On The Sixtieth Anniversary Of Her Death-Lady Day-Billie Holiday- She Took Our Pain Away Despite Her Own Pains- Out In The Torch Singer Be-Bop Blues Night- Blues Masters- The Women Hold Forth- A CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Billie Holiday holding forth, very holding forth on Stormy Blues.

Blues Masters: Classic Blues Women: Volume 11, various artists, Rhino Records, 1993

I swear, I swear on a stack of seven bibles, I am off, finally off film noir femme fatales after watching (or rather , re-watching) Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer, mainly Jane Greer, go round and round in the classic crime noir Out Of The Past. How could any rational man not think twice about following such femmes as Jane Greer’s Kathy who just happened to be a little gun happy (and a chronic liar to boot) who put a couple in Robert Mitchum’s Jeff after he did somersaults to try to save her bacon about six times. That’s gratitude for you.

Well, like I said I am off, done, finished with those two-timing dames, and good riddance. Now I have time, plenty of time, and my health to speak of blues in the night wailing female torch singers who, as far as I know, do not carry or do not need to carry guns, to do their business. Of course it was not big deal to change my allegiances because since I was a kid I have been nothing but putty in their hands for any torch singer who could throw away my blues with some sorrow laden tune.

Maybe it was in some back-drop Harvard Square coffeehouse in long mist time 1960s when I first heard such voices, first among them, Billie Holiday, late, early, whatever Billie Holiday singing of some man on her mind, mostly some no good man, some no dough man, who maybe took a couple of whacks at her for no reason, or just took her last dough to bet on that next sure thing…and happiness. Or maybe earlier when some home background 1940s we-won-the-war be-bop music filtered through the air my own childhood house from the local radio station playing Peggy Lee all Benny Goodman’d up, or Helen Whiting, or, or well, you get the drift. Stuff that would stop me in my tracks and ask, ask where did that sorrow come from.

Later, several years later, it blossomed fully when some now half-forgotten (but only half-forgotten) girlfriend gave me a complete Vanguard Record set of all of Bessie Smith’s recordings. Ah heaven, and ah the student neighbors who had to listen for half a day while I played the damn set through. So get it, get it straight I am a long-time aficionado of the genre and commenting on this Blues Masters CD about classic women blues singers is a piece of cake.

Strangely, although the bulk of the “discovered” blues singers of the folk revival minute of the 1960s were male (Mississippi John Hurt, Bukka White, Son House, Skip James, et. al) back in the serious heyday of the blues in the 1920s and early 1930s women dominated the blues market, the popular music of the day. And the women featured in this compilation were the most well-known of the myriad torch singers that lit up the concert hall, speakeasies and juke joints North and South. Mamie Smith, “Ma” Rainey, the divide Sippie Wallace, of course Bessie Smith, Ida Cox, Victoria Spivey (later to be one of the first women blues producers and record company owners), and Alberta Hunter are all rightfully and righteously here.

What, no Billie Holiday? Well yes she does Stormy Weather here so stay calm. I have singled her out because to me her voice, her phrasing, her half breath between notes is what torch singing was all about and all about whenever I felt (or feel) blue I just turned to Billie and she would sing your blues away (unfortunately not her own). Now if I could just get a torch singer who was also a non-gun- toting femme fatale I would be in very heaven. Ya, I know I said I was off femmes but what are you going to do.

Before The Fall-Before The Garden Of Eden Fell Into Disrepair-Sir Alfred Hitchcock’s “I Confess” (1953)-A Film Review

Before The Fall-Before The Garden Of Eden Fell Into Disrepair-Sir Alfred Hitchcock’s “I Confess” (1953)-A Film Review    

DVD Review

By Lenny Lynch

I Confess, starring Montgomery Clift,  Anne Baxter, directed by Sir Alfred Hitchcock, 1953

