Monday, April 22, 2019

Labor Must Ground Unsafe Planes! Boeing Crashes: Profit Drive Kills U.S. Government Approved Flying Death Trap

Workers Vanguard No. 1152
5 April 2019
 
Labor Must Ground Unsafe Planes!
Boeing Crashes: Profit Drive Kills
U.S. Government Approved Flying Death Trap
The details that have emerged after two fatal crashes in less than five months of the Boeing 737 Max, an aircraft model that first rolled off the assembly line in 2017, all point to one unmistakable conclusion: capitalist production for profit kills. Locked in fierce competition with the German-French aerospace conglomerate Airbus for control of the world market, the U.S. manufacturing giant early in the decade promised airlines a narrow-body aircraft that would minimize fuel and training costs, to be delivered within a few years. To meet this deadline, Boeing threw safety out the window with the full complicity of the Trump and especially the Obama administrations, while also pushing speedup on its workforce.
Now, 346 people are dead after Lion Air Flight 610 on October 29 and Ethiopian Airlines Flight 302 on March 10 plunged from the sky. Boeing management and its government enablers are criminals, pure and simple, for foisting flying death traps on flight crews and the public. For the bosses, whose primary concern is profit, the deaths of workers and passengers are just part of the overhead of doing business. From the plants to the airports, mobilizing labor’s power is the only way to effectively establish and enforce air safety.
The Max was conceived in 2011, after American Airlines had threatened to purchase a large number of aircraft from Airbus, which had made inroads against its U.S. rival by racking up over 1,000 orders in the prior half-year for its new fuel-efficient A320 (its 737 equivalent). By saving on fuel, a major operating expense in air transport, American sought to get a leg up on its own rivals, especially other U.S. carriers. The airline industry had just spent a decade slashing the “fixed cost” of labor to the bone, through bankruptcies, mergers and other full-throttle attacks on the unions.
Boeing placed fuel-efficient engines on the Max that were bigger and heavier than those on previous 737s and thus had to be mounted higher and further forward to not scrape the ground while the plane taxied. The changed aerodynamics created a tendency to push the nose up, making the Max prone to stalls. The only safe solution would have been to redesign the airframe to match the engines. However, management opted for a cheap and quick patch, introducing new anti-stall flight-control software, MCAS.
That substitute allowed Boeing to maintain the lie that the Max was not a new aircraft but a modification of the 737 in order to expedite its development, testing and certification. The ruse also gave an additional selling point to the airlines, with Boeing falsely claiming that the most minimal additional pilot training was needed to fly the aircraft. In the U.S., pilots received only one hour of training on an iPad, not on a simulator! The way management implemented MCAS greatly magnified the potential for disaster. Boeing rushed the Max out the door knowing it was a ticking time bomb, while concealing from pilots critical information about MCAS, not least how to respond in the event that it wrongly kicked in.
The Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) signed off on the Max’s airworthiness in Boeing’s hustle to get it out. FAA managers delegated more and more safety assessments to Boeing, speedily approved the foregone conclusions, and curtailed the review of essential technical documents. The FAA customarily assigns individuals or organizations outside the agency to perform safety certifications under the so-called “designee” program, which was codified by lawmakers in the 1958 FAA Act. Since then, both Republicans and Democrats have further relaxed the rules for qualified designees so that Boeing could simply certify itself. Whatever might now happen to the program, one thing is certain: Boeing and the FAA will continue “working together.”
Liberal commentators have sought to obscure the role of the FAA under Obama by talking up the “special relationship” between the Boeing CEO and Trump. Acting defense secretary Patrick Shanahan was a longtime Boeing executive, and acting FAA head Daniel Elwell used to work for Boeing’s trade association. But Boeing has long had a special relationship with both capitalist parties in Washington, D.C.
In 2011, Barack Obama, having already bailed out Wall Street and U.S. automakers at the expense of the workers and poor, moved to restore Boeing’s flagging competitiveness. The president toured a number of Asian countries to sell the newly conceived Max and other Boeing aircraft and was on hand in Indonesia when Lion Air announced it was ordering over 200 of the Max. The next year, he commented: “Given the number of planes I have sold all over the world, I expect a gold watch after my departure.” Instead, Boeing received the parting gift as Obama showered it with over $30 billion in defense contracts on his way out of the White House.
Boeing is the largest U.S. exporter and the world’s second-largest supplier of military hardware. The aerospace giant’s striving for hegemony in its branch of industry is emblematic of imperialism, the monopoly stage of capitalism in which the advanced powers vie with one another to redivide the world and control markets, as well as natural resources and cheap sources of labor, by force of arms when necessary. The FAA’s allegiance to Boeing reflects its very purpose: to protect the interests of U.S. monopoly capital in the industry it regulates.
Not surprisingly, following the second crash the FAA kept the Max in the air even after all other countries had halted its operation. Notably, the Chinese authorities, who are not ruled by the profit motive, set things in motion by grounding the Max less than 24 hours after the second crash. By all indications, the Chinese bureaucratically deformed workers state has in recent years put a heavy emphasis on safety in its burgeoning airline industry.
The current spectacle of bourgeois politicians huffing and puffing over air safety is pure hypocrisy. With a flurry of investigations and hearings now underway in the nation’s capital, the goal is nothing more than to give the FAA a clean bill of health, whether by providing a veneer of “independence,” or finding a scapegoat, or both. Meanwhile, Boeing has plans to release what it trumpets as a fix to the MCAS software, which cannot possibly compensate for the aircraft’s inherent aerodynamic instability.
The two Max jets downed by the hunger for profits are a graphic illustration that coordinated union control of safety—in aviation, manufacturing and every other sector of the economy—is a matter of life and death. Union grounding of unsafe planes would get major blowback from the bosses; workers must be ready for class battle. Just over a month ago, Southwest Airlines filed suit against AMFA, the union representing its mechanics, for causing a “state of operational emergency” by writing safety assessments that took a larger number of aircraft out of service than deemed acceptable by management. The carrier, which also owns the world’s largest Max fleet, has sought to bust the union by further outsourcing maintenance work, provoking a now six-year-long contract dispute. Wringing more from workers and cutting corners on safety go hand in hand in the capitalist drive to maximize profits. It is crucial for the unions to organize independently of the government agencies and political parties of the class enemy.
To Hell with “Boeing’s Best Interest”!
Far from waging any kind of fightback, the bureaucrats sitting atop the unions are committed to the capitalist profit system and the program of class collaboration. This treachery to the working class is encapsulated in the lie of a partnership of labor and capital, as well as the embrace of false “friend of labor” Democrats and the peddling of “America first” protectionist poison. It is a searing indictment of various pilots union tops that they expressed “confidence” in the Max even after it was grounded elsewhere, willingly putting their own members, not to mention thousands of other people, in harm’s way. Marking another betrayal, these same bureaucrats had previously agreed to the non-training of pilots before flying the Max.
The Max monstrosity should have been stopped on the drawing board. The current silence of the SPEEA Boeing engineers union leadership is deafening. Over the years, officials of the Boeing IAM Machinists union have justified their own surrender to the bosses by invoking “Boeing’s best interest,” part of viewing themselves as front-line defenders of U.S. “national interests” by producing military and civilian aircraft. In fact, the interests of Boeing and those of its workers cannot be reconciled.
From the outset, Boeing’s plans to ram through Max production hinged on ensuring labor peace, for which the bosses enlisted the services of the union misleaders. Combative Machinists had gone on strike five times since 1977, including in 2008, shortly after the financial meltdown on Wall Street. That eight-week confrontation had ended in a draw, but management was not going to tolerate another go-round.
In 2011, Boeing secretly reopened contract negotiations with the IAM tops one year before the contract expired, stoking fears of having the Max assembled at its non-union South Carolina plant instead of in Washington State, a maneuver that led to the acceptance of the contract extension. The IAM district president enthused over the deal, calling it “precedent setting,” and indeed it was. Two years later, the bosses, in cahoots with the union bureaucrats, again reopened the contract early under blackmail conditions, sparking a rank-and-file revolt that was defeated with the imposition of massive givebacks, including the gutting of pensions and a no-strike clause active until 2024.
Anti-union attacks and trampling on safety have paid off handsomely for the massive firm. Boeing set company highs for revenue, cash flow and commercial aircraft deliveries in 2017, propelled by its new Max flagship. Last year, it shattered those records all over again. Despite a downtick over the last month, its stock shares have tripled in value since the end of 2016, the best return on the Dow Jones industrial average; its stock is up by more than 1,000 percent compared to a decade ago. Over much of the same period, between 2012 and 2018, Boeing has slashed some 34,000 jobs.
The watershed in the ongoing capitalist offensive against the unions was also a frontal assault on air safety: the Reagan administration’s 1981 mass firing of striking PATCO air traffic controllers, whose main concerns were staffing shortages, antiquated equipment and job pressures that endangered passengers and flight crews. Already, as a result of airline deregulation under Democrat Jimmy Carter three years earlier, cutthroat competition in the industry was wreaking deadly havoc in the skies. Labor could have beaten back Reagan’s union-busters by shutting down the airports. A half-million-strong demonstration in D.C. at the time of the PATCO strike was a powerful display of the sentiment among union members to make a fight of it. But IAM president “Wimpy” Winpisinger, a leading member of the Democratic Socialists of America, and other AFL-CIO honchos did not even try, and instead had Machinists, pilots, flight attendants and Teamsters report to work.
What is posed is a fight for a new leadership of the unions, one committed to a class-struggle program and outlook. Such a leadership would enforce through collective action the right of any worker to shut down hazardous worksites, including by grounding unsafe airplanes, and prepare the vitally necessary battles against the capitalist exploiters, from organizing the unorganized to the fight against black oppression and anti-immigrant bigotry. It would do everything to break down the divisions within the working class—by race, gender, country of origin, location, craft and company—and cement bonds of solidarity, both in the U.S. and internationally. The only way workers have ever won anything of value was by wielding their collective power, usually in defiance of anti-labor laws. In the course of such sharp struggle and through the intervention of Marxist militants, a workers party can be forged, one capable of arming the multiracial proletariat with an understanding of both its social power and its historic interest in sweeping away the capitalist order altogether.
Capitalist Lies, Crime and Cover-Up
Boeing’s initial reaction to the Lion Air crash was typical of bosses everywhere: blame the workers. The manufacturer, oozing racist contempt for Indonesian pilots, claimed they should have known how to disable MCAS on the grounds that it is a so-called “memory item,” that is, a carryover procedure from earlier 737 models. Never mind that the anti-stall system was entirely new to the Max, and Boeing purposely did not notify pilots of its existence, much less inform them on how to deal with it. The Lion Air pilots spent their final seconds desperately searching through a Max manual to no avail; the only reference to MCAS in the main flight handbook is in the glossary.
The MCAS system operates by automatically tilting the plane’s horizontal stabilizer to pitch the nose down when the software detects an impending nose-high stall, based on readings from what is known as an “angle of attack” (AOA) sensor. Black box data retrieved from the wreckage indicates that for both flights a faulty AOA sensor triggered MCAS multiple times, initiating a tug of war as the system repeatedly forced the nose of the plane down and the pilots wrestled with the controls to pull it back up—over 20 times in the case of the Lion Air flight. “Pitch up! Pitch up!” were the last recorded words of one of the Ethiopian Airlines pilots to the other.
For decades, every Boeing aircraft has included two AOA sensors, one on either side of the fuselage. But company brass deliberately had MCAS configured to respond to the input of only one, a violation of the first and most basic principle of safe design: redundancy. AOA sensors have failed plenty over the years. For example, in 2014 an American-operated Boeing 767 had to return to Miami airport after takeoff to replace one.
The Lion Air and Ethiopian Airlines pilots did not have the benefit of an alert to warn of the defective AOA sensor. Since Boeing designated this vital safety feature a luxury, high-priced extra, both these airlines had declined to purchase it. This “nickel and dime” approach to safety is surely familiar to passengers, who are today charged for every supposed perk, including a few inches of leg room, in planes whose coach sections are packed like cattle cars.
In a muckraking article by Dominic Gates in the Seattle Times (21 March), Boeing engineers who performed the original MCAS safety analysis on behalf of the FAA blew the whistle to him on Boeing’s cover-up. Among their findings: MCAS was capable of moving the horizontal stabilizer more than four times farther than Boeing claimed, making it more difficult to recover from a dive; the system reactivated each time a pilot tried to make a correction; and the consequences of a system failure were severe enough that activation by only one sensor should have been ruled out. None of these issues were fixed and the FAA certified MCAS, just as Boeing expected of its government partners.
For an Internationally Planned Socialist Economy!
The disastrous performance of the MCAS system has cast a pall over aircraft automation for some pilots and industry observers. But automation is integral to modern air travel, having provided significant safety advances over the years, from the early, century-old autopilots to today’s fly-by-wire electronic interfaces. Automation done right has proven to be of huge benefit to pilots and passengers.
But software will only prevent crashes anticipated by engineers. Automation is not a substitute for human flight control, especially in emergencies. No machine would have done what Captain “Sully” Sullenberger did with his A320 in the 2009 “Miracle on the Hudson.” Sully also symbolizes the plight of this country’s airline workers: his employer, US Airways, had slashed his pay by 40 percent and dumped his pension. Many new hires at cut-rate outfits barely make poverty wages. The fight for quality pilot training, as well as for decent pay and benefits, is essential to safe skies.
Automation is only as good as the aircraft’s mechanical components and the maintenance practices of the airlines. This was shown in the crash of an Airbus A330, Air France Flight 447, on 1 June 2009, that killed all 228 people on board when the plane’s pitot tubes (air speed sensors) iced over, turning off some flight automation and making the pilots scramble. Safety is no closer to “first” at Boeing’s European competitor: Airbus knew for over a year of the problems with this model of pitot tube, and Air France had kept its A330s flying even though the faulty parts hadn’t yet been replaced.
The problem is not automation or technology as such, but the economic system. Boeing and Airbus workers make sophisticated machines of great social value, which airline workers then operate and maintain. But as wage slaves, all their blood and sweat goes toward making profit for the tiny class of capitalist exploiters who own the means of production and finance. The airline industry is a concentrated expression of the irrationality of this system, which results in fiery disasters, crumbling infrastructure and widespread misery. The productive wealth of the entire society must be ripped from the grip of its private owners, liberating production from the profit motive. Only after a series of workers revolutions across the globe, paving the way for an international planned socialist economy, will air transport truly serve human need and help transform the disparate nations of the world into a genuine community of equals.

