirit of the age. It affects us whether we know it or whether we like it or not.
from http://expectingrain.com/dok/int/2003tour.html
And I think to say that "With God on Our Side" is an anti-war song is reducing the song to something topical. The idea that it is simply an anti-war song really ignores the last verse in the piece regarding Judas Iscariot. Judas Iscariot fought in no war, so then, if this is an anti-war song why is he even in the picture? I believe it is far less an anti-war song and far more a song about asking the question: what does it mean to believe in God? To me, it's more about asking the question: shouldn't we be on God's side and not He on ours?
THIS question then throws into the spotlight the idea that God is on the side of America and that she is always right. Dylan, it seems to me, is not quite buying into that. None of us should. But he's not an either/or kind of a guy. He's not an "America is all bad or all good" kind. Hattie Carroll bites into two groups, and both come out severly wounded: the racists and their racist application of "justice" AND the liberals who decry injustice but do nothing about it.
7:10 PM markin said... When I used the term ‘anti-war’ in relationship to Bob Dylan’s song Masters of War I meant that in a generic sense rather than giving it some specific political or pacific meaning. According to the Dylan quote that Kim cited in her comment there is a tendency, including by Dylan, to equate the terms ‘anti-war’ and ‘pacifist’. I would not give such a narrow meaning to the term ‘anti-war’. In Dylan’s context it is essentially anti-militarism, especially the dramatically American militarism of the time by the Brecht-like phrases that he uses. That concept does not preclude the concept of just wars against the escalation of such militarism. Leftists except probably Quakers, as a rule, subscribe to some form of just war theory. Certainly in my youth the concept of just war meant supporting the struggle of the Vietnamese against the American presence.
One need not go back that far for an example, though. Much closer in time is the current ‘struggle’ by Iraqi forces against the American presence there. Although the situation is definitely murkier than in Vietnam, to the extent that any one is fighting directly against the American presence (as opposed to indiscriminately bombing everything that moves), theirs is an example of just war. Hell, in 2003 the simple act of the Iraqis, with or without Sadaam, defending themselves against the American invasion was an example of a just war. So Kim, you see that ‘anti-war’ is a pretty elastic term and that brother Dylan and I are, after all, not so far away in our idea that everyone has a right to defend themselves. It is a question of whose right to such defense is supported at any given point that is at issue.
After the above rather abstract discussion, let us cut to the chase about whether Masters of War is an ‘anti-war’ song. During the Vietnam War I was involved with a group of active duty anti-Vietnam War G.I.s (Army soldiers, in this case) who faced court-martial for disobeying lawful orders. Those orders being refused were orders to go to Vietnam, a rather serious offense for a soldier. As part of their defense at the court-martial a few of them, when they got on the stand to make statements, started reciting Master of War in order to have it placed in the transcript of trial. The colonels and majors who made up the court-martial board tried to, red-faced with anger, stop them. Those officers, at least, knew what ‘anti-war’ lyrics were when they heard them. Enough said, I think.
11:01 AM markin said... The question of whether “With God On Our Side” is an anti-war song is a little more problematic than that of “Masters of War”. I would only comment that one should not get hung up on the ‘god’ part as I consider this more a common political convention of the time in order to get a hearing for your song (a not unimportant consideration, by the way) that a universalistic appeal to for America to get “on the right side of god”. In the 1960’s, an age wedded to existential concepts, references to god could be as directed to the void as they could to some religious supreme being. Later, as Dylan entertained more religious feelings in his life and in his work that argument might make more sense but certainly not in the early 1960’s. If one did not have a sense of irony then, one was ‘lost’. That ironic sense is why we listened to Dylan and others. They expressed in song things about the world that disturbed us at the time.
What really interests me today about Dylan’s lyrics on this song is how passive they are in relationship to the task that he has presented. In those days, the threat of nuclear annihilation was palpable as things like the Cold War –driven nuclear arms race and the Cuban Missile Crisis made plain. Dylan was apparently entirely willing to let some ultimately ‘just’ god pull the chestnuts out of the fire for us. Alternately, in those days a number of us preferred to take to the streets to organize the fight for nuclear disarmament. “God” could come along if he/she wanted to-no questions asked. Hell, we were so desperate for recruits that Judas Iscariot was welcome if he wanted to turn over a new leaf.