I admit, freely admit that I am a lapsed, very lapsed Catholic of the Roman persuasion although that is no factor in the how or why of drawing this review of an Alfred Hitchcock minor classic I Confess set in Catholic Canada, French-Canadian Canada, Quebec, which is actually a separate country or could be if the Quebecois wanted such an outcome as many have demonstrated for in the past, where my good friend and mentor Josh Breslin’s people came from a couple of generations back. What does factor in is the still scarred, scary, bizarre ritual (ritualistic cleansing at least) memoires of facing the inquisition in the confessional box in the person of the parish priest, one Father Lally who was one son of a bitch on dragging out every last sin out off his charges and pronouncing high dungeon penance that would make many a knee weary down at the blessed altar rail. (Many years later it came out, came out during the scandalous cover-ups and then exposes of the sodomites in the pulpits in the Boston Catholic diocese that good old Father Lally was giving absolution gratis for his favored boys who confessed to all kinds of sexual fantasy sins that the bastard then made them pay for scarring at least one of maybe two generations of innocent boys. He died before any of them got any satisfaction of seeing his crimes exposed and sent prison bound. Money will never wash away the crimes against humanity that Father Lally inflicted on this troubled world. As least for believers there is the satisfaction that he will burn in hell for eternity and maybe a few can get some solace from that.)

But all that has nothing to do with the plot of the film except that the sanctity of the confessional, the so-called penitent-priest confidentially plays a big role in this film. A rather extreme way that the privilege which after all is a legal privilege in a court of law and no something church ordained although maybe it had its roots in that way back when which can be looked at. Penitent X (I don’t want to violate that sanctity even as a lapsed, very lapsed Catholic) has committed murder, maybe not murder one but murder nevertheless and maybe murder one if X had done it in the act of a robbery which would make it felony murder. He and his wife work for Priest A, played by Montgomery Clift, at the rectory and after he committed the dastardly crime he confessed in the confessional to Priest A. He is home free or at least he thinks he is since he has some kind of understanding that Priest A will not snitch on him to the coppers, and he doesn’t.

Where things get dicey is that way back when before he was ordained, before he got “religion” after being in the military during World War II he had a torrid affair with a woman who subsequently married somebody else but was still in love him. Why that matters is that she and Priest A were seen together the night of the murder and he can’t explain where he was at the time of the murder. Looks like the big step-off for a guy just doing his job. Things get a little better after a trial in which the good priest is found not guilty although that standard is not the same as innocent and the festering parishioners are ready to nail his ass to the wall over the romance stuff. Before they can get the tar out though Penitent X’s wife tells all her husband was the murderer and for that act of sanity he kills her and then runs like a bastard to get away. No way will he do so though as the coppers nab the bastard and he buys nothing but six feet of hard dirt for his troubles. Yeah, nothing here made me want to jump back on the priest-ridden bandwagon as much as I hate to see an innocent guy, a straight-laced priest with a sullen past come close to the big step-off.      

On The Sixtieth Anniversary Of Her Death-Lady Day-Billie Holiday- She Took Our Pain Away Despite Her Own Pains- *It Don't Mean A Thing If You Ain't Got That Swing- The Birthday Centenary Of Swing's Artie Shaw

Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for jazz man and mad clarinetist Artie Shaw.


Markin comment:

There is a question of who was the better clarinetist, Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman, among classical jazz aficionados (although one should not exclude Duke Ellington's sideman, Barney Bigard, in that mix). There is, however, no dispute over who had the better swing band in the 1930s- Artie hands down (including with Billie Holiday as vocalist, for a short time). For those, by the way, unfamiliar with swing that was the "bad" teenage-driven music that your grandparents, or parents, listened to away from their parents. You know, the music of the youth tribe like rock and roll for my generation or, maybe, hip-hop for this generation.

The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *The Folk Troubadour Of Old- Pete Seeger

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Pete Seeger Doing "Which Side Are You On". Seems, appropriate, right?

