Traipsing Through The Ghost Of Tin Pan Alley Looking For The Muse Of Music-Looking For A Melody Too-With Drew Barrymore And Hugh Grant’s “Music And Lyrics” (2007)-A Film Review And More

Traipsing Through The Ghost Of Tin Pan Alley Looking For The Muse Of Music-Looking For A Melody Too-With Drew Barrymore And Hugh Grant’s “Music And Lyrics” (2007)-A Film Review And More

DVD Review

By Leslie Dumont

Music and Lyrics, starring Drew Barrymore, Hugh Grant, 2007

Very seldom has a movie theme and moment in my life come together but that is the case with the theme of the film under review Music and Lyrics. In the film Alex, who I give more detail on in a moment, played by boyish Hugh Grant, is struggling to keep his head above water in the music business and needs to find a lyricist badly and Sophie, ditto on the details, is just struggling to be a writer but who is a natural born lyricist who is not looking at the start to do lyrics.

How does that dilemma apply to me. Well let me tell you in a few thousand words, just kidding. As the reader may know and if not, I will mention that I have relatively recently retired from the day to day grind of writing a by-line for Women Today a publication I was associated with for some thirty plus years. I am sure that the average reader does not know that I started out as a free-lance stringer at this publication as did many others. After a couple of years though my fellow writer and then companion (and we are friendly again now too and let’s leave it at that) advised me that I needed to move on, get myself a by-line at a publication which would value my skills more than as a long-term free-lancer here. Good advice. When a change of leadership came through a couple of years ago and to keep my hand in the business the current site manager Greg Green on Josh’s recommendation hired me to do a general assignment by-line. Meaning I could write on any subject that might interest me.               

That information gives you an idea about my career but does not give an understanding on what my youthful dreams had been. That is where the theme of this movie comes in and why I strongly related to it beyond the charming acting of the two principals. I grew up in New Jersey close to New York City, close enough to imbibe in the folk music revival on the weekends that swept the bohemian clots and campuses around the country in the early 1960s. I had a good voice and a fair knowledge of that folk part of the American Songbook. Moreover I could write songs, lyrics anyway and had something of an amateur’s success in the coffeehouses around the Village on “open mic” nights and when I went to college up in Saratoga Springs I grabbed some gigs at the famous and still going Caffe Lena’s. Here’s the rub though I like many other “folkies” had to make some kind of decision when that folk minute faded, or at least became something for aficionados meaning only a few could make a living out of their art. My big problem then, and now, which is the opposition problem Alex had was that I never was good at putting a fine finish on my lyrics, needed a never found melody maker to go up the next step.     

I always, as Josh could testify back when we were an item, kept that musical interest up, kept writing lyrics even while working as a stringer and with my by-line when I had spare time. I was always dissatisfied with the melodies, with meshing the two together as Josh could tell you then, and now too that I have time to work some on those lyrics that had piled up in drawers. I need a melody maker, a person who could hone my lyrics into something good. Josh, did I say we are now friends again and let’s leave it at that, offered to help me. Problem, big problem is that Josh doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. No, that is not true, he knows more of the American Songbook than I do, has written more about music than any other subject in his own long career as a free-lancer and then here. But that take is more about the place of different kinds of music in the American experience or about the stuff that he and his corner boys up in Olde Saco, Maine listened to growing up, stuff like that. What I need is a melody maker, end of story.

Well not quite end of story since I have been very frustrated not being able to find somebody to work with, someone like in the old days of the mythical Tin Pan Alley when one person wrote lyrics and the other did the melody, common practice and for the times a good one before the superstar kids who could write and make music all in one fell swoop, in one person like say Bob Dylan, guys like that came on the scene. I brought the issue of my frustrations to my chiropractor who has helped me with stress management and other troubles who recommended this film which I was totally unaware of. So, I, well, Josh and I watched, and while it didn’t solve my own musical problems it was as Josh said, “just what the doctor ordered.”