11:12 AM markin said... Here are the lyrics to Masters of War and you can make your own judgment about whether it is an anti-war song or not. I have given my opinion above. Markin
Masters Of War
Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build the big bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks
You that never done nothin' But build to destroy You play with my world Like it's your little toy You put a gun in my hand And you hide from my eyes And you turn and run farther When the fast bullets fly
Like Judas of old You lie and deceive A world war can be won You want me to believe But I see through your eyes And I see through your brain Like I see through the water That runs down my drain
You fasten the triggers For the others to fire Then you set back and watch When the death count gets higher You hide in your mansion As young people's blood Flows out of their bodies And is buried in the mud
You've thrown the worst fear That can ever be hurled Fear to bring children Into the world For threatening my baby Unborn and unnamed You ain't worth the blood That runs in your veins
How much do I know To talk out of turn You might say that I'm young You might say I'm unlearned But there's one thing I know Though I'm younger than you Even Jesus would never Forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question Is your money that good Will it buy you forgiveness Do you think that it could I think you will find When your death takes its toll All the money you made Will never buy back your soul
And I hope that you die And your death'll come soon I will follow your casket In the pale afternoon And I'll watch while you're lowered Down to your deathbed And I'll stand o'er your grave 'Til I'm sure that you're dead
Nod To Bob: An Artists’ Tribute To Bob Dylan on his Sixtieth Birthday, various artists, Red House Records, 2001
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 eyes, to warrant a tribune album. When they are also alive to accept the accolades as two out of the four of the artists under review are, which is only proper, that is all to the good (this is part of a larger review of tributes to Greg Brown, Bob Dylan, Mississippi John Hurt and Hank Williams). That said, not all tribute albums are created equally. Some are full of star-studded covers, others with lesser lights who 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 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.
It seems hard to believe now both as to the performer as well as to what was being attempted that anyone would take umbrage at a performer using an electric guitar to tell a folk story (or any story for that matter). It is not necessary to go into all the details of what or what did not happen with Pete Seeger at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965 to know that one should be glad, glad as hell, that Bob Dylan continued to listen to his own drummer and carry on a career based on electronic music.
Others have, endlessly, gone on about Bob Dylan’s role as the voice of his generation (and mine), his lyrics and what they do or do not mean and his place in the rock or folk pantheons, or both. I just want to comment on a few songs and cover artists on this 60th birthday album. Overall this Red House Records (a well-known alternate folk tradition recording outfit) production is a true folkies’ tribute to old Bob where the artists while well-known in the folk field probably as not as familiar to the general listener. Nevertheless several covers stick out: John Gorka’s rendition of the longing that pervades “Girl Of The North Country" is fine, as is the desperate longing of Martin Simpson’s “Boots Of Spanish Leather”. Greg Brown does a rousing version of “Pledging My Time” and the long time folk singer Rosalie Sorrels does a beautifully measured version of “Tomorrow Is A Long Time”. The finale is appropriately done by old time folkie, and early day Dylan companion on the folk scene Ramblin’ Jack Elliot with “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” Solid work here. Kudos.
3:32 PM markin said... In the interest of completeness concerning my earleir evaluation of the Dylan songs "Masters Of War" and "With Good On Our Side" on his early albums here are the lyrics to the latter song.
Interestingly, except for changing the Cold War theme against the Russians then to the so-called War On Terror now against seemingly every Moslem that any American presidential administration can get it hands on (Bush in Iraq and Afgahnistan) and Obama (same and, maybe, Pakistan) these lyrics "speak" to me today. The word they speak is hubris, American hubris, that the rest of the world has had reason to fear, and rightly so. What do they "speak" to you?
"With God On Our Side"
Oh my name it is nothin' My age it means less The country I come from Is called the Midwest I's taught and brought up there The laws to abide And the land that I live in Has God on its side.
Oh the history books tell it They tell it so well The cavalries charged The Indians fell The cavalries charged The Indians died Oh the country was young With God on its side.
The Spanish-American War had its day And the Civil War too Was soon laid away And the names of the heroes I's made to memorize With guns on their hands And God on their side.
The First World War, boys It came and it went The reason for fighting I never did get But I learned to accept it Accept it with pride For you don't count the dead When God's on your side.
When the Second World War Came to an end We forgave the Germans And then we were friends Though they murdered six million In the ovens they fried The Germans now too Have God on their side.
I've learned to hate Russians All through my whole life If another war comes It's them we must fight To hate them and fear them To run and to hide And accept it all bravely With God on my side.
But now we got weapons Of the chemical dust If fire them we're forced to Then fire them we must One push of the button And a shot the world wide And you never ask questions When God's on your side.
In a many dark hour I've been thinkin' about this That Jesus Christ Was betrayed by a kiss But I can't think for you You'll have to decide Whether Judas Iscariot Had God on his side.
So now as I'm leavin' I'm weary as Hell The confusion I'm feelin' Ain't no tongue can tell The words fill my head And fall to the floor If God's on our side He'll stop the next war.
11:32 AM markin said... Guest Commentary
I have mentioned in my review of Martin Scorsese's "No Direction Home; The Legacy Of Bob Dylan" (see archives) that Dylan's protest/social commentary lyrics dovetailed with my, and others of my generation's, struggle to make sense of world at war (cold or otherwise)and filled with injustices and constricting values. Here are the lyrics of three songs-"Blowin' In The Wind", "The Times They Are A-Changin'" and "Like A Rolling Stone" that can serve as examples of why we responded to his messages the way we did. Kudos Bob.
The Times They Are A-Changin'
Come gather 'round people Wherever you roam And admit that the waters Around you have grown And accept it that soon You'll be drenched to the bone. If your time to you Is worth savin' Then you better start swimmin' Or you'll sink like a stone For the times they are a-changin'.