That Old Devil Time- The Music Of Pete Seeger

Headlines&Footnotes: A Collection Of Topical Songs, Pete Seeger, Smithsonian/Folkways, 1999

The name Pete Seeger has come up repeatedly in this space over the past few years as the transmission belt from the old 1930’s and 1940’s Depression and World War II era folk revival to the that of the one in the early 1960’s. In other places in this space (check archives) I have mentioned my political differences, great and small, with Brother Seeger so there is no need to go into that here. I would note, however, that despite his folksy style he has always been driven by a political conception to his work. That is, that music, and in his case, folk music can be used to bring political “glad tidings” to the masses. One cannot fault that principle, although what effect music has in driving people to higher political consciousness is a very, very open question in my mind. Nevertheless putting topical subjects to music by the folk balladeer and troubadour alike has a long pedigree and needs no defense here. Moreover, in the capable hands of Pete Seeger, the compilation under review represents a very nice cross-section of that way of driving the political message home.

Everyone in the modern folk milieu owes a debt to Pete Seeger for playing “keeper of the flame” for the old time ‘talking blues’ format of spreading political and social messages (and Woody Guthrie as well, who perfected the art form). This volume is ample proof of that. Good examples here that provide such messages without the drumbeat of heavy political analysis are the pro-women’s liberation “There Once Was A Woman Who Swallowed A Lie” and, most dramatically (and relevantly, as President Obama right now works his way through the “Big Poppy Field” of Afghanistan) “Waist Deep In The Big Muddy” (ostensibly a tale about World War II but really about Lyndon Johnson’s Vietnam War policy). For social commentary one cannot beat Malvina Reynolds’ “Little Boxes” (almost self-explanatory about the deadening nature of upscale American suburban life) and The Claiborne’s “Listen Mr. Bilbo” (about the simple truths of immigration in America, virtually an immigrant-created country).

Of course, no collection of Seeger efforts is complete without the Spanish Civil War song, “Viva La Quince Brigada”, about the heroic Abraham Lincoln Battalion of the 15th International Brigade that fought valiantly there or to do a cover to commemorate an early heroic Cuban patriot, Jose Marti’s “Guantanamera”. For topical songs, a staple of the folk tradition since about the Middle Ages, try “The Titanic” (yes, that one that went down in 1912-and wasn’t suppose to) and “The Sinking Of The Reuben James” ( an ode to the merchant marines in the early days of World War II). For left wing political struggles under adverse conditions, “Hold The Line”, about a famous Paul Robeson concert at Peekskill, New York that was busted up by fascistic local red necks in the build-up to the ‘red scare of the 1940’s and 1950’s is a good exemplar. And so on. In short, for those who want to hear folk music with a historical sense as it was meant to be presented then here is your primer by one of your master singers of such works. Get to it, okay.


Here are some Pete Seeger-created songs (not all on this reviewed CD)

A LITTLE A' THIS 'N' THAT

My grandma, she can make a soup,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
She can feed the whole sloop group,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Stone soup! You know the story.
Stone soup! Who needs the glory?
But with grandma cooking, no need to worry.
Just a little a' this 'n' that.

Grandma likes to make a garden grow,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
But she likes to have the ground just so,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Not too loose and not too firm.
In the spring, the ground's all got to be turned.
In the fall, lots of compost, to feed the worms,
with a little a' this 'n' that.

Grandma knows we can build a future,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
And a few arguments never ever hurt ya,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
True, this world's in a helluva fix,
And some say oil and water don't mix.
But they don't know a salad-maker's tricks,
with a little a' this 'n' that.

The world to come may be like a song,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
To make ev'rybody want to sing along,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
A little dissonance ain't no sin,
A little skylarking to give us all a grin.
Who knows but God's got a plan for the people to win,
with a little a' this 'n' that.

Words and Music by Pete Seeger (1991)
(c) 1991, 1993 by Sanga Music Inc.


IF YOU LOVE YOUR UNCLE SAM) BRING THEM HOME

If you love your Uncle Sam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.

It'll make our generals sad, I know,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to tangle with the foe,
Bring them home, bring them home.