*Poet's Corner- William Butler Yeats' "Easter, 1916"

***Poet's Corner- William Butler Yeats' "Easter, 1916"



Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of A Reading Of William Butler Yeats' Homage To The Lads Of 1916- "Easter 1916".

Guest Commentary

This is the 93rd Anniversary of the Irish Easter Uprising-

BELOW ARE TWO FAMOUS POEMS BY THE ANGLO-IRISH POET WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS-CHOCKY AR LA

Easter, 1916

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born. 80

September 25, 1916


Sixteen Dead Men

O but we talked at large before
The sixteen men were shot,
But who can talk of give and take,
What should be and what not
While those dead men are loitering there
To stir the boiling pot?

You say that we should still the land
Till Germany's overcome;
But who is there to argue that
Now Pearse is deaf and dumb?
And is there logic to outweigh
MacDonagh's bony thumb?

How could you dream they'd listen
That have an ear alone
For those new comrades they have found,
Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone,
Or meddle with our give and take
That converse bone to bone?

Songwriter's Corner- Spain 1936- The Irish Connection

Commentary

I have spilled no small amount of ink, and gladly, writing about the heroic military role of those Americans who fought in the American-led Abraham Lincoln Battalion of 15th International Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. The song "Viva La Quince Brigada" can apply to those of other nationalities who fought bravely for the Republican side in that conflict. Here's a take from the Irish perspective. Note the name Frank Ryan included here, a real hero of that operation.


Viva La Quince Brigada
(Christy Moore)


Ten years before I saw the light of morning
A comradeship of heroes was laid.
From every corner of the world came sailing
The Fifteenth International Brigade.

They came to stand beside the Spanish people.
To try and stem the rising Fascist tide
Franco's allies were the powerful and wealthy,
Frank Ryan's men came from the other side.

Even the olives were bleeding
As the battle for Madrid it thundered on.
Truth and love against the force af evil,
Brotherhood against the Fascist clan.

