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
From The Art
World Archives- The Abstract Artist Lionel Loren Storms The Post-Modern Art World- With A Vengeance
By Laura
Perkins
Some readers
have lightly, at least that is way I will take it, taken me to task for being
something of a naysayer about various artists and movements of late whereas
when I first started out to do some amateur art criticism I was some kind of
fresh voice against the stodgy entrenched art cabal (whose membership goes right
from those suburban matron visitor guides slumming in culture land down in the
trenches to the notorious art gallery dealers in the elegant mansions who will stop at nothing to clear inventory
with the hedge fund managers cum art collectors, the guys who shell out the
dough with the luxury Midtown condos in between). I admit that I have become
somewhat jaded since I have been looking much more closely than I ever did
before at the inner workings of the art world rather than just give an admittedly
amateur opinion of some piece of art.
I suppose this
so-called naysaying started with the last few archival captions I have done
around the over-bloated reputation of Frieda Kane whose patron saint has
morphed into one Clarence Dewar, professional art critic from Art Today
an old toady of Clement Greenberg’s who fouled
the air with his unabashed defense from A to Z of abstract expressionism who
has been my nemesis on almost every subject I have attempted to undertake. Of
course it did not help me, and it did sting him, that I exposed dear Clarence as
a shill for Nova Galleries who owner Larry Larsen just happened to be holding a
ton of Kane’ rather pedestrian work. Then on another front I added insult to injury
by calling James McNeill Abbott Whistler a pimp daddy and opium-smoking degenerate
who would have sold his dear mother (remember the sonata in grey and beige gag
he tried to pull) for three dollars to get a bag full of herb or whatever his
drug flavor of the month was at the time.
So, yes, the
way things have turned out I have had to torch some reputations, have to be
what did one reader call me-Cassandra I think. But not today. Today I can sing
praises and will for the not yet well- known modern painter, abstract painter too
for those like Dewar who thought I had trashed the whole genre just to take a
stab at his idol Greenberg, an infatuation he apparently never got over. Today
I want to tout, to ask politely that every New York City gallery owner take a
serious look at the work of Lionel Loren. I first saw his work when I was in
San Francisco looking at a Diebenkorn exhibit and saw in a corner a small group
of paintings by artists who were influenced by that great artist. Frankly the other
paintings were unremarkable to my eye, but Lionel’s popped out at me.
Of course everybody
should know that artists steal like crazy from each other and that each new trend
in art is just somebody like Diebenkorn and then Loren tweaking things a little.
Not a profound statement but one that makes the point. Loren’s most famous painting,
if you could call it that, the one that made the granite grey walls of the San
Francisco Museum of Modern Art Squash Heaven is a case in point. We don’t
have to refight (unless Dewar wants to) the battle over abstract expressionism
and the post-abstract movements which are not as hostile to representational
art to know that Lionel Loren has tweaked something here.
No question
that his objects have nothing to do with the real world, none of the patches of
colors could even remotely be suggestive of squash (or any other vegetable for
that matter) yet the color patterns, the way the colors are laid out give a
powerful suggestion of such objects. Abstract expressionism took the smell, the
sound, the feel out of real objects and now without conceding anything to
reality Lionel Loren has pushed the boundaries and put those factors back into
play. Gallery owners the train is leaving the station on this one just like I
predicted on Franz Golder.
A Fine Romance, Circa 1945- With Billie Holiday In Mind
Over in a darken corner a couple, she a very perky bleached blonde,
naturally so or not only she and her God know (perhaps her hairdresser as well
but what with the war shortages with the chemicals necessary for artificially
very bleached blonde hair going into Europe rather than say the hair of frisky
brunettes probably only her God just then as the war was winding down but had
not quite finished up and so shortages still held sway), mascaraed blue eyes which
the bleached blonde hair only accentuated, made more alluring, and a fair
dusting of powders and whatnots that make a gal alluring to the opposite sex.