Of course from minute one when Sophie comes to water “has been” rock star Alex’s plants as a substitute for a friend you know that this is going to be the inevitable “boy meets girl” or vici versa story that has saved many a lame Hollywood plot (this one in the “so-so” category saved by the main characters’ performances more than anything else). And they will get under the inevitable silky sheets.  With a twist-“has been” Alex is looking via the next generation superstar Cora (although how and why was beyond me except I plead guilty to not understanding what thirteen-year olds, my grandkids, listen to currently) to “get well” to make something of a comeback, since this Cora is the conduit to that return. Problem, big problem again, Alex hasn’t written anything but trash for a long time, since he was king of the hill in the famous 1980s rock group Pops-you may remember them if you are from Generation X. He needs, maybe not as desperately as I need a melody maker, a lyricist.                         

Turns out that Sophie is not just a spaceshot plant-tender but a spaceshot writer with a few credentials who beyond that seems to have a grasp for writing appropriately endearing lyrics.

Naturally there have to be some ups and downs like Alex even getting spaceshot serious writer Sophie to write bubble gum lyrics for this teen idol Cora. They do, do a good job too as the romantic attraction builds. Then it all comes crashing down-almost. Seems Cora has a very different take on how to present this well-crafted song to her audience. Alex desperate to move back up the music food chain (Seth Garth’s forever term) is willing to let Cora do whatever butchery she wants to the song as long he gets back into the limelight or at least moves up from playing for his once youthful now aging audiences at state fairs and conventions. Split issue. Well almost since they are smitten, and all is well once Alex realizes he can’t sellout and keep his dear Sophie. And they compose and write happily ever after. Well I have had my say-except if any melody maker is out there you know where to find me.

[I was not sure where to put this but Josh and I had a conversation recently, really going back to the 1970s and just revisited by this film about “has-beens” like Alex, like me at a more amateur level and what you do when the flame burns out, when the music that made you goes out of fashion and you wind up playing conventions and coffeehouses. I decided, a right decision to move on to a professional career. Alex decided to stick it out no matter how far down in the mud he went. Josh reminded of a series he did covering two folk icons-Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, the media-anointed king and queen of the folk minute. His take was what happened to those who had maybe not as much fame as that pair but who were famous for the moment but who decided to move on when it looked like they were not going to be able to make a career out of their youthful dreams. Or did not want to trek the awful miles in some rundown car staying on the road at some broken down motel in order to play to twenty people in Kingstown, Pennsylvania or someplace like that. Josh is thinking of asking Greg to okay an encore performance of that series in light of this film-L.D.]   

      

A Tale Of Two…Sisters- Down And Dirty Among The Mayfair Swells-Katharine Hepburn And Cary Grant’s “Holiday” (1938)-A Film Review

A Tale Of Two…Sisters- Down And Dirty Among The Mayfair Swells-Katharine Hepburn And Cary Grant’s “Holiday” (1938)-A Film Review

DVD Review

     

By Leslie Dumont

Holiday, starring Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, directed by George Cukor so you know it will be some kind of romantic comedy, 1938

Sam Lowell, the former Senior Film Editor in this space under the old regime where the situation had evolved that every writer had some kind of title now discarded, told me to start this little film review, Holiday, with an idea attributed to F. Scott Fitzgerald who did know a thing or two about the species that the rich, no, the very rich, the don’t ask the price rich, are different from you and me. I was not familiar with that particular quote but after viewing this film there is a certain truth to that old saw. So thanks Sam for giving me a lead-in since this is really my first review of old time black and white movies of which I was never really a big fan. Never like it when college guys with no money would ask me if I wanted to see some feature in the latest campus film festival retrospective although I went if I liked the guy. Moreover I was, and the jury is still out for me on this earlier effort, not a big fan of Katharine Hepburn in her later 1960s and 1970s films. I was however quite enamored of Cary Grant in his later pictures although that may have taken a little beating in this film where he is not quite so dashingand decisive.

Sam, who was crazy for, was spoon-fed on these 1930s screwball romantic comedies, also told me to mention at least in passing that those were the golden days of the genre with the likes of the director here George Cukor, Preston Sturgis and Howard Hawks blazing the trail.  That while this film was in the genre it was not the best by either main star. But onward to the “why” of the difference between the very rich, those who owned “museum” mansions on exclusive streets in New York City then, or now. Seems poor little rich girl, silver spoon fed and bred, Julia, was on the prowl for a husband while she was slumming on the post-1932 Olympic ski slopes of Lake Placid in upstate New York. Bingo she finds up and coming up by the bootstraps Johnny, Johnny Case, played by Cary (who looks good in any kind of tie by the way if you wind up seeing this film you will get the reference)  and after a short whirlwind romance on the slopes they get engaged.