Vive La Quince Brigada!
"No Paseran" the pledge that made them fight.
"Adelante" was the cry around the hillside.
Let us all remember them tonight.

Bob Hillard was a Church of Ireland pastor;
From Killarney across the Pyrenees ho came.
From Derry came a brave young Christian Brother.
Side by side they fought and died in Spain.

Tommy Woods, aged seventeen, died in Cordoba.
With Na Fianna he learned to hold his gun.
From Dublin to the Villa del Rio
Where he fought and died beneath the Spanish sun.

Many Irishmen heard the call of Franco.
Joined Hitler and Mussolini too.
Propaganda from the pulpit and newspapers
Helped O'Duffy to enlist his crew.

The word came from Maynooth: 'Support the Fascists.'
The men of cloth failed yet again
When the bishops blessed the blueshirts in Dun Laoghaire
As they sailed beneath the swastika to Spain.

This song is a tribute to Frank Ryan.
Kit Conway and Dinny Coady too.
Peter Daly, Charlie Regan and Hugh Bonar.
Though many died I can but name a few.

Danny Doyle, Blaser-Brown and Charlie Donnelly.
Liam Tumilson and Jim Straney from the Falls.
Jack Nally, Tommy Patton and Frank Conroy,
Jim Foley, Tony Fox and Dick O'Neill.

Written in 1983
Copyright Christy Moore
apr97


Here are a couple more Yeats classics.

THE SECOND COMING

by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)


TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

"The Second Coming" is reprinted from Michael Robartes and the Dancer. W.B. Yeats. New York: Macmillan, 1921.

ON A POLITICAL PRISONER

by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

HE that but little patience knew,
From childhood on, had now so much
A grey gull lost its fear and flew
Down to her cell and there alit,
And there endured her fingers' touch
And from her fingers ate its bit.

Did she in touching that lone wing
Recall the years before her mind
Became a bitter, an abstract thing,
Her thought some popular enmity:
Blind and leader of the blind
Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?

When long ago I saw her ride
Under Ben Bulben to the meet,
The beauty of her country-side
With all youth's lonely wildness stirred,
She seemed to have grown clean and sweet
Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird:

Sea-borne, or balanced in the air
When first it sprang out of the nest
Upon some lofty rock to stare
Upon the cloudy canopy,
While under its storm-beaten breast
Cried out the hollows of the sea.

"On a Political Prisoner" is reprinted from Michael Robartes and the Dancer. W.B. Yeats. New York: Macmillan, 1921.

EASTER, 1916-'A TERRIBLE BEAUTY IS BORN'

EASTER, 1916-'A TERRIBLE BEAUTY IS BORN'





COMMENTARY

ALL HONOR TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CONNOLLY, COMMANDANT- IRISH CITIZENS ARMY- EXECUTED BY THE BLOODY BRITISH IMPERIALIST MAY, 1916. ALL HONOR TO THE MEMORY OF BOBBY SANDS, MP AND THE 10 LONG KESH HUNGER STRIKERS. ALL HONOR TO THE MEMORY OF THE 101st ANNIVERSARY OF THE EASTER UPRISING, 1916. BRITISH TROOPS OUT OF IRELAND -AND WHILE WE ARE AT IT OUT OF IRAQ AND AFGHANISTAN.


A word. They tell a story about James Connolly that just before the start of action of Easter, 1916 that he told his members of the Irish Citizen’s Army (mainly workers, by the way) that if the uprising was successful to keep their guns and be ready as more work against the nationalist allies of the moment might be necessary. I think that gives a pretty good idea of the tactics to be used by revolutionary socialists in colonial and third world struggles. That is why Communists, among other reasons, can honor him today. Would that the Chinese Communists had paid heed to that idea in the 1920’s, and others later.



BELOW ARE TWO FAMOUS POEMS BY THE ANGLO-IRISH POET WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS-CHOCKY AR LA


   
Easter, 1916



I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born. 80

September 25, 1916



Sixteen Dead Men

O but we talked at large before
The sixteen men were shot,
But who can talk of give and take,
What should be and what not
While those dead men are loitering there
To stir the boiling pot?

You say that we should still the land
Till Germany's overcome;
But who is there to argue that
Now Pearse is deaf and dumb?
And is there logic to outweigh
MacDonagh's bony thumb?

How could you dream they'd listen
That have an ear alone
For those new comrades they have found,
Lord Edward and Wolfe Tone,
Or meddle with our give and take
That converse bone to bone?

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By- Dominic Behan's "The Patriot Game"

Click on the title to link to a "YouTube" film clip of a presentation of Dominic Behan's "The Patriot Game".


In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here.

Patriot Game
From: Songs of Ireland
words and music by Dominic Behan


Come all ye young rebels, and list while I sing,
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame,
And it makes us all part of the patriot game.

My name is O'Hanlon, and I've just turned sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan, and where I was weaned
I learned all my life cruel England's to blame,
So now I am part of the patriot game.

This Ireland of ours has too long been half free.
Six counties lie under John Bull's tyranny.
But still De Valera is greatly to blame
For shirking his part in the Patriot game.

They told me how Connolly was shot in his chair,
His wounds from the fighting all bloody and bare.
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame
They soon made me part of the patriot game.

It's nearly two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA,
For I read of our heroes, and wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game.

[extra verse I found]
I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police
They are lackeys for war never guardians of peace
And yet at deserters I'm never let aim
The rebels who sold out the patriot game

And now as I lie here, my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained in souls
And I wish that my rifle had given the same
To those Quislings who sold out the patriot game.

Sunday, April 21, 2019

An Encore -In The Time Of Elvis' Time-One More Time Down 1950s Record Memory Lane

An Encore -In The Time Of Elvis' Time-One More Time Down 1950s Record Memory Lane





 








Sam Lowell, considered himself a corner boy from the time in the early 1960s when in the working-class neighborhoods of America were filled to the brim with such guys hanging out on the corners, in his case North Adamsville not far from urban Boston. Here is the progression not too atypical of corner boys with too little money and too much time on their hands which underscored the corner boy 1960s night plight (and which still plagues corner boys even though they no longer for the most part hang on corners but malls and other places where there are not any “No trespassing, police take notice” signs to harass young men still with not enough dough and too much time on their hands). If you grew up in the Acre, Sam’s growing up section of town you progressed from one place in elementary school, another in junior high school when corners and who was on what corner started to get sorted out in earnest, and high school where the corners were doled out hard as steel in high school.

Places like South Boston (an all Irish enclave then where even those who like Sam’s maternal grandparents had moved out of the enclave to an Irish neighborhood in North Adamsville were considered suspect, were looked at with jaundiced eye even by the relatives left behind), Main Street in Nashua (at the time a dying city what with the mills heading south to cheaper labor and eventually overseas and so a tough place to dream in), New Hampshire, 125th Street in high Harlem< New York City  (with all the excitement of jazz and be-bop but with all the high segregation of the South except for the formality of Mister James Crow’s laws),  any of a million spots on Six Mile Road in Detroit (never a place of dreams but of steady work in the golden age of the American automobile for those from Delta Mister James Crow black refugees to the Okie/Arkie white rabble coming out of the hills and dustbowls), the same on Division Street in Chi town (the beat street divide of many of Nelson Algren’s tales of drugs, urban lost-ness, and sullen back streets disappointments), the lower end of North Beach beyond where the “beats” of a few years before did their beat thing (the places where the longshoremen and waterfront workers did their heavy drinking after work and where the sailors off their Pacific ocean ships fought all- comers from the Artic to the Japan seas).


Jack Slack’s was the last port of call for the Acre crowd, for that motley collection of corner boys picked up and discarded along the way although the core of Frankie , Jack, Jimmy, Allan, Markin and Five-Fingers held throughout which had started at Doc’s Drugstore complete with sofa fountain and shiny glass penny candy-case to draw selections from after  school to energize up for the real world activities of kid-dom in elementary school, Miller’s Diner for the jukebox in junior high when they were just becoming aware of girls, maybe having to dance with them, and maybe trying to figure out, the eternal trying to figure out how to approach them without them giggling back and Salducci’s Pizza Parlor in early high school before the new owners decided that unlike Tonio, the previous owner who sold out to go back to Italy from when he came as a boy they did not want colorful rough-necked boys standing one knee against the wall in front of their family friendly establishment scaring the bejesus out of the important Friday and Saturday give Mom a break family trade.