Especially members of the opposite sex who have been spitting the muds of
wartime Europe out of their mouths, have breathed in the odors of men’s fears,
men’s food, men’s lack of toiletries and other refinements for the previous
three years but who even if they had not been close enough to a woman, a perky
blonde one at that, had not lost the taste for such company. (Some men had lost that desire, not in the
throes of desire for other men, you know some homosexual impulse previously
unexplored, although that happened too, happened anytime you had men cooped up
in war, in prisons, on merchant ships, hell, in boarding schools, but from the
shock of war, from what would then be called “shell shock,” and now some
post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD. Those “lost boys”, those who would have
trouble getting back to the old routines, getting back to the “real” world as a
later war generation would call their malaise would be legend as the years wore
on and they drifted mainly west, west of wherever they were from and never
quite got back to that pre-Pearl Harbor calm, never).
Those appealing eyes and hair were accompanied by a long slinky gown
although not of recent purchase since like the hair ingredients the materials
for such glamour-enhancement long ago went ashore at Normandy fitted over a
slender but what guys back then would call “curves in all the right places.” And silver dancing slippers of recent purchase
since she had a friend who had a friend who worked on Seventh Avenue and that
was that, nothing more need be said just in case some noisy bureaucrat was in the
house and jealous that he did not have such resources to get a pair for his own
girlfriend.
Her picture completed in the glimmer of the candle emanating from their table
any idle eyes at the bar filled with plenty of men who had not been close enough
a woman but had not lost the habit and those were staring hopefully in her
direction that she was talking to her companion of the evening. His description
was ease itself beyond the short high side walls haircut that meant he was
still in one or another branches of the military service, just then
clean-shaven although he was one of those men bedeviled by the need to shave
twice daily (made worse in those European muds when a man dared no shave for
fear of being some sniper’s target when the opposing armies were in close
proximity); regulation cologne, although a sea of cologne would not wash away
that smell of men’s fear, even brave men, which made a guy alluring to the
opposite sex, regulation brown eyes, and a fairly-well beribboned, beribboned
beyond what every combat soldier received for just being in a war zone, Army uniform to take the mystery out of which
branch he belonged to and which made clear that he had seen action in some
theater in Europe. He was raptly listening to whatever it was she was saying as
if just the act of hearing her voice, hearing a female voice, an American
female voice was worthy of such rapture.
In front of the young couple who from a quick glance and the reserved manner
of their gestures had not known each other long (and how could they in 1945 the
war not even half over yet and the soldiers just starting to pour back to the states)
were well-used glasses of red wine accompanied by some wine correct meat
dishes. Probably the Beef Alsace for which the Club Martin up in high 49th
StreetNew York City was famous for far
and wide. On the other hand those gestures did not exhibit the obvious tell-tale
symptoms of a first date, a nervous first date for her since mother had warned
against any such cavorting with soldiers and for him nervous with nothing but
the memories of those muds, fears, and the assorted horrors of war that he
might have lost his touch despite his desire for the society of women, the
timid talk skirting around anything favorite colors, her blue, him black, films,
her romantic comedies, him film noir, songs, her I’ll Get By, him We’ll Meet
Again, the off-hand laughter (she kept calling it a gun and he insisted on
rifle and the occasional blush when in
the newness of the situation one party makes a social blunder (or when the slightest
sexual reference came up although both probably even then sensed they were
headed for the sheets sometime). But moving closer, although not close enough to
break the spell of the darkness they craved in those tender moments the menu of
the day was far removed from what they were talking about, what interested them
that evening.