Come writers and critics Who prophesize with your pen And keep your eyes wide The chance won't come again And don't speak too soon For the wheel's still in spin And there's no tellin' who That it's namin'. For the loser now Will be later to win For the times they are a-changin'.
Come senators, congressmen Please heed the call Don't stand in the doorway Don't block up the hall For he that gets hurt Will be he who has stalled There's a battle outside And it is ragin'. It'll soon shake your windows And rattle your walls For the times they are a-changin'.
Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land And don't criticize What you can't understand Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command Your old road is Rapidly agin'. Please get out of the new one If you can't lend your hand For the times they are a-changin'.
The line it is drawn The curse it is cast The slow one now Will later be fast As the present now Will later be past The order is Rapidly fadin'. And the first one now Will later be last For the times they are a-changin'.
How many roads must a man walk down Before you call him a man? Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail Before she sleeps in the sand? Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly Before they're forever banned? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many years can a mountain exist Before it's washed to the sea? Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist Before they're allowed to be free? Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head, Pretending he just doesn't see? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many times must a man look up Before he can see the sky? Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have Before he can hear people cry? Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows That too many people have died? The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Once upon a time you dressed so fine You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you? People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall" You thought they were all kiddin' you You used to laugh about Everybody that was hangin' out Now you don't talk so loud Now you don't seem so proud About having to be scrounging for your next meal.
How does it feel How does it feel To be without a home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone?
You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely But you know you only used to get juiced in it And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street And now you find out you're gonna have to get used to it You said you'd never compromise With the mystery tramp, but now you realize He's not selling any alibis As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes And ask him do you want to make a deal?
How does it feel How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone?
You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns When they all come down and did tricks for you You never understood that it ain't no good You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat Ain't it hard when you discover that He really wasn't where it's at After he took from you everything he could steal.
How does it feel How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone?
Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people They're drinkin', thinkin' that they got it made Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things But you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it babe You used to be so amused At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.
How does it feel How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone?
Honor Native American Heritage Month In Real Way- Damn It- President Trump Pardon Native American Leader Leonard Peltier Now-He Must Not Die In Prison!
Statement by the Committee For International Labor Defense Now that the bid by Amnesty International and others nationally and internationally seeking to get former President Barack Obama to pardon Leonard Peltier have gone for nought we supporters are between a rockand a hard place. The denial notice was for very flimsy reasons despite the fact that even the prosecutor does not know who killed those two FBI agents in a firefight at Pine Ridge. Hell it could have been friendly forces who knows sometimes in a war zone, and that was exactly what that situation was, who knows. (For a current example of another war zone on Native lands check the story on what the various local,state, federal and mercenary forces brought in by the pipe line company at Standing Rock. One false move, provoked or not, would have ended in a bloodbath according to a well-respected Vietnam veteran who along with a few thousand other vets showed up to defend the lands and water and thought he was in the Central Highlands again.) All we know is that Brother Peltier has spent forty some years behind bars and has a slew of medical problems which would have let Obama pardon just on compassionate grounds. He didn't. Don't expect, we almost have to laugh even saying such a thing, one Donald J.Trump, POTUS, and maybe off to jail himself to pardon Leonard Peltier before his term of office is up. Still Leonard Peltier along with Mumia Abu-Jamal and now Reality Leigh Winner are America's best known political prisoners and need to be supported and freed. To that end we in Boston have committed ourselves to as best we are able to continue ot keep the Peltier case in the public eye by holding periodic vigils calling for his pardon and freedom. We call on all Leonard Peltier supporters to keep his name before the public. Free Leonard Peltier-He Must Not Die In Prison
************* Latest Leaflet
We demand freedom for Leonard Peltier!
Native American activist Leonard Peltier has spent over 40 years in prison for a crime he did not commit. He was one of the people convicted of killing 2 FBI agents in a shoot-out on the Pine Ridge Reservation on June 26, 1975. The others who were convicted with him have long since been released. Prosecutors and federal agents manufactured evidence against him (including the so-called “murder weapon”); hid proof of his innocence; presented false testimony obtained through torturous interrogation techniques; ignored court orders; and lied to the jury.
In spite of his unjust imprisonment and terrible personal situation, being old and sick and likely to die in jail, he writes every year to the participants at the National Day of Mourning, which is held by Natives in Plymouth, MA in place of Thanksgiving, offering wishes for the earth and all those present and gratitude for the support he receives. To read some of his statements, go to UAINE.org (United American Indians of New England). That is also a good site for info about the National Day of Mourning and the campaign against Columbus Day and in favor of Indigenous Peoples Day.
Sometimes people claim that the US does not have political prisoners, but Leonard Peltier has been in prison for a very long time and even the FBI admits that they do not know who killed those FBI agents. If Leonard Peltier dies in prison, it will be one of the worst miscarriages of justice in this country’s long history of injustice.