That time, those early 1960s times for some reason known only to them, was time that you had best have had corner boy comrades when you hung out on date-less, girl-less, dough-less Friday and Saturday nights to have your back if trouble brewed (that “comrade” not a word to be used then in the tail end of the height of the red scare Cold War night not if you wanted knuckle sandwiches from the unthinking patriotic guys but that does convey the sense of “having your back” critical to your place in those woe begotten streets).


That corner boy business extended through the 1960s after high school for a couple of years when in addition to being a corner boy Sam became a “flower child” along with his long mourned and lamented friend the late Peter Paul Markin heading out west on the hitchhike roads when the world turned upside down later in the decade. (Markin who met a horrible end down in sunny Mexico after the fresh breeze of the 1960s turned in on itself and he got flat-footed by the backlash ebb tide riptide and could no longer hold back his “from hunger” wanting habits held in check through summers of love and a tight tour of Vietnam and made the fatal, very fatal, mistake of trying to broker an independent drug deal and got two slugs to the back of his head for the attempt.) Sam, now a sedate grandfatherly semi-retired lawyer filled with respectability and memories had to laugh about how much he of late had been thinking about the 1950s, about not just those corner boy days but about the music that drove every corner boy, including Markin, make that perhaps most of all Markin, to distraction as they tried to eke out a sound that they could call their own. A jailbreak sound that was not something their parents would approve of at a time when titanic generational battles were foaming at the mouth.

Thinking about the 1950s the times when he came of age, came of musical age, an age very mixed up with that corner boy comradery, that hanging at Doc’s and Miller’s Diner when he started noticing girls and their charms (amid the first blush of giggles which he soon figured out was their rational response to whatever was going on inside their bodies just like guys like Sam were going through in their bodies). Those first noticings started his life-long journey of trying to figure out what made them tick, what they wanted, wanted of him, from a girl-less family making everything that much harder. Noticing that they too hung around Miller’s in order to play that fantastic jukebox which had all the latest tunes and plenty of oldies too (oldies being let’s say we are talking about 1958 then maybe 1955 hits like Eddie, My Love, Rock Around The Clock, and Bo Diddley showing that teen time, youth time anyway is measured differently from old man lawyerly time, measured in days, weeks, months at the most-years were beyond the pale) drawing away from the music on his parents’ family living room radio and their cranky old record player music.

Music in the teen households emphatically not on Miller’s jukebox or there would have been a civil war no question, a civil war avoided in his own home after his parents had bought, to insure domestic peace and tranquility if he remembered correctly, his first transistor radio down at the now long gone Radio Shack store and he could sit up in his room and dream of whatever coming of age boys dreamed about, mainly how those last year’s bothersome girls became this year’s interesting objects of discussion (by the way in that small crowded upstairs bedroom, shared with his two brothers, he found out he could discover the beauty of the “hold up to your ear”  transistor radio and drown out the world of brotherly scuffings). 


More than that though, more than just thinking about the old days like every old guy probably does, even guys who had not been lawyers as a professional career, guys who you see sitting on park benches, a little disheveled, maybe some crumbs in their unkempt beards, feeding the birds and half-muttering to themselves about how when FDR was around everybody stood tall, every country bent it knees in homage to America, or else, or old bag ladies rummaging through trash barrels looking for long lost lovers or their faded beauty Sam had been purchasing compilations of what are commercially called “oldies but goodies” CDs. Doing so via the user-friendly confines of the Internet, at Amazon if you need a name like today anybody, except maybe three people up in heathen Alaska or the Artic,  doesn’t know that is the site to get such material these days instead of traipsing over half the East Coast trying to cadge a few examples from the dwindling oldies and used records emporia, and  purchasing several record compilations of the “best of” that period from a commercial distributor (and also keeping up to date on various versions of the songs on YouTube) and through his friend and old corner boy Frankie Riley been spilling plenty of cyber-ink on Frankie’s blog, In The Be-Bop ‘50s Night, going back to the now classic age of rock and roll.


Sam had to laugh about that situation back in the day as well since he had been well known back on the corner, back holding up the wall in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor, on many of those date-less, date-less because although he might have been an all “hail fellow, well met” hard-assed corner boy full of bluster and blah he was sister-less and hence baffled by girls and their ways and very shy around the question of asking for dates although he was quite willing to tell each and every girl who would listen to him about ten thousand fact on any of sixteen subjects, not excluding science, philosophy, and the poor fate of the Red Sox then. Although those ten thousand facts would come in handy when he got to college a couple of years later and he had girls hanging off the walls in debate class waiting for him to ask them out then those precious facts did not add up to a date by osmosis but rather incomprehension even by girls like Patty Lewis and Mary Shea who liked him and would have be glad if he asked them for a date without the ten thousand facts, thank you.

Here though is something about the mores of the time that young people today might not comprehend girls just waited for guys to make a move, or moved on to the next guy who would, especially if he had a boss ’55 Chevy, like Patty and Mary did. Also girl-less (already explained but here the question is having a serious girl and the just mentioned facts will hold here as well), and dough-less (self-explanatory in working-class North Adamsville, the sorry fate of the working poor, the marginally employed like his father, no money when the rent was due and Ma had not money for the damn rent collector much less discretionary money for dates with girls) on Friday and Saturday nights when he  proclaimed to all who would listen (mainly Frankie, Markin, Jimmy Jenkins, Jack Callahan, Kenny Hogan and Johnny “Thunder” Thornton and an occasional girl who all wondered what he was talking about) that “rock and roll will never die.”


Mainly, through the archival marvels of modern technology, pay-per-song, look on YouTube, check out Amazon Sam had been right, rock and roll had not died although it clearly no longer provided the same fuel for later generations more into hip-hop-ish, techno music, or edge city rock. But Sam always though it funny when kids, his grandkids, for example, heard (and saw) Elvis, all steamy, smoldering and swiveling in some film clip to make the older almost teenage girls among them almost react like the girls in his time did when they saw him on the Ed Sullivan Show and had half-formed girlish dreams about personally erasing that snarl from his face. Especially that flip clip of the prison number in Jailhouse Rock. Bo Diddley proclaiming to the whole wide world that he in fact had put the rock in rock and roll and who could dispute that claim when he went bonkers in some Afro-Carib number with that rectangular guitar. Say too Chuck Berry telling a candid world, a candid teenage world which after all was all that counted then, now too from what Sam had heard from his grandchildren, that Mister Beethoven from the old fogy music museum had better take himself and his cronies and move over because a new be-bop daddy, a new high sheriff was in town, was taking the reins, making the kids jump on jump street. Ditto curl-in-hair Buddy Holly pining away for his Peggy Sue.

Better, mad monk swamp rat Jerry Lee Lewis sitting, maybe standing for all Sam knew telling that same candid world that Chuck was putting on fire everybody had to do the high school hop bop, confidentially. And how about Wanda Jackson proclaiming that it was party time and an endless host of one hit wonders and wanna-bes they went crazy over. Yeah, those kids, those for example grandkids jumping around just like the young Sam who could not believe his ears when he had come of age and, yeah, jumping around for those same guys who formed his musical tastes back in the 1950s when he had come of age, musical age anyway. Jesus, Jesus too when he came of teenage age and all that meant of angst and alienation something no generation seems to be able to escape since the world had no less dangerous, no less incomprehensible today.


Sam had thought recently about going back to those various commercially-produced compilations put out by demographically savvy media companies that he had purchased on Amazon to cull out the better songs, some which he had on the tip of his tongue almost continuously since the 1950s (the Dubs Could This Be Magic the great last chance dance song that bailed him out of being shut out of more than one dance night although his partner’s feet borne the brunt of the battle, and the Teen Queens Eddie My Love, where Eddie took advantage of the girl and she was wondering, maybe still is, when he is coming back, a great love ‘em and leave ‘em song and the answer is still he’s never coming back, are two examples that quickly came to his mind). Others like Johnny Ace’s Pledging My Love or The Crows Oh-Gee though needed some coaxing by listening to the compilations to be remembered.