See our beribboned, clean shaven, slightly flush with the taste of wine in
his mouth soldier boy, let’s call him Adam Jordan which is actually his name so
there need for there to be anything mysterious or nefarious about it, and his perky
blonde date, let’s call her Brenda Dubois for that is her name although she
would not like that information broadcast widely since she is under-age,
under-age for nightclubbing if not for other activities had just a few minutes
before abandoned their darkened safe harbor and stepped to the back of the house
into a back room of the Club, the band’s dressing area, and shared a joint,
marijuana, with Nick Janeway, the famous trumpeter, who was working at the Club
now that he had been discharged from the Army, discharged with a fairly beribboned
uniform which meant that he too had seen serious action in one of the European
theaters of combat although this evening he was wearing the standard tuxedo of
the house band at the Club Martin. As anyone may have guessed Nick and Adam had
served together in Europe and this night Nick had gotten Adam and Brenda through
might and main as his guests for the evening’s entertainment. Might and main since
such elegant supper clubs were booked solid with the regular Manhattan Mayfair
swell who frequented such places bolstered by scores, hundreds of returning
servicemen just off the troop transports and with plenty of dough and desire to
“live it up” after the travails of the European theater.
This night was hardly the first time that Nick and Adam had “flamed” up
(their personal term so the hick other soldiers who were still drinking sodas
or six point two Army beer would not catch on since that “reefer madness” mad rapist
pervert junkie stuff was still making the news, literature and the films) for
they had endured the travails of the slugfest battles of Europe by being
well-doped up when the action cooled off (and decidedly not when in battle as
those medals on their respective uniforms can attest to since both had led squads
from Normandy eastward). This night however was Brenda’s first time, her first encounter
with reefer which previously along with soldiers, sex and about seven other things
she had been warned off by her mother, and while she was thrilled and afraid at
the same time when Adam had broached the question of taking a “hit.” Softened
up by the wine, and frankly by her unquestioned attraction to Adam, she wanted
to be a good sport so on the first hit she inhaled deeply, too deeply. The
mandatory few drags had the equally mandatory effect common among first time
users who treat reefer inhalation the same way as smoking tobacco cigarettes
had fits of coughing which accompany the harsh smoke. Now back at the table Brenda
was just beginning to get a decent buzz off of the stuff.
Brenda thought to herself, beside the million flashing silly thoughts,that Adam was a cool guy, knew some cool
guys and maybe they would get along after all. He sure was attractive enough, for
that read sexy enough as she confided to a girlfriend from work who when that friend
met him had her Adam thoughts and probably ready to catch him if Brenda didn’t work
out, as she could tell by the wandering female eyes that followed Adam when he
was not at table. She had not been sure the first few dates after Adam had
picked her up at a USO dance over in Times Square when she had gone with a
girlfriend in order to support the guys who were coming off the transport ships
by the thousands now that the war in Europe was almost over that they would get
along since he was so worldly and she was just a very bleached blonde from
Brooklyn. He had laughed while they were finishing dinner at that remark and
asked her if she wanted to go back to Nick’s hangout and blow another joint.
Loosened up she agreed and they sat with Nick until it was time for him to
perform.
As Nick headed out of the dressing area to do his work for the night Brenda
and Adam had once again navigated their way back to their darkened corner and
were talking loosely with spurts of giggles on Brenda’s part when Nick and his
fellow band members mounted the small elevated stage several tables away and
began their be-bop swing combo intros. While Brenda and Adam were lighting each
other’s cigarettes (tobacco of course) the house lights dimmed even further and
a tall black woman, maybe thirty or so with a big flower, some kind of orchid
in her pulled back shiny jet black hair, and an elegant fitted deep red gown
with matching slippers that certainly had been recently purchased as Brenda had
seen a copy of a dress like it, war shortages of no war shortages, in one of
the recent issues of a women’s magazine and began singing A Fine Romance in a sultry, sexy, sassy, voice that would make Jehovah’s
angels bow their heads and weep for their inadequacies. Brenda with all kinds
of buzzes going through her head looked over at Adam who was watching and
nodding encouragement to Nick as he played an interlude solo break and thought,
a fine romance, a fine romance indeed.
From The
Archives Of The Struggle Against Climate Change And Animal Preservation-West
Coast Version
By Bart Webber
Today, maybe literally today, we are so wedded to the very real idea that climate change is knocking
us for a loop that we forget that such efforts to fight the worst effects of
the crisis have been going on for a long time. One of the leaders way back when
was Johnny Allan, a figure out of the mold of John Muir, guys like that. Johnny
was one of the early advocates of the very sound idea that we do something about
the matter before it got too late, too expensive or we didn’t have the technological
resources to combat whatever affront we had made to Mother Nature.