For more info and to sign a petition demanding hearings on the Pine Ridge “Reign of Terror” and COINTELPRO, a counter-intelligence program conducted against activists including Native groups, go to WhoIsLeonardPeltier.info.
Write to Leonard Peltier at Leonard Peltier, #89637-132, USP Coleman 1, P O Box 1033, Coleman, FL 33521. Prisoners really appreciate mail, even from people they don’t know. Cards and letters are always welcome.
This rally is organized by the Committee for Int’l Labor Defense, CForILD@gmail.com, InternationalLaborDefense.org.
In Harvard Square Cambridge, Ma Tuesday December 19th 5 PM to 6 PM The Committee For International Labor Defense (labor donated)
Free Native American Leader Leonard Peltier-Free “The Voice Of the Voiceless” Mumia Abu Jamal-Free Russian Interference Whistle-Blower Reality Leigh Winner-Hands Off Whistle-Blower Edward Snowden and all our political prisoners from this year’s anti-fascist struggles.
Holidays are tough times for political prisoners- join us to show your support from outside the wall for those inside the walls so that they know they do not stand alone.
********
Today the Committee for International Labor Defense (CILD) follows in the tradition of the International Labor Defense, established by the early Communist Party to mobilize labor and progressive-centered protest to free leftist political prisoners. An especially important tradition during the holiday season for those inside the prisons and their families.
Every political prisoner we honor today had the instinct and inner strength to rebel against the injustices which were there for all to see. They knew that if they fought those injustices in the face of governmental repression the prisons were part of the price they might have to pay for standing up for what they believed in.
The political prisoners of today, just as those in previous periods of history, are representatives of the most courageous and advanced section of the oppressed. They are individuals of particular audacity and ability who have stood out conspicuously as leaders and militants, and have thereby incurred the hatred of the oppressors.
As James Cannon one of the founders of the ILD said in The Cause That Passes Through a Prison- “The class-war prisoners are stronger than all the jails and jailers and judges. They rise triumphant over all their enemies and oppressors. Confined in prison, covered with ignominy, branded as criminals, they are not defeated. They are destined to triumph...”
This stand-out is organized by the Committee for Int’l Labor Defense, CForILD@gmail.com, InternationalLaborDefense.org.
Now More Than Ever -Join The Resistance-Your Life And Those Of Yours May Depend On
Greg Green comment:normally I am not much for hyperbole but the events of the past few years from endless wars to deportations of immigrants to foriegn interference in U.S. elections to persecutions of whsitle-blowers like Chelsea Manning, Edward Snowdena nd Reality Leigh Winner to the never-ending cultural wars of which we progressives are on the short side to the shabby crowds running things in Washington to the nightmarish thought that one Donald J. Trump has his finger on the nuclear button is more than enough to disspell that notion. Call me Cassandra but now is the time to join the resistance to all of Washington's madness, both aisles (the Bush- Obama regimes only looks good in retrospect to the new low madness afoot not while we were living through them). It is no joke that your very lives and those you hold dear may depend on it. Join -Build the Resistance
From The
Archives Of “American Left History”-An Analysis And A Summing Up After His
First Year By Site Manager
Greg Green
November 14,
2018 marked the first anniversary of my officially becoming site manager at
this publication and in acknowledgement of that tight touch first year I
started going back to the archives here from the time this publication went to
totally on-line existence due to financial considerations in 2006. (Previously
from its inception in 1974 it had been hard copy for many years and then in the
early 2000s was both hard copy and on-line before turning solely to on-line
publication.) This first year has been hard starting with the residue of the
“water-cooler fist fight” started by some of the younger writers who balked at
the incessant coverage of the 1960s, highlighted in 2017 by the 50th
anniversary commemorations of the Summer of Love, 1967 ordered by previous site
manager Allan Jackson. They had not even been born, had had to consult in many
cases parents and the older writers here when Allan assigned them say a review
of the Jefferson Airplane rock band which dominated the San Francisco scene at
the height of the 1960s. That balking led to a decisive vote of “no confidence”
requested by the “youth cabal” in the Jackson regime and replacement by me. You
can read all about the various “takes” on the situation in these very archives
from the fall of 2017 on if you can stand it. If you want to know if Allan was
“purged,” “sent into exile,” variously ran a whorehouse in San Francisco with
old flame Madame LaRue or shacked up with a drag queen named Miss Judy Garland
or sold out to the Mormons to get a press agent job with the Mitt Romney for
Senate campaign after he left here it is all there. I, having been brought in
by Allan from American Film Gazette
to run the day to day operations as he concentrated on “the big picture” stayed
on the sidelines, didn’t have a vote in any case.
A lot of the
rocky road I faced was of my own making early on since to make my mark, and to
look toward the future I came up with what even I now see as a silly idea of
trying to reach a younger demographic (than the 1960s devotees who have
sustained this publication since its founding). I went on a crash program of
having writers, young and old, do reviews of Marvel/DC cinematic comic book
characters, graphic novels, hip-hop, techno music andsuch. The blow-back came fast and furious by
young and old writers alike and so the Editorial Board that had been put in
place in the wake of Allan’s departure called a halt to that direction. A lot
of the reasons why I am presenting the archival material along with this piece
is both to see where we can go from here that makes sense and which deals with
the reality of a fading demographic as the “Generation of ’68” passes on.