Of course whirlwind or not, among the upper set, maybe lower down the class ladder too, in those days at least a proper young man and woman would seek the blessing of the family. That is where the action starts for real when our boy Johnny shows up at that swanky museum mansion to face the inspection of Julia’s rich as Midas banker father. That is where things begin to unravel as well. The old man is dubious about young man Johnny’s wherewithal, clearly not sure of the boy’s bloodlines and so there is a round and round between father and daughter until she gets her way. As usual.       

Enter older sister Linda, played by Ms. Hepburn, who is something like the antithesis of Julia but who can see from minute one that Johnny is the real thing. Real whether he will fit the expectations of Julia and the old man or not. That is a dicey thing and Johnny’s determination/hesitancies somewhat out of character for dashing Cary is what makes me feel a little less kindly toward Cary’s abilities after viewing this one. So the whole circus of a family and Johnny go round and round until the decisive New Year’s Eve night when proud Papa gets to announce the engagement publicly to New York society, to the swells at a big bash at his house. That is kind of the tipping point for Johnny, for Linda who is madly in love with her free spirit side Johnny, and even Julia who begins to have doubts about whether her Johnny can toe the mark, can fit in high society. The answer, after going the extra mile to bring Julia to his side, no on the latter question. And Linda is there to help Johnny put up the Julia rejection pieces. Maybe Linda is just a little too dizzy, too ephemeral and other-worldly but she is ready to break out of the high society rat race which is a good sign. Not a great film but one which I could see myself cheering for Linda and Johnny if I had been in a 1938 movie seat.             

The Blues Aint Nothing But Lucille On Your Mind- With B.B. King’s Lucille In Mind

The Blues Aint Nothing But Lucille On Your Mind- With B.B. King’s 

Lucille In Mind

  

By Bradley Fox, Jr.  

Here is the drill. I started out life listening to singer like Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby (and his brother Bob), Miss Patti Page, Miss Rosemary Clooney, Miss Peggy Lee, the Andrew, McGuire, Dooley sisters, and all the big swing bands from the 1940s like Harry James, Tommy Dorsey (and his brother Jimmy) as background music on the family radio in the 1950s which my mother had always during the day to get her workaday daytime household world and on Saturday night when my father joined in. Joined in so they could listen to Bill Marlowe on local radio station WJDA and his Memory Lane show from seven to eleven where they could listen to the music that got them (and their generation) through the “from hunger” times of the 1930s Great Depression and then when they slogged through (either in some watery European theater or Pacific one take your pick) or anxiously waited at home for the other shoe to drop during World War II. I am not saying that they should not have had their memory music after all of that but frankly that stuff then (and now although less) made me grind my teeth. But I was a captive audience then and so to this day I can sing off Rum and Coca Cola and Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree from memory. But that was not my music, okay. 

Then of course since we are speaking about the 1950s came the great musical break-out, the age of classic rock and roll which I “dug” seriously dug to the point of dreaming my own jailbreak dreams about rock futures (and girls) but that Elvis-etched time too was just a bit soon for me to be able unlike my older brother, Prescott, to call that the music that I came of age to. Although the echoes of that time still run through my mind and I can quote chapter and verse One Night With You, Sweet Little Sixteen, Let’s Have A Party, Be-Bop-a-Lula, Bo Diddley, Peggy Sue and a whole bunch more.   

The music that I can really call my own is the stuff from the folk minute of the 1960s which dovetailed with my coming of chronological, political and social age (that last in the sense of recognizing, if not always acting on, the fact that there were others, kindred, out there beside myself filled with angst, alienation and good will to seek solidarity with). You know the mountain tunes of the first generation of the Carter Family, Buell Kazell, Jimmy Rodgers, the old country Child ballads (Northwest Europe old country), the blue grass music , and the protest songs by the likes of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, Dave Von Ronk and Phil Ochs. The latter songs being what drove a lot of my interest once I connected their work with the Harvard Square coffeehouse scene (and the adjacent hanging out at the Hayes-Bickford Cafeteria which I have written plenty about elsewhere on poverty nights, meaning many nights).