Johnny Allan,
he was from the South so Johnny named not John, had a fistful of degrees and a
few awards although not the big one which would have helped his “street cred”
as he started sounding the warnings back in the early 1970s. But Johnny will always
be remembered for his very first project in the climate change matrix. Johnny was
worried about what all the changes would do to the animals in the wilderness when
their sources of food got mixed up. Johnny had the very bright idea of going to
the people who ran the San Diego Zoo and asked them to install many canisters
around the park asking kids, really parents but pitched to kids to throw their surplus
coins from their purchases into the kiddy. Later after the original canisters were
worn out somebody from the Zoo came up with the idea of putting animals in front
of the canisters to be more appealing. The whole experiment worked very well
and we can thank Johnny Allan, he of the John Muir mold for the impetus.
Once Again Through The
Sherlock Holmes Miasma-Round Up The Usual Private Eyes- Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle’s-Based “Voice Of Terror” (1942)-A Film Review
DVD Review
By Seth Garth
Sherlock Holmes And The Voice Of Terror,
starring foppish Basil Rathbone, fellow fop Nigel Bruce, Evelyn Ankers, 1942
Finally, I have gotten
rid of the lame idea of having to do “dueling” reviews with young pup Will
Bradley in this seemingly endless series of Sherlock Holmes flics. This is the
series where Sherlock, played by aging dandy Basil Rathbone, and his male
companion, make of that what you will, funky Doc Watson, played by foppish
Nigel Bruce have been resurrected from late Victorian times to World War II
times when it really was touch and go whether there would be some sun setting
on the British Empire courtesy of Hitler’s Third Reich.
In this either twelve or
fourteen series I can’t get a straight answer about how many they did they do
their bit, do more than yeomen’s work, maybe OBE work to stem the freaking Nazi
tide, a movement that had more than a few supporters in high places in old
London town. Hell, the joint was crawling with them. In the previous ten or so
reviews I have under the guiding hand of our esteemed site manager, Greg Green,
aka the guy who hands out the assignments and hence esteemed, had to “battle”
young Bradley for the true meaning of the Holmes myth. Greg’s idea, foolish
idea if he dares to print this, was to have an old-timer vs. fresh look at the
films to see what flushed out. I will not bore the reader with the details of
that dispute, essentially a question of challenging the myth about the
supposedly platonic Holmes-Watson relationship with hard evidence or their then
closeted love for each other and their joint knee-deep involvement in every criminal
operation from illegal drugs to armed robberies and more in greater London
using the private eye gag as a cover. Against Will’s unbelievable naivete,
really head in the sand, both on the true sexual relationship between the two
men and the way they really supported themselves in the lap of luxury and
idleness in their Bake Street digs.
But enough of that, and
good riddance, since Greg has now seen that the younger generation does not
give a fuck about the old has-been Holmes and Watson and get their idea of this
match-up from later Robert Downey, Junior-type interpretations of the Holmes
myth. So with the film under review Voice
of Terror I will just do what my old friend Sam Lowell, a fellow reviewer
who is now, rightly so, under siege in his own older-younger writer wars called
giving the ‘skinny.”
Apparently not trusting
the vaunted foreign and domestic intelligence operations, MI5 and MI6 (the
latter the one that one Bond, James Bond, took out of disgrace after Kim Philby
ran the organization a merry chase during the early post-World War II Cold War
period Winny Churchill kept warning about) the British intelligence inner
council, you know the lords and such who ran things into the ground called in
Holmes and by extension Watson to stop the flow of Nazi saboteurs and
propaganda flooding Merry Olde England in post Munich, post Neville Chamberlain
times. They really were running amok creating mortal terror among the ordinary
citizenry especially with their radio broadcasts, their voice of terror
broadcasts, about bad things happening in the country before they happened.
Have everybody on edge. Looked like curtains for old John Bull (and his colonial
tyranny).