But Sam, old lawyerly Sam, had finally found a sure-fire method to aid in that memory coaxing. Just go back in memory’s mind and picture scenes from teenage days and figure the songs that went with such scenes (this is not confined to 1950s aficionados anybody can imagine their youth times and play). But even using that method Sam believed that he was cheating a little, harmlessly cheating but still cheating. When he (or anybody familiar with the times) looked at the artwork on most of the better 1950s CD compilations one could not help but notice the excellent artwork that highlights various institutions illustrated back then. The infamous drive-in movies where you gathered about six people (hopefully three couples but six anyway) and paid for two the other four either on the back seat floor or in the trunk. They always played music at intermission when that “youth nation” cohort gathered at the refreshment stand to grab inedible hot dogs, stale popcorn, or fizzled out sodas, although who cared, especially if that three couples thing was in play, and that scene had always been associated in Sam’s mind with Frankie Lyman and the Teenager’s Why Do Fools Fall In Love.


That is how Sam played the game. Two (or more) can play so he said he would just set the scenes and others could fill in their own musical selections. Here goes: the first stirrings of interest in the opposite sex at Doc’s Drugstore with his soda fountain AND jukebox; the drive-in restaurant with you and yours in the car, yours’ or father-borrowed for an end of the night bout with cardboard hamburgers, ultra-greasy french fries and diluted soda; the Spring Frolic Dance (or name your seasonal dance) your hands all sweaty, trying to disappear into the wall, waiting, waiting to perdition for that last dance so that you could ask that he or she that you had been eyeing all evening to dance that slow one  all dreamy; down at the beach on day one of out of school for the summer checking out the scene between the two boat clubs where all the guys and gals who counted hung out; the night before Thanksgiving football rally where he or she said they would be there, how about you; on poverty nights sitting up in your bedroom listening to edgy WMEX on your transistor radio away from prying adult eyes; another poverty night you and your boys, girls, boys and girls sitting in the family room spinning platters; that first sixth grade “petting” party (no more explanation needed, right); cruising Main Street with your boys or girls looking for, well, you figure it out listening to the radio in that “boss” Chevy, hopefully; and, sitting in the balcony “watching” the double feature at the Strand Theater on Saturday afternoon when you were younger and at night when older. Okay, Sam has given enough cues. Fill in the dots, oops, songs and add scenes too.                      


On The Anniversary- HONOR THE MEMORY OF THE TEN IRISH REPUBLICAN HUNGER STRIKERS!

Reposted from August 2006

THIS MONTH IS THE ACTUAL ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATHS OF THE TEN IRISH REPUBLICAN HUNGER STRIKES LED BY BOBBY SANDS, MP. SEE MY BLOG DATED MARCH 28, 2006 WHERE I PAY HONOR TO THESE IRISH NATIONAL LIBERATION FIGHTERS IN CONNECTION WITH HONORING THE MEMORY OF JAMES CONNOLLY AND THE 90TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE EASTER UPRISING. WHAT WAS STATED THERE APPLIES HERE AS WELL. CHOCKY AR LA.

Yeah, Put Out That Fire In Your Head-With Patti Griffin’s Words From “You Are Not Alone” In Mind

Yeah, Put Out That Fire In Your Head-With Patti Griffin’s Words From “You Are Not Alone” In Mind   




By Fritz Taylor 

Sam Lowell was a queer duck, an odd-ball kind of guy who couldn’t stop keeping his head from exploding with about seventeen ideas at once and the determination to do all seventeen come hell or high water. And not seventeen things like mowing the lawn or taking out the rubbish but what he called “projects” which in Sam’s case meant political projects and writings and other things along that line. Yeah, couldn’t put out “the fire in his head” the way he told it to his long-time companion, Laura Perkins, one night at supper after she had confronted him with the fact, and not for the first time, that he was getting more irritable, was more often short with her of late, had seemed distant, had seemed to be drifting into some bad place, a place where he was not at peace with himself. That not “at peace” with himself an expression that Laura had coined that night to express the way that she saw his current demeanor. That would be the expression he would use in his group therapy group to describe his condition when it met later that week. 

He would almost shout out the words in despair when the moderator-psychologist asked him pointedly whether he felt at peace with himself at that moment and he pointed responded immediately that he was not. Maybe it was at that point, more probably though that night when Laura confronted him with his own mirror-self that told Sam his was one troubled man.  
Yea, it was that seventeen things in order and full steam ahead that got him in trouble on more than on occasion. The need to do so the real villain of the piece. See Sam had just turned seventy and so he should have been trying to slow down, slow down enough to not try to keep doing those seventeen things like he had when he was twenty or thirty but no he was not organically capable of doing so , at least until the other shoe dropped. Dropped hard.      

It was that “other shoe” dropping that made him take stock of his situation, although it had been too little too late. One afternoon a few days after that stormy group therapy session he laid down on his bed to just think through what was driving him to distraction, driving that fury inside him that would not let him be, as he tried to put out the fire in his head. That laying down itself might have been its own breakthrough since he had expected, had fiercely desired to finish up an article that he was writing on behalf a peace walk that was to take place shortly up in Maine, a walk that was dedicated to stopping the wars, mostly of the military-type but also of the environmental degradation against Mother Nature. 

Sam, not normally introspective about his past, about the events growing up that had formed him, events that had as he had told Laura on more than one occasion almost destroyed him. So that was where he started, started to try to find out why he could not relax, had to be “doing and making” as Laura called it under happier circumstances, had to be fueling that fire in his head. Realized that afternoon that as kid in order to survive he had learned at a very young age that in order to placate (and avoid) his overweening mother he had to keep his own counsel, had to go deep inside his head to find solace from the storms around his house. For years he had thought the driving force was because he was a middle child and thus had to fend for himself while his parents (and grandparents) doted respectively his younger and older brothers. But no it had been deeper than that, had been driven by feelings of inadequacy before his mother’s onslaught against his fragile head.        

As Sam traced how at three score and ten he could point to various incidents that had driven him on, had almost made him organically incapable of having a not ever active brain, of going off to some dark places where the devils would not let him relax, that kept him going around and around he realized that he was not able to relax on his own, would need something greater than himself if he was to unwind. Laura had emphatically told him that he would have to take that journey on his own, would have to settle himself down if he was to gain any peace in his whole damn world. Sam suddenly noticed after Laura had expressed her opinion that she had always been the picture of calm, had been his rock when he was in his furies. Funny he had always underestimated, always undervalued that calmness, that solid rock. He, in frustration, at his own situation asked Laura how she had maintained the calm that seemed to follow her around her world.         

Laura, after stating that she too had her inner demons, had to struggle with the same kind of demons that Sam had faced as a child and that she still had difficulties maintaining an inner calm, told Sam that her daily Buddha-like meditations had carried her to a better place. Sam was shocked at her answer. He had always known that Laura was drawn to the spiritual trends around their milieu, the “New Age stuff” he called her interest since it seemed that she had taken tidbits from every new way to salvation outside of formal religion (although she had had bouts with that as well discarding her Methodist high heavens Jehovah you are on your own in this wicked old world upbringing for the communal comfort of the Universalist-Unitarian brethren). He had respected her various attempts to survive in the world the best way she could but those roads were not for him, smacked too much of some new religion, some new road that he could not travel on. But he was also desperate to be at peace, a mantra that he was increasing using to describe his plight.    

Then Laura suggested that they attend a de-stress program that was being held at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston as part of what was billed as HUB-week, a week of medical, therapeutic, technological and social events and programs started by a number of well-known institutions in the Boston area like MGH, Harvard, MIT and others. Sam admitted to being clueless about what a de-stress program would be about and had never heard of a Doctor Benson who a million years before had written a best-selling book about the knot the West had put itself in trying to get ahead and offered mediation as a way out of the impasse. Sam was skeptical but agreed to go.

At the event which lasted about two hours various forms of meditative practice were offered including music and laughter yoga. Sam in his mind passed on those efforts. The one segment that drew his attention, the first segment headed by this Doctor Benson had been centered on a simple technique to reduce stress, to relax in fact was called the relax response. Best of all the Doctor had invited each member of the audience to sample his wares. Pick a word or short phrase to focus on, close your eyes, put your hands on your lap and consecrate, really try to concentrate, on that picked term for five minutes (the optimum is closer to ten plus minutes in an actual situation).          