Additionally, like every publication hard copy or on-line, we receive much
material we can’t or won’t use although that too falls into the archives so
here is a chance to give that material a “second life.”
One Less Johnny Rocco, Uh, Johnny
Vanning Is Not Worth Dying Over-Bette Davis And Humphrey Bogart’s “Marked
Woman” (1937)-A Film Review
DVD Review
By Leslie Dumont
Marked Women, Bette Davis the girl
with the Bette Davis eyes who put her hips in her back pocket Bette Davis
style, Humphrey Bogart last seen uttering those prophetic words about the
Johnny Roccos of the world, 1937
Yeah, Humphrey Bogart, a guy who
knew a thing or two and a guy who my old flame Josh Breslin who works at this
publication still and Sam Lowell the acknowledged king of film noir and black
and white films in his salad days idolized had it right, had it figured exactly
right when he was down in Key Largo, down in the Keys sweating like a pig and
he had to tell some luscious but dizzy dame what was what about guys like
Johnny Rocco were always with us, always wanted more, always wanted to run the
easy street rackets just like in the old days. Of course that didn’t stop old
Bogie from bang-bang dead Johnny, made Johnny sleep with the fishes when he
tried to mess with his woman, with that luscious if dizzy dame. Get this though
Mary, what the hell, Mary Smith since these kind of women have a million aliases,
played by the girl with the Bette Davis eyes, was way ahead of him, ahead of
Bogie when she cut the deal of deals with another Johnny, Johnny Vanning who
wanted what all such Johnnies wanted-more. Had it figured to make herself the
best of it as detailed in the film under review, Marked Woman. Had to do what a girl had to do no fooling around.
Of course in post-Code 1937
Hollywood Mary’s profession had to be dolled up, hostesses they called that
sort, B-girls, whores really if you want the unvarnished truth working not the
streets but the night club expensive booze, some gambling then hit the sheets
and make the bastards, the Johns pay through the nose. Yes, a girl has got to
do what a girl has to do. Mary had all the angles, had guys like gangster king
Johnny Vanning figured as nothing but trouble in a girl’s life if she didn’t
work an alliance. So Mary, what are we calling her, oh yeah, Smith went along
and got along. What people didn’t know, what her roommate so-called fellow
hostesses didn’t know was she was hustling drinks and guys in order to put her
sister, her babe in the woods sister through some swanky elite college.
That little sidebar would change
things for Mary in a big way once little sister got into the act, came to visit
her not knowing that she was really a call girl, whore, oh well let’s go with
the fantasy night club hostess laugh. Yeah a real babe in the woods who would
get more, very much more than she bargained for when she saw the glitter of the
big city, when she saw that she couldn’t go back to that swanky college once
the kids there knew what older sister was doing with her silky sheets nights.
Little sister, Bette I think her name was but who knows, got tangled up with
the wrong gees, got tangled up with one Johnny Vanning. Took a funny little
fall down the staircase at one of Johnny’s swank parties. So Bette too slept
with the fishes in some East River dumping ground courtesy of thoughtful Johnny
Vanning
Whore or not if your sister gets
wasted you have to do something about it, have to change modes of operation so
Mary became a snitch, a stoolie for the Assistant D.A, a guy named of all
things Humphrey Bogart in the days before he wised-up, before he knew that one
Johnny more or less was not worth dying for. Funny Mary in her salad days had
played Bogie for the fool in his attempts to bring Johnny, Johnny Vanning, but
it could have been Johnny Everyman for all that mattered when Bogie thought
Mary was on the level but who was working for Johnny’s lawyer to foul up Bogie’s
case. Nice moves. The little sister thing though choked things off. It didn’t
help when Mary decided after finding out what happened to sis to because a
snitch that Johnny, sweet as pie Johnny, had one of his boys work her over to
make her less talkative.
See even if guys like Johnny
Vanning, Johnny Rocco, Johnny Blade from my old neighborhood up in Olde Saco,
Maine before that town took a nose-dive after the mills started shutting down
and heading first to the South and then off-shore didn’t want to rule the world
on the cheap a gal like Mary once the sister thing became known was a loose
cannon and Bogie played on that assumption. Brought her around to see that she
was going nowhere except maybe hustling on the means streets giving head in
some back alley for dimes and doughnuts (left unspoken in coded Hollywood okay
but that was the reality). So Mary talked, talked loud and clear, brought her
“hostess” roommates along, and one Johnny Vanning was toast was doing some
serious time for the death of little sister. Here is the funny thing as rough
justice is done for a minute when Johnny V. tags a few nickels in the big house
but somewhere in the big city another Johnny will be working his way up the
food chain, will have his “wanting habits” on. In some odd way one more Johnny
or one less is not worth dying for-still it was nice to watch Johnny Rocco
sleeping with the fishes and Johnny V. heading to the big house for some
rest.