Off to work, off to figure
out who was running the operation, the hearty team is stopped in its tracks
when one of its operatives is killed trying to find out who is working for the
filthy Nazis and where. All of this leads to two things first grabbing that
operative’s wife Kitty, played by screaming Evelyn Ankers (who is not the
dreaded voice of terror in this one like she was in a series of forgettable
horror films, okay) and pumping her for information about the last words of her
late husband. This is nothing but a ruse, an inner circle joke between Holmes
and Watson since the last word was “Christopher,” meaning the dark and
mysterious Christopher Wharves which they were quite familiar with from their
trolling for “dilly boys” who worked the area and whose services both men were
very familiar with. (If you are not familiar with the term “dilly boys” look it
up but remember that reference to their sexual preferences and you will not be
far off.) Be that as it may this was also the hideout of the key German
operatives who had their own off-beat sexual proclivities to take care of. In
any case through either Holmes or Watson’s stupidity they and Kitty were
“captured” casing the area. Eventually they escaped as to be expected and found
out that a German espionage operation was planned for southern England.
Off they go and from
this point on you have to do some serious suspension of disbelief. As it turned
out as almost anybody could tell who has read at least one detective novel in
their lives this had to be an inside job. And it was. One of the esteemed
members of the inner council was a traitor (remember I told you the sceptered
island was swarming with Nazi sympathizers in high places) and that was that.
Well not quite because Kitty in her attempts to thwart the Nazi scum took a
fall, got killed holding off the leader of the Nazi thugs. A good soldier. Here
is where that “suspension of disbelieve” comes in. Of course a member of the
inner council could not be a British traitor, this before the Philby Cambridge
spies exposes, no way, so the gag is that that person was an impostor, a German
of similar appearance and status, sent as an infiltrator to England after
killing the real guy. What gave him away. Well the real guy had a scar from an
early age. The imposter’s was only about twenty years old and so it was another
case of “elementary, dear (note the “dear”) Watson.” WTF. And you wonder why I
have spent some considerable time bursting this balloon, taking these overblown
amateurs to school who guys like Larry Larkin, Sam Spade, and Phil Marlowe,
would have had for lunch and still have time for a nap.
I Wasn’t Planning On
This But These Days We Have To Start Thinking About Restarting An International
Anti-Fascist United Front-Reflections On Dick Powell’s “Cornered” (1945)-A Film
Review
DVD Review
By Frank Jackman
Cornered, starring Dick
Powell, Walter Slezak, Morris Carnovsky. Luther Adler, directed by Edward
Dymtryk, produced by Adrian Scott, 1945
I took this film review
with all hands. This anti-fascist film Cornered
from 1945 which featured performances by two men, Luther Adler and Morris Carnovsky and two
men director Dymtryk (who would later turn stoolie to protect his oh so very
precious career) and producer Adrian Scott, who were to be very soon on the
notorious and scandalous Hollywood black-list as the post-World War II red
scare Cold War night descended on the Western World is just the vehicle I
needed to express some things about what is going on in the United States in an
age when the fascists here (and internationally) are hearing the siren call of
their return to the glory days. I had not thought as I passed my sixth decade
that I would be spending time, much time anyway, worrying about the rise of the
fascist movement kindled by events emanating from the White House and other
high spots in the Western firmament. So be it. The fascists were buried deep
down in some hole and as this film, this now cautionary tale film, points out
they are keen to arise like phoenix from the ashes. As the main notorious
villain and object of an international manhunt, Jarnac, played by red scare
Cold War black-listed Luther Adler, said when confronted by the anti-fascists toward
the end of the film as long as there are hunger men (and women) ignored by the
“winners” in the global economy there will always be people like him ready to
follow any half-mad adventurer. Good point, and a good reason to seriously
re-start that international anti-fascist united front while there is still
time, while the fascists and their allies, acknowledged and not so, are still
relatively small in numbers. Remember 1933 was too late and maybe 1923 had been
too (the year of the Munich putsch attempt).