A lot of the drive toward folk music was to get out from under the anti-rock and rock musical counter-revolution that I kept hearing on my transistor radio during that early 1960s period with pretty boy singers and vapid young female-driven female singer stuff. Also to seek out roots music that I kept hearing in the coffeehouses and on the radio once I found a station (accidently) which featured such music and got intrigued by the sounds. Part of that search, a big search over the long haul, was to get deeply immersed in the blues, mainly at first country blues and later the city, you know Chicago, blues. Those country guys though intrigued me once they were “discovered” down south in little towns plying away in the fields or some such work and were brought up to Newport to enflame a new generation of aficionados. The likes of Son House, Skip James, Bukka White and of course Mississippi John Hurt. But those guys basically stayed in the South and it took a younger generation like Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, and the guy whose photograph graces this sketch, B.B. King, to move north, to follow the northern star to the big industrial cities (with a stop at Memphis going up river) to put some electric juice in those old guitars and chase my blues away just by playing like they had made their own pacts with the devil. Praise be.               

The Blues Aint Nothing But Lucille On Your Mind- With B.B. King’s Lucille In Mind

The Blues Aint Nothing But Lucille On Your Mind- With B.B. King’s 

Lucille In Mind

  

 By Bradley Fox, Jr.  

Here is the drill. I started out life listening to singer like Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby (and his brother Bob), Miss Patti Page, Miss Rosemary Clooney, Miss Peggy Lee, the Andrew, McGuire, Dooley sisters, and all the big swing bands from the 1940s like Harry James, Tommy Dorsey (and his brother Jimmy) as background music on the family radio in the 1950s which my mother had always during the day to get her workaday daytime household world and on Saturday night when my father joined in. Joined in so they could listen to Bill Marlowe on local radio station WJDA and his Memory Lane show from seven to eleven where they could listen to the music that got them (and their generation) through the “from hunger” times of the 1930s Great Depression and then when they slogged through (either in some watery European theater or Pacific one take your pick) or anxiously waited at home for the other shoe to drop during World War II. I am not saying that they should not have had their memory music after all of that but frankly that stuff then (and now although less) made me grind my teeth. But I was a captive audience then and so to this day I can sing off Rum and Coca Cola and Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree from memory. But that was not my music, okay. 

Then of course since we are speaking about the 1950s came the great musical break-out, the age of classic rock and roll which I “dug” seriously dug to the point of dreaming my own jailbreak dreams about rock futures (and girls) but that Elvis-etched time too was just a bit soon for me to be able unlike my older brother, Prescott, to call that the music that I came of age to. Although the echoes of that time still run through my mind and I can quote chapter and verse One Night With You, Sweet Little Sixteen, Let’s Have A Party, Be-Bop-a-Lula, Bo Diddley, Peggy Sue and a whole bunch more.   

The music that I can really call my own is the stuff from the folk minute of the 1960s which dovetailed with my coming of chronological, political and social age (that last in the sense of recognizing, if not always acting on, the fact that there were others, kindred, out there beside myself filled with angst, alienation and good will to seek solidarity with). You know the mountain tunes of the first generation of the Carter Family, Buell Kazell, Jimmy Rodgers, the old country Child ballads (Northwest Europe old country), the blue grass music , and the protest songs by the likes of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, Dave Von Ronk and Phil Ochs. The latter songs being what drove a lot of my interest once I connected their work with the Harvard Square coffeehouse scene (and the adjacent hanging out at the Hayes-Bickford Cafeteria which I have written plenty about elsewhere on poverty nights, meaning many nights).