In The Matter Of 1950s Rock And Roll Legend One Ricky Nelson (1940-1985)-Yeah, “Poor Little Fool”
By Sam Lowell
You never know what idea will germinate in your head when you need to find a subject to write about after “the boss,” site manager Greg Green, tells you to find some “freaking” thing to write about since I had not written anything in a while (that “freaking” only a for public consumption but gives you the drift of what he really said). Then, as if by magic, an idea came to me as I was driving up to Olde Saco in Maine to see my old friend and comrade Josh Breslin, who also has been remiss about assignments lately but apparently has a golden shield to protect him from Greg’s wrath. Most of the way up U.S. 95 until you hit about Hampton in New Hampshire the local NPR station will get you through the time. Then the signal dies out and for a few minutes you get a mix of that station and another coming out of the University of Southern Maine in Portland. This college station, like all such operations, is really an amateur operation. I remember one time previously the amateur DJ apologized for the quality of his home-made tape which went awry but something had happened to the machine. I yelled out to myself as I was driving along “what the hell this is beautiful.” On the day that I was heading to Josh’s though I was given a chestnut since the DJ that day was playing for some reason I never fully understood because I arrived at Josh’s before the set was over a raft of Rickey Nelson songs from the 1950s.
Of course the 1950s was the now classic age of rock and roll and the time when I came of musical age, began seriously listening to the radio, the rock and roll radio where Mr. Nelson had a number of hits starting with Poor Little Fool which was one of the songs in the set the DJ played that day. I am dating myself, but it cannot be helped I was as likely to watch Rickey as part of the Nelson family on television on the Ozzie and Harriet Show. There he played the younger brother of two of what was supposed to be a model television family for 1950s emulation. A family where all the so-called problems they faced, that were the subject of the program were resolved without trouble by the end of the half hour. As it turned out Ricky also had musical talent and so that is where I want to place the blame.
Yes, place the blame and some fifty plus years I am still ticked off about it. See not only was Ricky on television and out on tour singing his ass off but he was a very good looking 1950s-style suburban boy. In short, a guy girls, suburban girls and Acre neighborhood of North Adamsville where I grew up girls thought was “cute.” And that is where the bone I have to pick with Mr. Nelson, or his memory, starts. Starts with one Teresa Green who was in my class in elementary school and who I had a serious crush on (funny, old-fashioned term isn’t it). And who I tried to take to about seven church or school dances but who would not give me the time of day for one very specific reason. She was “saving herself” not her expression but that was the idea for Ricky Nelson.
That was the start and many grievous nights for a few weeks after until I took Linda Pratt to the school dance I moped about the lost of Teresa and the burning hatred I had for Ricky despite liking some of his songs. Adding insult to injury though when I got back home, I mentioned to my long-time companion, Laura Perkins who writes here occasionally, by the way that is by mutual consent the way we like to speak of our relationship after a combined five divorces, I mentioned hearing Ricky Nelson on the radio on the way to Maine. Suddenly she got swoony, got giddy and told me that she had had a serious crush on Mr. Nelson when she was young. Thought he was cute. Then I mentioned old elementary school flame Teresa and her “saving herself” for Ricky. Laura then said if I had known her then and had asked her for a date she too would probably have said she was “saving herself” for that bastard Ricky. So you can see why I am seeing red when the name Ricky Nelson comes up now.
When The King Of Rock And
Roll Held Forth In The Acre Section Of North Adamsville -And Made It Stick-In
Honor Of The Generation Of ’68-Or Those Who Graced Wild Child Part Of It
By Zack James
[Zack James has been on an
assignment covering the various 50th anniversary commemorations of
the year 1968 (and a few in 1967 and for the future 1969 which is to his mind
something of a watershed year rather than his brother Alex and friends
“generation of ‘68” designation they have wrapped themselves around) and
therefore has not graced these pages for a while. Going through his paces on
those assignments Zack realized that he was out of joint with his own
generation, having been born in 1958 and therefore too young to have been
present at the creation of what is now called, at least in the
demographical-etched commercials, the classic age of rock and roll. Too young
too for any sense of what a jailbreak that time was and a shortly later period
which Seth Garth who was deep into the genre has called the ‘folk minute
breeze” that ran rampart through the land say in the early 1960s. Too young as
well to have been “washed clean,” not my term but Si Lannon’s since I am also
too young to have been aware of the import by the second wave of rock, the acid
rock period. Hell, this is enough of an introduction to re-introducing the
legendary writer here. Lets’ leave it as Zack is back and let him go through
his paces. Greg Green, site manager]
Alex James was the king of
rock and roll. Of course he was not really the king, the king being Elvis and
no last name needed at least for the bulk of those who will read what I call a
“think piece,” a piece about what all the commemorations of events a million
years ago, or it like a million years ago even mentioning 50 or 60 year
anniversaries, mean. What Alex was though was the conduit for my own musical
experiences which have left me as a stepchild to five important musical moments, the birth of rock
and roll in the 1950s, the quick prairie fire called the “folk minute of the
early 1960s and the resurgence with a vengeance of rock in the mid-1960s which
for brevity’s sake call “acid” rock, along the way and intersecting that big
three came a closeted “country outlaw moment” initiated by father time Hank
Williams and carried through with vengeance by singers like Willie Nelson,
Townes Van Zandt, and Waylon Jennings, and Muddy Waters and friends blues as
the glue that bound what others who write here, Sam Lowell, in particular calls
the Generation of ’68- a seminal year in many ways which I have been exploring
for this and other publications. I am well placed to do since I was over a
decade too young to have been washed over by the movements. But that step-child
still sticks and one Alex James is the reason why.