I should explain that
when I mentioned I grabbed this film with “all hands” I was understating the
case since the reader may not know that I have not done a film review since the
days of the East Bay Other in the
late 1970s before it folded like many other alternative hard-copy operations.
Then I was primarily interested in French cinema, Godard, Truffaut, Celine, Dubois
and other European cinematic efforts with an occasion scape handed to me by editor
Sally Simmons doing film noir material helped by my association with Sam Lowell
who wrote the definitive book on the subject back in the 1970s. Sam, a guy I
grew up with in North Adamsville and I spent many an ill-advised (then)
afternoon watching noir double-features at the old Strand Theater which was our
home away from home when things got too crazy in our respective large
households.
As I mentioned this film
can stand as a cautionary tale for our times as well as a summing up for what
happened, what ignited the backdrop to World War II. The fascists, called other
names like Nazis and ultra-nationalist but fascists will do these days, rose up
to smite the calm Europe, the so-called calm Europe from the days when World
War I was thought, even by rational men after the carnage, to be the war that
ended all wars. But like all mass movements which built up a head of steam they
expanded internationally, had supporters who went the German and Axis tanks
rolled in across Europe acted as fifth columns, acted in defense of the new
world order as if their lives depended on it. Which it did if they lost. But
when they were riding high, well, scum, like the main villain Jarnac, a
Frenchman, a Vichy when the Fascists came storming into France, taking Paris
and leaving the south to be administered by collaborators worked like seven
dervishes to keep their power and place. Among Jarnac’s actions, the one that
drives the action of the film and which will eventually lie him low he
summarily had a cadre of resistance fighter shot and buried in their hideout
caves. This Jarnac then left for parts unknown leaving little or no paper or
physical trail behind him except that he was to be considered dead, not real
dead but fake dead so you know which way the winds will blow hereafter.
Among the resistance
fighters executed in the caves was the too short time married wife of one Canadian
Air Force pilot, Gerard, played by Dick
Powell last seen in this space, according to Seth Garth who did the review, in
the film adaptation ofRaymond
Chandler’s Private Detective Phillip Marlowe classic Farewell, My Lovely ( on screen titled Murder, My Sweet) also directed by Edward Dymtryk, who wanted to
know, and know fast as you will find out, who ordered the execution of his own
people, of Frenchmen, of his wife so it was personal with him. From various
sources we find out that it was Jarnac and his underlings who did the dastardly
deed and that Jarnac was presumed to be dead as already mentioned. Marlowe was
a tough as nails no nonsense P.I. and Gerard is no less a tough anti-fascist
fighter cum enraged widower. The chase is on.
Not surprisingly, take
note, Gerard, picks up Jarnac’s trail in Buenos Aires, meaning that Jarnac was
not without resources, contacts or organization. (The “take note” part is today
“on the low” there are similar resources available for fascists and their
allies to do their dastardly work.) Of course Buenos Aires was a favored
watering hole, a pleasant waiting area, for legions of fascists on the run as
the clamp closed down on them in Europe so plenty of intrigue and cash are on
the line. Getting nowhere for a while Gerard meets an independent agent who
will sell his services to the highest bidder, played by Walter Slezak, who is
out to make as many dishonest dollars as he can by working the rat hole circuit
of scum fleeing Europe. He leads Gerard to Madame Jarnac, the widow, but she is
really just a front, hired help to keep the charade going.
From that meeting on it
is tag team who will get to Jarnac first-enter what Gerard thinks are some unsavory
characters but who in reality are anti-fascist fighters looking for Jarnac
too-to bring him to Nuremburg-style justice-to see him hang high if it comes to
that. Gerard though keeps getting in his own way (which he will admit at the
end) and after fake news Madame Jarnac gives him a sliver of information about
where Jarnac might be meeting others to pull off some nefarious caper on the road
back to the glory days, to power he is doggedly on the trail. Winds up grabbing
Jarnac and killing him to the chagrin of the anti-fascist agents. It can’t
happen here, it can’t happen again. Believe that if you will and dismiss this as
a nice political thriller. Then look at today’s world headlines. Jesus.