A lot of the drive toward folk music was to get out from under the anti-rock and rock musical counter-revolution that I kept hearing on my transistor radio during that early 1960s period with pretty boy singers and vapid young female-driven female singer stuff. Also to seek out roots music that I kept hearing in the coffeehouses and on the radio once I found a station (accidently) which featured such music and got intrigued by the sounds. Part of that search, a big search over the long haul, was to get deeply immersed in the blues, mainly at first country blues and later the city, you know Chicago, blues. Those country guys though intrigued me once they were “discovered” down south in little towns plying away in the fields or some such work and were brought up to Newport to enflame a new generation of aficionados. The likes of Son House, Skip James, Bukka White and of course Mississippi John Hurt. But those guys basically stayed in the South and it took a younger generation like Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, and the guy whose photograph graces this sketch, B.B. King, to move north, to follow the northern star to the big industrial cities (with a stop at Memphis going up river) to put some electric juice in those old guitars and chase my blues away just by playing like they had made their own pacts with the devil. Praise be.               

The Lady In The Bell Jar-The “One Life: Sylvia Plath” At The National Portrait Gallery

By Frank Jackman

I have known the name Sylvia Plath for a long time, maybe since the time of her suicide when I was still in high school and my senior year English who was a great influence on all her charges especially about literature was pretty broken up about that tragic event. While I may have known about Sylvia Plath and her well-known (and still well-known) book The Bell Jar and of her poetry in those days what she had to say, what poetry she wrote did not “speak” to me.

How could such a sensitive soul (but also much else as the exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery points out including a sense of humor, a wry sense) speak to a hard-bitten corner boy whose literary heroes if he had any centered on guys like Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Tough guys writing for a tough hard-shell world. Even later, college later, when I had a girlfriend who was crazy for whatever Ms. Plath wrote (she did her senior thesis on Ms. Plath if I recall) and who endlessly coaxed me to at least read The Bell Jar I bucked her. (Needless to say that relationship did not last too long). It was not until later, not until after a whole bunch of Army experiences during the Vietnam War kind of broke a lot of my youthful prejudices did I finally read her work. That is when I got why that Plath-crazed young women was so insistent that I take the plunge. And it is not too late for you as well.   

    

When The Blues Was Dues- The Guitar Of Elmore James-About Who Put And When The Rock In Rock And Roll

When The Blues Was Dues- The Guitar Of Elmore James-About Who Put And When The Rock In Rock And Roll

I will get to a CD review of Elmore James’ work in a second. Now I want to tell, no retell, the tale that had me and a few of my corner boys who hung out in front of, or in if we had dough for food or more likely the jukebox, Jimmy Jack’s Diner in Carver where I came of age in the early 1960s going for a while. On one lonesome Friday night, lonesome meaning, no dough, no wheels, no girls, or any combination of the three, with time of our hands Billy Bradley, Jack Dawson and I went round and round about what song by what artist each of us thought was the decisive song that launched rock and roll. Yeah, I know, I know now, that the world then, like now, was going to hell in a hand-basket, what with the Russkies breathing hard on us in the deep freeze Cold War red scare night, with crazy wars going on for no apparent reason, and the struggle for black civil rights down in the police state South (that “police state" picked up later after I got wise to what was happening there) but what were three corner boys to do to while away the time.  

Here is the break-down though. We knew, knew without anybody telling us that while Elvis gave rock and roll a big lift in his time before he went on to silly movies that debased his talent he was not the “max daddy,” not the guy who rolled the dice. For one thing and this was Billy’s position he only covered Big Joe Turner’s classic R&B classic Shake, Rattle, and Roll and when we heard Joe’s finger-snapping version we flipped out. So Billy had his choice made, no question. Jack had heard on some late Sunday night radio station out in Chicago on his transistor radio a thing called Be-Bop Benny’s Blues Hour where he first heard this guy wailing on the piano a be-bop tune. It turned out to be Ike Turner (without Tina then) blasting Rocket 88. So Jack had his position firm, and a good choice. Me, well I caught this obscure folk music station (obscure then not a few years later though) which played not just folk but what would be later called “roots music.” And the blues is nothing but roots music in America. One night I heard Elmore James slide guitar his way through Look On Yonder Wall. That is the song I defended that night. Did any of us change each other’s mind that night. Be serious. I later, several years later, saw the wisdom of Jack’s choice and switched but old Elmore still was a close second. Enough said.       