This needs a short
explanation. As should be apparent Alex James is my brother, my oldest brother,
born in 1946 which means a lot in the chronology of what follows. My oldest
brother as well in a family with seven children, five boys and two twin girls,
me being the youngest of all born in 1958. As importantly this clan grew up in
the dirt- poor working- class Acre, as in local lore Hell’s Acre, section of
North Adamsville where my mother, under better circumstances, grew up and
remained after marrying her World War II Marine my father from dirt poor
Appalachia which will also become somewhat important later. To say we lacked
for many of the things that others in that now seen “golden age” of American
prosperity would be an understatement and forms the backdrop of how Alex kept
himself somewhat sane with music although we didn’t even have a record player
(the now ancient although retro revival way to hear music then) and he was
forced when at home to “fight” for the family radio to get in touch with what
was going on, what the late Pete Markin his best friend back then called “the
great jailbreak.”
A little about Alex’s
trajectory is important too. He was a charter member along with the late
Markin, Si Lannon, Sam Lowell, Seth Garth and Allan Jackson, the later four
connected with this publication in various ways since its hard copy start in
the 1970s, of the Tonio Pizza Parlor corner boys. These guys, and maybe it
reflected their time and milieu, hung out at Tonio’s for the simple reason they
never had money, or not enough, and while they were not above various acts of
larceny and burglary mostly they hung around there to listen to the music
coming out of Tonio’s to die for jukebox. That jukebox came alive in maybe
1955, 1956 when they first heard Elvis (and maybe others as well but Alex
always insisted that he was the first to “discover” Elvis in his crowd.)
Quickly that formed the backdrop of what Alex listened to for a few years until
the genre spent a few years sagging with vanilla songs and beats. That same
Markin, who the guys here have written about and I won’t, was the guy who
turned Alex on to folk music via his desperate trips to Harvard Square up in
Cambridge when he needed to get out of the hellish family household he dwelled
in. The third prong of the musical triad was also initiated by Markin who made
what everybody claims was a fatal mistake dropping out of Boston University in
his sophomore year in 1967 to follow his dream, to “find” himself, to go west
to San Francisco for what would be called the Summer of Love where he learned
about the emerging acid rock scene (drugs, sex and rock and roll being one
mantra). He dragged everybody, including Alex if you can believe this since he
would subsequently come back and go to law school and become the staid
successful lawyer he is today, out there with him for varying periods of time.
(The fateful mistake on the part of Markin stemming from him dropping out at
the wrong time, the escalation of the war in Vietnam subjecting him later to
the draft and hell-hole Vietnam service while more than the others unhinged him
and his dream.) The blues part came as mentioned as a component of the folk
minute, part of the new wave rock revival and on its own. The country outlaw
connections bears separate mention these days.
That’s Alex’s story-line.
My intersection with Alex’s musical trip was that one day after he had come
back from a hard night at law school (he lived at home, worked during the day
at some law firm as some kind of lacky, and went to law school nights
studying the rest of the time) he went to his room and began playing a whole
bunch of music starting I think with Bill Haley and the Comet’s Rock Around The Clock and kept playing
stuff for a long time. Loudly. Too loudly for me to get to sleep and I went and
knocked on his door to get him quiet down. When he opened the door he had on
his record player Jerry Lee Lewis’s High School Confidential. I flipped out.
I know I must have heard Alex playing this stuff earlier, but it was kind of a
blank before. Background music just like Mother’s listening to 1940s stuff on
her precious ancient RCA radio in the kitchen. What happened then, what got me
mesmerized as a twelve- year old was that this music “spoke” to me, spoke to my
own unformed and unarticulated alienation. I had not been particularly
interested in music, music mostly heard and sung in the obligatory junior high
school music class, but this was different, this got my hormonal horrors in
gear. I stayed in Alex’s room listening half the night as he told me above when
he had first heard such and such a song.