They want to test their weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But here is their big fallacy,
Bring them home, bring them home.

I may be right, I may be wrong,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But I got a right to sing this song,
Bring them home, bring them home.

There's one thing I must confess,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I'm not really a pacifist,
Bring them home, bring them home.

If an army invaded this land of mine,
Bring them home, bring them home.
You'd find me out on the firing line,
Bring them home, bring them home.

Even if they brought their planes to bomb,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought helicopters and napalm,
Bring them home, bring them home.

Show those generals their fallacy:
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.

For defense you need common sense,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right armaments,
Bring them home, bring them home.

The world needs teachers, books and schools,
Bring them home, bring them home.
And learning a few universal rules,
Bring them home, bring them home.

So if you love your Uncle Same,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.

Words and Music by Pete Seeger
© 1966 Storm King Music, Inc.

(From Broadside #71, June 1966: "A woman told me, 'I'm praying every night, please bring my son home safe.' I told her, 'Haven't you learned the lesson of the song WE SHALL OVERCOME? There's no solution for you or your son or me and my son unless it's a solution for all of us. It's got to be 'WE' or there's no solving the problem.' Now I don't claim this song is as good as it should be. But I was hoping for a song which would be good for a group of people to sing over and over again, and a frame in which new verses could be improvised, and the melody and harmony developed as the singers got with it.")

HOLD THE LINE

Let me tell you the story of a line that was held,
And many brave men and women whose courage we know well,
How we held the line at Peekskill on that long September day!
We will hold the line forever till the people have their way.

Chorus (after each verse):
Hold the line!
Hold the line!
As we held the line at Peekskill
We will hold it everywhere.
Hold the line!
Hold the line!
We will hold the line forever
Till there's freedom ev'rywhere.

There was music, there was singing, people listened everywhere;
The people they were smiling, so happy to be there -
While on the road behind us, the fascists waited there,
Their curses could not drown out the music in the air.

The grounds were all surrounded by a band of gallant men,
Shoulder to shoulder, no fascist could get in,
The music of the people was heard for miles around,
Well guarded by the workers, their courage made us proud.

When the music was all over, we started to go home,
We did not know the trouble and the pain that was to come,
We go into our buses and drove out through the gate,
And saw the gangster police, their faces filled with hate.

Then without any warning the rocks began to come,
The cops and troopers laughed to see the damage that was done,
They ran us through a gauntlet, to their everlasting shame,
And the cowards there attacked us, damnation to their name.

All across the nation the people heard the tale,
And marveled at the concert, and knew we had not failed,
We shed our blood at Peekskill, and suffered many a pain,
But we beat back the fascists and we'll beat them back again!

Words by Lee Hays; Music by Pete Seeger (1949)

TALKING UNION

If you want higher wages, let me tell you what to do;
You got to talk to the workers in the shop with you;
You got to build you a union, got to make it strong,
But if you all stick together, now, ‘twont he long.
You'll get shorter hours,
Better working conditions.
Vacations with pay,
Take your kids to the seashore.

It ain’t quite this simple, so I better explain
Just why you got to ride on the union train;
‘Cause if you wait for the boss to raise your pay,
We’ll all be waiting till Judgment Day;
We’ll all he buried - gone to Heaven -
Saint Peter’ll be the straw boss then.

Now, you know you’re underpaid, hut the boss says you ain’t;
He speeds up the work till you’re ‘bout to faint,
You may he down and out, but you ain’t beaten,
Pass out a leaflet and call a meetin’
Talk it over - speak your mind -
Decide to do something about it.

‘Course, the boss may persuade some poor damn fool
To go to your meeting and act like a stool;
But you can always tell a stool, though - that’s a fact;
He’s got a yellow streak running down his back;
He doesn’t have to stool - he'll always make a good living
On what he takes out of blind men’s cups.