Sam admitted candidly to Laura that while attempting fitfully focusing on one thing, in his case the phrase “at peace,” he had suffered many distractions but that he was very interested in pursuing the practice since he had actually felt that he was getting somewhere before time was called. Laura laughed at Sam’s response, so Sam-like expecting to master in five minutes a technique that she had spent years trying to pursue and had not been anywhere near totally focused yet. He asked her to help him to get started and they did until Sam felt he could do the procedure on his own.

We now have to get back to that “other shoe” dropping though. Although Sam had expressed his good intentions, had felt better after a while Laura had felt that he needed to go on his journey without her. She too now felt that she had to seek what she was looking for alone in this wicked world despite how long they had been together. So Laura called it quits, moved out of the house that she and Sam had lived in for years. Sam is alone on his journey now, committed to trying to find some peace inside despite his heartbreak over the loss of Laura. Every once in a while though in a non-meditative moment he curses that fire in his head. Yeah, he wished he could have put out that fire in his head long ago.        

Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By- DROPKICK MURPHYS-"Heroes From Our Past"

DROPKICK MURPHYS-"Heroes From Our Past"


And so the story's told of a hearty group of men it's a tale of their triumphs and their woes.
Be it raids and melees ancient or the modern worker's struggle
that inspires men to stand up for their rights.
And should we fall down by the wayside in this ever-changing world
we can look back to these heroes of our past.
With their staunch determination and ferocious iron will,
no tyranny would quell them in their task.

It's an age-old situation with an ever-present message:
that time and tide waiteth for no man.
So without fear of confrontation of the consequence of outcome,
it's for freedom and for happiness they toiled.
An in looking to the future,
we can see a better place where we can shake the yoke of tyranny for all.
It's been paved by generations who have gone now to their rest.
It's just remembrance of their dignity we ask.

[Chorus:]
So come on rally round this brave and valiant cause with tradition, pride, and honor at its core.
With swords drawn to defend stood these noble-hearted men fág an bealach,
clear the way, me boys!!

Under perilous conditions with small hope of success they left behind the lives that they once led
and by virtue of their fortitude and single-minded strength
they cleared the way for the people of today
so when we think back to our ancestors respectfully we hark
and thank the men whose struggle broke the chain it's a long road up ahead of us
let's forge on while we're strong and leave our mark of honor once again

So the story has been told and it comes now to an end.
It's setting any era, any land.
When abusive tyrants force the hands of matters great or small,
it inpires men to stand up for their rights.

WHEN THE HARP WAS CRUSHED BENEATH THE CROWN

CD REVIEW

THE RISING OF THE MOON, Tradition, 1998; UNWRAP THE GREEN FLAG, Sony, 1996; and, IRISH SONGS OF DRINKING AND REBELLION, Legacy, 1994, all by Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers.


The following review is being used to comment on several of the Clancy Brothers with Tommy Makem recordings. The obvious musical skills, talent and commitment to craftsmanship of this group during its history need no comment by me. Nor does their commitment to keeping alive the Irish folk tradition. Thus, the criterion for review here of their many recordings is whether the works represent the political traditions associated with the historic struggle for independence from the English. These recordings best represent that tradition.

A word. As I developed a quasi- leftist political consciousness in my youth I also, in an unsystematic, and for the most part then, unconscious manner, developed an interest in what is today is called roots music. Initially this was reflected in my first love-the Blues. During the early sixties, under the influence of Dave Van Ronk at first, then Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie and the rest I developed an interest in folk music, then at the height of its revival. It is through this process that I came to appreciate the work of the artists under review. This is odd, and I will explain why.

I was actually reared on the material presented here by my maternal grandfather, a great and ardent supporter of the Irish Republican Army. I gained from him my own romantic attachment to the exploits of the IRA in 1916 and later. Although my own political evolution since then has led me away from political support to the IRA (although I continued to support actions by that organization directly against the British Army of Occupation) I still love the old songs which represent the spirit of Irish national identity and aspirations for national liberation of a people historically suppressed by the bloody English.

A word about the songs presented here. The liner notes included with the Rising of the Moon CD are helpful here. The songs range in subject from ‘The Rising of the Moon’ at the time of Wolfe Tone and the United Irishman, probably the last time that a united, independent, non-sectarian single Irish state was possible, to ‘Kevin Barry’ and ‘Sean Tracey’ just before the partition in 1921, creating the mess that still confronts us politically today. That said, as these lines are being written we are approaching the 90th Anniversary of the Easter Uprising of 1916. The vision of James Connolly, and others, of a Social Republic proclaimed at the General Post Office still waits. In short, there is still work to be done, North and South, united or as independent, but federated states. Listen to these songs to understand where we have come from and why we still need to fight.

SOME OF THE RECORDINGS REVIEWED HERE MAY NOT BE READILY AVAILABLE AT LOCAL MUSIC STORES OR LIBRARIES. CHECK AMAZON. COM FOR AVAILABILITY THEIR, BOTH NEW AND USED.

The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-As The 50th Anniversary Year Of The High School Class Of 1968 Rolls Along… “Forever Young” (Magical Realism 101)-With Ritchie Valen’s Oh, Donna In Mind

The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-As The 50th Anniversary Year Of The High School Class Of 1968 Rolls Along… “Forever Young” (Magical Realism 101)-With Ritchie Valen’s Oh, Donna In Mind

By Allan Jackson

A Story As Told To Frank Jackman 

[As I have mentioned previously a lot of the throwback to this series got its start via modern technology specifically around the now fabulous ability to “connect” with people from back in the day, at least the people who want to be connected with and have not left “no forwarding address” on their personal lives by keeping under the radar of modern conveniences and ways to grab information. (I won’t even speak here of NSA-type overreaching or social media platform privacy matters although I could. I know I was able to connect with a number of my corner boys still standing via such methods, and was able to connect with those from my high school graduation class when it came time for a too high a number class reunion celebration. That process similar to the story here told to Frank Jackman who as some may know was originally used in this series as a “front.” As the guy who did the modern introductions to the series.      
 A lot of this use of technology to connect with the past I think can be attributed to members of our generation of ’68 having time on our hands to think about the various roads that were, or could have been, taken. To wonder, wonder like we wondered when we were young and the world was fresh, Fitzgerald’s wonder at the fresh green breast of the new world of those ancient Dutch sailors who came up Long Island Sound before everything began to get spoiled and seek to find some answers while we are still standing and the question still has some urgency before we fall under the earth and face the big sleep which makes such inquiries irrelevant. I take special interest in this rather short sketch because, for one flickering moment, all those dreams, what did the teller call them, yes, puff-cloud dreams came back to the ground and made some sense. The wisdom of age might be overrated but not the dream of those puff-cloud dreams. Allan Jackson]        


Forever Young-lyrics by Bob DylanMay God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

Copyright © 1973 by Ram's Horn Music; renewed 2001 by Ram’s Horn Music

******
 Whee, Am I glad that my own 50th anniversary reunion at North Adamsville High in Massachusetts is over, done, complete and that the “magic” year 1964 has slipped into 1965 and I, no one, has to worry about an odd-ball 51st anniversary celebration. Of course in all the hoopla over the 50th anniversary reunion with some classmates setting up a reunion committee (which I assisted around the edges doing odds and ends chores), setting up a big bang class website to draw everybody still around and computer savvy enough to find the Internet, finding a super place to have the event, and setting up the thing on the fall weekend when it occurred I actually, didn’t, couldn’t go to the event. That is a long story, a story about old time teen angst and alienation, about trying to retrace what could not be retraced in a hundred lifetimes, and about how in words taken from a title of one of Thomas Wolfe’s novels-you can’t go home again.