Although the age gap
between Alex and I was formidable, he was out the door originally even before I
knew him since at that point we were the only two in the house all the others
in college or on their own he became something of a mentor to me on the ins and
out of rock and roll once I showed an interest. From that night on it was not
just a question of say, why Jailhouse
Rock should be in the big American Songbook but would tell me about who or
what had influenced rock and roll. He was the first to tell me about what had
happened in Memphis with a guy named Sam Phillips and his Sun Record label
which minted an extraordinary number of hits by guys like Elvis, Warren Smith,
Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee. When I became curious about how the sound got going,
why my hands got clammy when I heard the music and I would start tapping my
toes he went chapter and verse on me. Like some god-awful preacher quoting how
Ike Turner, under a different name, may really have been the granddaddy of rock
with his Rocket 88 and how obscure
guys like Louis Jordan, Big Joe Turner and Willie Lomax and their big bop
rhythm and blues was one key element. Another stuff from guys like Hack Devine,
Warren Smith and Lenny Larson who took the country flavor and melted it down to
its essence. Got rid of the shlock. Alex though did surprise me with the thing
he thought got our toes tapping-these guys, Elvis, Chuck, Jerry Lee, Buddy
Holly and a whole slew of what I would later call good old boys took their
country roots not the Grand Ole Opry stuff but the stuff they played at the red
barn dances down in the hills and hollows come Saturday night and mixed it with
some good old fashion religion stuff learned through bare-foot Baptists or from
the black churches and created their “jailbreak” music.
One night Alex startled me while
we were listening to an old Louvain Brothers song, I forget which one, when he
said “daddy’s music” meaning that our father who had come from down in deep
down in the mud Appalachia had put the stuff in our genes. He didn’t call it
DNA I don’t’ think he knew the term and I certainly didn’t but that was the
idea. I resisted the idea then, and for a long time after but sisters and
brothers look at the selections that accompany this so-called think piece the
whole thing is clear now. I, we are our father’s sons after all. Alex knew that
early on I only grabbed the idea lately-too late since our father he has been
gone a long time now.
Alex had the advantage of
being the oldest son of a man who also had grown up as the oldest son in his
family brood of I think eleven. (Since I, we never met any of them when my
father came North to stay for good after being discharged from the Marine as
hard Pacific War military service, I can’t say much about that aspect of why my
father doted on his oldest son.) That meant a lot, meant that Dad confided as
much as a quiet, sullen hard-pressed man could or would confide in a youngster.
All I know is that sitting down at the bottom of the food chain (I will laugh “clothes
chain” too as the recipient of every older brother, sister too when I was too
young to complain or comprehend set of ragamuffin clothing) he was so distant
that we might well have been just passing strangers. Alex, for example, knew
that Dad had been in a country music trio which worked the Ohio River circuit,
that river dividing Ohio and Kentucky up north far from hometown Hazard, yes,
that Hazard of legend and song whenever anybody speaks of the hardscrabble days
of the coal mine civil wars that went on down there before the war, before
World War II. I don’t know what instrument he played although I do know that he
had a guitar tucked under his bed that he would play when he had a freaking
minute in the days when he was able to get work.
That night Alex also
mentioned something that hit home once he mentioned it. He said that Dad who
tinkered a little fixing radios, a skill learned from who knows where although
apparently his skill level was not enough to get him a job in that industry,
figured out a way to get WAXE out of I think Wheeling, West Virginia which
would play old country stuff 24/7 and that he would always have that station on
in the background when he was doing something. Had stopped doing that at some
point before I recognized the country-etched sound but Alex said he was
spoon-fed on some of the stuff, citing Warren Smith and Smiley Jamison
particularly, as his personal entre into the country roots of one aspect of the
rock and roll craze. Said further that he was not all that shocked when say
Elvis’s It’s All Right Mama went off
the charts since he could sense that country beat up-tempo a little from what
Smith had been fooling around with, Carl Perkins too he said. They were what he
called “good old boys” who were happy as hell that they had enough musical
skills at the right time so they didn’t have to stick around the farm or work
in some hardware store in some small town down South.
Here is the real shocker,
well maybe not shocker, but the thing that made Alex’s initial so-called DNA
thought make sense. When Alex was maybe six or seven Dad would be playing
something on the guitar, just fooling around when he started playing Hank
Williams’ mournful lost love Cold, Cold
Heart. Alex couldn’t believe his ears and asked Dad to play it again. He
would for years after all the way to high school when Dad had the guitar out
and he was around request that Dad play that tune. I probably heard the song
too. So, yeah, maybe that DNA business is not so far off. And maybe, just
maybe, over fifty years later we are still our father’s sons. Thanks, Dad.
The selection posted here
culled from the merciful YouTube network thus represents one of the key pieces
of music that drove the denizens of the Generation of ’68 and their
stepchildren. And maybe now their grandchildren.
[Alex and I had our ups and
downs over the years and as befits a lawyer and journalist our paths seldom
passed except for occasional political things where we were on the same
wavelength like with the defense of Army whistle-blower Chelsea Manning
(formerly Bradley). Indicative though of our closeness despite distance in 2017
when Alex had a full head of steam up about putting together a collective
corner boy memoir in honor of the late Markin after a business trip to San
Francisco where he went to a museum exhibition featuring the seminal Summer of
Love, 1967 he contacted me for the writing, editing and making sure of the
production values.]