For The Late Rosalie Sorrels-A Working Class Anthem For Labor Day- " Solidarity Forever"
A YouTube's film clip of Pete Seeger, appropriately enough, performing old Wobblie songwriter Ralph Chaplin's labor anthem, Solidarity Forever. A good song to hear on our real labor holiday, the holiday of the international working class movement, May Day, but even today on this country's consciously competing holiday.
If I Could Be The Rain I Would Be Rosalie Sorrels-The Legendary Folksinger-Songwriter Has Her Last Go-Round At 83
Those urban locales were certainly the high white note spots but there was another important strand that hovered around Saratoga Springs in upstate New York, up around Skidmore and some of the other upstate colleges. That was Caffe Lena’s, run by the late Lena Spenser, a true folk legend and a folkie character in her own right, where some of those names played previously mentioned but also where some upstarts from the West got a chance to play the small crowds who gathered at that famed (and still existing) coffeehouse. Upstarts like the late Bruce “Utah” Phillips (although he could call several places home Utah was key to what he would sing about and rounded out his personality). And out of Idaho one Rosalie Sorrels who just joined her long-time friend Utah in that last go-round at the age of 83.
Yeah, came barreling like seven demons out there in the West, not the West Coast west that is a different proposition. The West I am talking about is where what the novelist Thomas Wolfe called the place where the states were square and you had better be as well if you didn’t want to starve or be found in some empty arroyo un-mourned and unloved. A tough life when the original pioneers drifted westward from Eastern nowhere looking for that pot of gold or at least some fresh air and a new start away from crowded cities and sweet breathe vices. A tough life worthy of song and homage. Tough going too for guys like Joe Hill who tried to organize the working people against the sweated robber barons of his day (they are still with us as we are all now very painfully and maybe more vicious than their in your face forbear). Struggles, fierce down at the bone struggles also worthy of song and homage. Tough too when your people landed in rugged beautiful two-hearted river Idaho, tried to make a go of it in Boise, maybe stopped short in Helena but you get the drift. A different place and a different type of subject matter for your themes than lost loves and longings.
Rosalie Sorrels could write those songs as well, as well as anybody but she was as interested in the social struggles of her time (one of the links that united her with Utah) and gave no quarter when she turned the screw on a lyric. The last time I saw Rosalie perform in person was back in 2002 when she performed at the majestic Saunders Theater at Harvard University out in Cambridge America at what was billed as her last go-round, her hanging up her shoes from the dusty travel road. (That theater complex contained within the Memorial Hall dedicated to the memory of the gallants from the college who laid down their heads in that great civil war that sundered the country. The Harvards did themselves proud at collectively laying down their heads at seemingly every key battle that I am aware of when I look up at the names and places. A deep pride runs through me at those moments)
Rosalie Sorrels as one would expect on such an occasion was on fire that night except the then recent death of another folk legend, Dave Von Ronk, who was supposed to be on the bill (and who was replaced by David Bromberg who did a great job banging out the blues unto the heavens) cast a pall over the proceedings. I will always remember the crystal clarity and irony of her cover of her classic Old Devil Time that night-yeah, give me one more chance, one more breathe. But I will always think of If I Could Be The Rain and thoughts of washing herself down to the sea whenever I hear her name. RIP Rosalie Sorrels
Solidarity Forever Solidarity forever! Solidarity forever! Solidarity forever! For the union makes us strong When the union's inspiration through the workers' blood shall run, There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun. Yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one? But the union makes us strong. They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to earn, But without our brain and muscle not a single wheel can turn. We can break their haughty power; gain our freedom when we learn That the Union makes us strong. In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold; Greater than the might of armies, magnified a thousand-fold. We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old For the Union makes us strong. This labor anthem was written in 1915 by IWW songwriter and union organizer Ralph Chaplin using the music of Julia Ward Howe's Battle Hymn of the Republic. These song lyrics are those sung by Joe Glazer, Educational Director of the United Rubber Workers, from the recording Songs of Work and Freedom, (Washington Records WR460)