Nevertheless before I could understand the import of those last words, understand that it was better not tempt the fates an angle that developed in the process of helping the reunion committee I wrote a number of small memory-etched sketches for the class website reflecting specific events like high school dances and football rallies, reflecting on various local customs and places like “watching the submarine races” and corner boy hanging out times, that kind of stuff some specific to the town and class, others more broad-based. The following sketch is a reworking of one from the latter category which is “forever” appropriate as long as somebody, some cohort of people make it to 50th anniversary reunion time. I hope that if you want to go to your 50th nothing stands in the way of you doing that, that no dragons from the mist of time come up to bite you for thinking you could do so.            
 *******
…an old man bundled up against the December weathers, dark blue navy skull cap pulled down almost to his eyes , brown cotton gloves because his hands sweat which they conveniently absorb when he has built up a head of steam, black  windbreaker complete with fold-away hood in case of rains or snows zippered up to his neck, long, too long for his body blue all-weather jogging pants, topped off, or better bottomed off with the signature of the AARP set New Balance running shoes which he purchases by the half dozen pairs up in the Kittery, Maine outlet malls begins to run, no, better, jog/shuffle along the Causeway end of Adamsville Beach. For those who have not been in the old town for a while that is by the lights across from the 24hour CVS, formerly the First National supermarket back in the day, the old town being North Adamsville not too far outside of Boston if you want to know. But the old man could have been anywhere where old men try to cheat time, or at least slowdown that race to the end by keeping themselves as fit as circumstances and the ten thousand aches of age allow, could have been trundling along congested city streets consumed by traffic smoke and every other treachery, along soothing rivers flowing to the sea like some later day easy rider looking for the next town, out west in the mountains like some pioneer spirit read in history book, along the plains easier to navigate although in the old hitchhike west days if you were left off there by some kindly driver just going up the road but the old man was ocean born and declared to anyone who would listen one time that he would ocean pass away. And spent the in between time within a stone’s throw.

The old man trying to build up a painfully constructed stride, huffing and puffing, head down and this day full of thoughts triggered by his up-coming 50th anniversary class reunion to held in the fall in this very town. Thinking just then of the irony of running along a section of his old high school cross-country course that he had not run since back then and thinking too as he moved along the boardwalk running parallel to that beach of those mist of times Adamsville Beach days when he longingly looked out at the sea, its mucks, its marshes, hell, even it fetid smells and mephitic stinks, as if it could solve some riddle of existence. Thinking too as he trudged along of times when he was young and flexible, when each step did not require an army of support, salves, pills, knee braces, to move forward, to a time when he could “run in pain,” could fall and jump up, dust off his knees  and shake it off and if not fast then able to run the distance in about half the time it would take him on this day (his fast running friend back then, a friend from back in the old projects elementary school days and best friend through high school now lost in the mist of time if he were still alive, Brad Badger, said he had "the slows," well okay Brad had a point).

As he settled into a pace (he always liked to run early, unlike this day when he on other business which necessitated him passing near the old town when he did not start off until almost noon, when there was little traffic, or run on beach sand, or run on soft felt tracks so that he could hear the pitter-patter of his shoes, could hear the sound of his breathe as it steadied) he began thinking about hanging out around places around town, places like Harry’s Variety over on Sagamore that he had passed by on the way to the beach trying to cadge pin-ball games from the rough and tumble corner boys half hero-worship, half fear and a close thing thinking about putting his well-shod boot on the wall holding up the corner bricks with them; hanging out at Salducci’s Pizza Parlor begging girls to play some latest song that he just had to hear on the jukebox like Oh, Donna the name of his current love, or he wanted to be love, and he needed the repetition so he could learn all the words and sing them to her; and, hanging out on sweaty summer nights on the front steps of North, no money in pocket, no car between them, no girl to sit on those forlorn steps with that same Brad Badger, also penniless, speaking of dreams, small dreams of escape and big puffed-ball cloud dreams of success.

Remembering, an old man’s harmless flash remembering, of standing in corridors between classes day-dreaming of, well, you know, certain now nameless girls and of giving furtive glances to a few which they totally ignored (that furtive glance an accepted acknowledgement of interest as against the dweeb flat-out stare that got nothing but girlish scorn). But that was another story. And remembrances too of sitting in classes, maybe some dank seventh period study hall, wondering about what would happen Friday night when he and his corner boys from Jack Slack’s bowling alleys cruised Adamsville Beach in Digger Jones’ rebuilt Chevy. HoJo’s, the big orange roof operation ice cream place a must stop on hot summer nights, make his cherry vanilla, the Southern Artery  well past the other end of the beach, Marley’s, Pisa’s Tower of Pizza, Adventure Car-Hop, some not the real names but memory fails) , and in a pinch going “up the Downs” to Doc’s Drugstore, looking, looking for adventure, looking for some magic formula to wipe away the teen angst and alienation blues that crept up on him more than was good for him...

...an old woman (Jesus, better not say that in this day in age, maybe never not if you want to avoid that still potent girlish scorn preserved intact since about fifth grade in elementary school, yes, better make that a mature woman) also bundled up, thick woolen scarf providing protection for her head, another scarf almost as thick wrapped around her neck, ear muff against that nagging sound in her ears when the wind was up like that day, a full-length goose down coat against fashion but warm, showing underneath the telltale all-weather running pants with their comfortable strings again against fashion, big almost catcher’s mitt mittens, topped off, or better bottomed off with the signature of the AARP set New Balance running shoes which she had recently  purchased at City Sports against the December weathers, begins to walk, haltingly, but with head up (proper posture just like her mother taught her long ago along with that proper girlish scorn preserved intact taught in that same fifth grade), along Adamsville Beach from the Adams Shore end (having parked her Toyota around what is now Creely Park named after some fallen Marine, although she remembered the place as Treasure Island when her family took their obligatory weekly summer Friday night ventures there for barbecues  so Mother did not have to cook in the nasty heat) thinking thoughts triggered by her up-coming 50th class reunion as well.

Thinking thoughts about old flames, about all those young men who had practically tripped over each other to give her that telltale furtive glance in the corridors that spoke of interest (and too of the fools like Frank Jackman who stared, stared if you could believe that, at her in the hallways like they had just gotten off the boat, or something and she laser-eyed her well know look of scorn to freeze them up). Laughed, or rather tittered about how she had half the boys in the class convinced that she was “unapproachable” once she put the freeze on the heroic captain of the football team and all the girls could not believe he came begging for more. Thought about what had happened to them and as she walked toward the old Clam Shack she began to get creeping in thoughts about that first kiss sitting in the back seat of her girlfriend's boyfriend's car with him right across from that establishment, some old flame now un-nameable, at this very beach and about, she blushed as she thought of it, that first French kiss and how she had felt awkward about it. (Felt awkward about lots of things sexual since while her mother had been an excellent teacher of the fine art of freeze-outs and girlish scorn she never said word one about sex, about the feelings, about what to do, or not do about it, and had learned about sex like every other girl she knew from the experienced girls in the girls’ locker or really from some boy fumbling with her until they figured stuff out.  

Later in her walk thoughts flashed by, funny thoughts, emerged about all the lies she told about those same steamy nights just to keep up with the other girls at talkfest time -the mandatory Monday morning before school girls '"lav" talkfest, boys had theirs' too she found out from a later flame after high school. Laughing now but then not knowing until much later that the other girls too were lying just to keep up with her. And of all the committees she had been on; the senior dance committee which planned the prom, The North Star the school newspaper that she wrote for and which had made her blush when she had recently gone up into the attic looking for her old articles in anticipation of the reunion, Magnet, the class yearbook also found in that same attic, whatever would keep her busy and make her a social butterfly.
Then a mishmash of thoughts flooded her mind as she passed Kent Park near the now vanished Jack Slack’s bowling alleys of the girls’ bowling team and wondering, now wondering, why they kept the boys’ team separate; of reading in that cranky old Thomas Crane Public Library up the Square where she first learned to love books and saw them as a way to make a success of herself and had done so; and, of hot sweltering summer afternoons with the girls down at the beach trying to look, what did Harry call it, “beautiful” for the guys.

Somewhere between the Adamsville Yacht Club and the North Adamsville Boat Club the old man and the mature woman crossed paths on that wide boardwalk. He, she, they gave a quick nod of generational solidarity to each other and both thought despite their bundled up conditions they knew the other from some place but couldn’t quite place where. After they passed each other the old man’s pace quickened for a moment as he heard some phantom starter’s gun sounding the last lap and the mature woman’s walk became less halting as she thought once again about that first kiss (whether it was the French kiss that stirred her we will leave to the reader’s imagination) as each reflected back to a time when the world was fresh and all those puffed-cloud dreams of youth lay ahead of them.

*The Music Of The Irish Diaspora-In Honor Of Easter 1916

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of traditional Irish music.