You got a union now; you’re sitting pretty;
Put some of the boys on the steering committee.
The boss won’t listen when one man squawks.
But he’s got to listen when the union talks.
He better -
He’ll be mighty lonely one of these days.

Suppose they’re working you so hard it’s just outrageous,
They’re paying you all starvation wages;
You go to the boss, and the boss would yell,
"Before I'd raise your pay I’d see you all in Hell."
Well, he’s puffing a big see-gar and feeling mighty slick,
He thinks he’s got your union licked.
He looks out the window, and what does he see
But a thousand pickets, and they all agree
He’s a bastard - unfair - slave driver -
Bet he beats his own wife.

Now, boy, you’ve come to the hardest time;
The boss will try to bust your picket line.
He’ll call out the police, the National Guard;
They’ll tell you it’s a crime to have a union card.
They’ll raid your meeting, hit you on the head.
Call every one of you a goddamn Red -
Unpatriotic - Moscow agents -
Bomb throwers, even the kids.

But out in Detroit here’s what they found,
And out in Frisco here’s what they found,
And out in Pittsburgh here’s what they found,
And down in Bethlehem here’s what they found,
That if you don’t let Red-baiting break you up,
If you don’t let stool pigeons break you up,
If you don’t let vigilantes break you up,
And if you don’t let race hatred break you up -
You’ll win. What I mean,
Take it easy - but take it!


Words by Millard Lampell, Lee Hays and Pete Seeger (1941)
Music: traditional ("TaIking Blues”)

From The Naval Archives-When Ships Were Made Of Wood And Men Of Steel (Or Maybe The Reverse)

From The Naval Archives-When Ships Were Made Of Wood And Men Of Steel (Or Maybe The Reverse)

Eric Saint James

No question having grown up near the town of Mystic in Connecticut that I learned to love (and fear) the sea, the oceans early. The first house I remember my family living in was at Shady Point, one of the sea lanes for incoming boats and ships. I would endlessly dream that those passing ships, or one of them would take me on some adventure, would attempt to satisfy my urge for wonder. From the age of maybe six I would read whatever was age appropriate about sea-faring exploits. I particularly loved the swashbuckling novels of Walter Jordan and would sit at ocean’s edge dreaming and plotting to get my “first ship”  

Jordan’s novels were centered on the days before steam made sea-travel far less dangerous and time-consuming. Were centered on the wooden ships that I would see down at Mystic Village on display, including a working ship as part of the feel of the place. What intrigued me most those was those fearless tars, sailors, cabin boys not only in managing the feckless seas but defending them and theirs against the bad guys, the slimy pirates whose sole reason for existence seemed to be to loot ships that were carrying cargoes worth some money.

Probably at about fourteen I began to tire of Jordan’s novels since they seemed to then, as I began my literary light explorations, to have been done to a formula (except the changing color of the hair of some maiden who needed saving or some such, land or sea).That was also around the time that I was beginning to get the urge to “go to sea” (aided somewhat by my utter devotion to Ernest Hemingway’s works which seemed more modernly realistic).

My “goal” was to get taken on board that working wooden ship down the Mystic River. When I turned sixteen I applied and got picked to be an apprentice. I was beside myself with joy for once in my young life. Sad to say though, to make a long story short, I “washed out” as they say in the Navy. Despite having been raised in Mystic, having that great love of the sea I had never really been on a boat or ship beyond the Sound, never been in rough waters some distance out. On the third day out we came up against some very rough seas (brought on by the aftermath of some hurricane) and I became utterly seasick. I, the crew, hell even the Captain tried everything to settle me down. Nothing worked and so my short our mother sea career ended in ignominy.    

     

From The Art World Archives- The Abstract Artist Lionel Loren

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.         

On The Sixtieth Anniversary Of Her Death-Lady Day-Billie Holiday- She Took Our Pain Away Despite Her Own Pains- A Fine Romance, Circa 1945- With Billie Holiday In Mind

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 49^th Street  New 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 -In Honor Of Biologist Johnny Allan

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

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.