Commentary/CD REVIEW

I have mentioned in this space more times than one is reasonably allowed that in my youth in the early 1960's I listened to a local folk music radio program on Sunday nights. That program played, along with highlighting the then current up and coming folk revivalists like Bob Dylan and Dave Van Ronk, much American traditional music including things like the "Child Ballads". In short, music derived from parts of the "British" homeland. What I have not previously mentioned is that directly after that program I used to listen on that same radio station to the "Irish National Hour", a show devoted to all the old more traditional and unknown Irish ballads and songs. And, by the way, attempted to instill a respect for Irish culture, Irish heritage and the Irish struggle against the "bloody" British. (That struggle continues in one form or another today but that is a subject for another time.) Of course, today when every `progressive' radio station (or other technological format) has its obligatory "Keltic Twilight" programs we are inundated with music from the old country and this is no big deal but in those days it was another question.

All of this is by way of reviewing the music of the Irish Diaspora. Our Irish forebears had the `distinct' opportunity of following the British flag wherever it went, under one set of terms or another. And remember in those days the sun never set on that British Empire. So there are plenty of far-flung traditions to talk about. But, first comes the old country. Chocky Ar La (roughly translated- "Our Day Will Come")

Chocky Ar La

The Rough Guide: Irish Folk, various artists, World Music Network, 1999



Because English domination and occupation of Ireland for many centuries meant that the lingua franca of commerce and administration was English the rich history of traditional Irish music in Gaelic (Irish) was placed under the radar. For most of the English occupation it was a serious criminal offense to speak Gaelic (to speak nothing of speaking "Irish" by an occasional rebellion). The reels, the jigs, the lonesome ballads the songs of love and redemption in the old language were thus either Anglicized like in the rest of the British Isles or existed in a subterranean culture away from the cities and the snooping eyes and ears of the bloody occupiers.

The CD under review represents a compilation of both types of musical expression. I would add here that this CD was produced as part of a series of world wide material to expand our knowledge of roots music beyond the `pop' tunes for holiday occasions. These tracks are not the stuff of St Patty's Day celebration, although your grandmother (or great-grandmother) may have sung some of them sweet and low when you were a child. The simple fiddle, as in many Western agrarian cultures, played a central role in forming the base line of such music as reeds and jigs that were the festivities that brought the folk together after a hard week's work.

That instrument and those musical expressions are well represented here in Brian Hughes' medley, Paddy Glackin's and The Tulla Ceili (party) Band's as well. The Gaelic traditional singing (and contests associated with such efforts, a separate subject which when I have time I will discuss later) is well represented here by Padraigin Ni Uallachain on "A Bhean Udai Thall" and Aine Ui Cheallaigh on "Seoladh Na nGgamhna". Damn, just listing this stuff brings back strong memories of grandmother humming these old tunes while working around her house.

*A Bit Of The Odd Manner- Irish Style- The Childhood Saga of Frank McCourt- In Honor Of Easter 1916

A Bit Of The Odd Manner- Irish Style- The Childhood Saga of Frank McCourt- In Honor Of Easter 1916




Book Review

Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir Of Childhood, Frank McCourt, Flamingo, London, 1997


Frank McCourt’s “Angela’s Ashes” is probably the easiest review that I have had to write since I have been doing such reviews in this space. Why? Frank McCourt’s book of childhood memoirs is my story. No, not in the details of his life’s story, or mine. But rather in how being Irish, being poor, and being uprooted affects your childhood, and later times as well. And those traumas, for good or evil, cross generational lines. McCourt, we are told as his story unfolds, was born in America of immigrants of the diaspora after Irish independence who, for one reason or another, returned to the old country in defeat in the 1930’s. As McCourt notes right at the beginning, that fact in itself provides a rather ironic twist if one is familiar with Irish history (at least until very recently). He is, in any case, thus a child of the Great Depression and World War II, the generation of my parents, as it was refracted through Ireland during that period. I, on the other hand, am a child of the 1960’s, the “Generation of ‘68” here in America born of the dreaded Irish Catholic-English Protestant combination- and raised in an Irish Catholic enclave. Nevertheless the pages of this memoir are filled to the brim with the results of the emotional (and sometimes physical scars) of being “shanty” Irish in this world that hit home, and hit home hard, to this reader.

That said, we do not share the terrible effect that “the drink” had on creating his dysfunctional family with his father’s, Malachy McCourt, crazed need for the alcohol cure to drown his sorrows and his bitterness and the fact that his great moment in life was his bit for “the cause” (of Irish independence). A familiar story in the Irish community here and in the old country but my father seldom drank, although he too was constantly out of work and shared with Frank’s father that same bitterness about his fate. He was uneducated, lacking in skills and prospects and as a “hillbilly” Protestant Southerner from coal country down in Kentucky was thus, an ‘outsider’ in the Boston milieu like Frank’s father had been in Limerick. That is the commonality that caught my eye (and sometimes my throat) as I read of Frank’s youthful trials, tribulations and adventures. McCourt’s ability to tap into that “mystical” something is what makes this a fine read, whether you are Irish or not.

Throughout the book McCourt’s woe-begotten but fatally prideful father is constantly referred to in the Irishtown working class poor ghetto of Limerick (and elsewhere, as well, but the heart of the story is told from there) as having an "odd manner". This reflects a certain clannishness against those from the North of Ireland (Dare I say it, the area then known as Ulster) and a sneaking suspicion amount that crowd of some alien (meaning English Protestant) heritage. As the book progresses that odd trait is transferred (by heredity?) to Frank in his various wanderings, enterprise and desires. What joins us together then is that "odd manner" that gets repeatedly invoked throughout the book. Frank survived to tell the tale. As did I. But in both cases it appears to have been a near thing.

There is more that unites us. The shame culture, not an exclusive Irish Catholic property but very strong nevertheless, drilled in by the clannishness, the closeness of neighbors, the Catholic religion and by the bloody outsiders- usually but not always Protestants of some sort (as least for blame purposes- you know, the eight hundred years of British tyranny, although very real to be sure). All driven by not having nearly enough of this world’s goods. Every time I read a passage about the lack of food, the quality of the food, the conditions of the various tenements that the McCourt family lived in, the lack of adequate and clean clothing I cringed at the thoughts from my own childhood. Or the various times when the family was seriously down and out and his mother, the beloved Angela of the title, had to beg charity of one form or another from some institution that existed mainly to berate the poor. I can remember own my mother’s plaintive cry when my brothers and I misbehaved that the next step was the county poor farm.

And how about the false pride and skewed order of priorities? Frank’s father was a flat out drunk and was totally irresponsible. From a child's perspective, however, he is still your dad and must be given the respect accordingly, especially against the viciousness of the outside world. But life’s disappointments for the father also get reflected in the expectations for the son. The dreams are smaller. Here, the horizons are pretty small when a governmental job with its security just above the “dole” is the touchstone of respectability. Sean O’Casey was able to make enduring plays from the slums of Dublin out of this material. And Frank McCourt enduring literature. Thanks, brother.

Note: The movie version of “Angela’s Ashes” pretty fairly reflects the intentions of Frank McCourt in his childhood memoirs and follows the book accordingly, without the usual dramatic embellishments of that medium. The story line is so strong it needs no such “touch-ups”. Particularly compelling is the very visual sense of utter poverty down at the base of Irish society in Frank McCourt’s childhood.

The two songs below are constantly being sung by Frank McCourt's father when he is "on the drink" to give a little musical flavor to this entry.

"Roddy McCorly"

O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn,
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban;
They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young.
About the hemp-rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There's ne'er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, a earnest stalwart band.
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray,
But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

There's never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today; ray
True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

"Kevin Barry"

In MOUNT JOY jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the 'cause of liberty
Just a lad of eighteen summers
Yet no true man can deny
As he walked to death that morning
He proudly held his head up high

Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
The British laws may crush the Irish
But cannot keep their spirits down

Just before he faced the hangman
In his dreary prison cell
The British soldiers tortured Barry
Just because he would not tell
The name of all his brave companions
And other things they wished to know
Turn informer or we'll kill you
Kevin Barry answered no

Another martyr for old Erin
Another murder for the crown
Whose cruel laws may crush the Irish
But CANNOT KEEP their spirits down