CD REVIEW

The History of Elmore James: The Sky Is Crying, Elmore James, Rhino Records, 1993

When one thinks of the classic blues tune “Dust My Broom” one tends to think of the legendary Robert Johnson who along with his “Sweet Home, Chicago” created two of the signature blues songs of the pre-World War II period. However, my first hearing of “Dust My Broom” was on a hot LP vinyl record (the old days, right?) version covered and made his own by the artist under review, Elmore James. I have heard many cover versions since then, including from the likes of George Thoroughgood and Chris Smither, and they all reflect on the influence of Elmore’s amazing slide guitar virtuosity to provide the "heat" necessary to do the song justice. Moreover, this is only the tip of the iceberg as such blues masters and aficionados as B.B. King and The Rolling Stones have covered other parts of James’ catalog.

Perhaps because Elmore died relativity young at a time when blues were just being revived in the early 1960’s as part of the general trend toward “discovering” roots music by the likes of this reviewer he has been a less well-known member of the blues pantheon. However, for those who know the value of a good slide guitar to add sexiness and sauciness to a blues number James’ is a hero. Hell, Thoroughgood built a whole career out of Elmore covers (and also, to be sure, of the late legendary Bo Didderly). I never get tired of hearing these great songs. Moreover, it did not hurt to have the famous Broom-dusters backing him up throughout the years. As one would expect of material done in the pre-digital age the sound quality is very dependent on the quality of the studio. But that, to my mind just makes it more authentic.

Well, what did you NEED to listen to here? Obviously,” Dust My Broom". On this CD though you MUST listen to Elmore on "Standing At The Crossroads". Wow, it jumps right out at you. "Look On Yonder Wall" (a song that I used to believe was a key to early rock 'n' rock before I gravitated to Ike Turner's "Rocket 88" as my candidate for that role), "It Hurts Me Too" and the classic "The Sky is Crying" round out the minimum program here. Listen on.

Lyrics To "Dust My Broom"

I'm gonna get up in the mornin',

I believe I'll dust my broom (2x)

Girlfriend, the black man you been lovin',

girlfriend, can get my room

I'm gon' write a letter,

Telephone every town I know (2x)

If I can't find her in West Helena,

She must be in East Monroe, I know

I don't want no woman,

Wants every downtown man she meet (2x)

She's a no good doney,

They shouldn't 'low her on the street

I believe, I believe I'll go back home (2x)

You can mistreat me here, babe,

But you can't when I go home

And I'm gettin' up in the morning,

I believe I'll dust my broom (2x)

Girlfriend, the black man that you been lovin',

Girlfriend, can get my room

I'm gon' call up Chiney,

She is my good girl over there (2x)

If I can't find her on Philippine's Island,

She must be in Ethiopia somewhere

Robert Johnson

When The Blues Was Dues- The Guitar Of Elmore James-About Who Put And When The Rock In Rock And Roll

When The Blues Was Dues- The Guitar Of Elmore James-About Who Put And When The Rock In Rock And Roll

I will get to a CD review of Elmore James’ work in a second. Now I want to tell, no retell, the tale that had me and a few of my corner boys who hung out in front of, or in if we had dough for food or more likely the jukebox, Jimmy Jack’s Diner in Carver where I came of age in the early 1960s going for a while. On one lonesome Friday night, lonesome meaning, no dough, no wheels, no girls, or any combination of the three, with time of our hands Billy Bradley, Jack Dawson and I went round and round about what song by what artist each of us thought was the decisive song that launched rock and roll. Yeah, I know, I know now, that the world then, like now, was going to hell in a hand-basket, what with the Russkies breathing hard on us in the deep freeze Cold War red scare night, with crazy wars going on for no apparent reason, and the struggle for black civil rights down in the police state South (that “police state" picked up later after I got wise to what was happening there) but what were three corner boys to do to while away the time.  

Here is the break-down though. We knew, knew without anybody telling us that while Elvis gave rock and roll a big lift in his time before he went on to silly movies that debased his talent he was not the “max daddy,” not the guy who rolled the dice. For one thing and this was Billy’s position he only covered Big Joe Turner’s classic R&B classic Shake, Rattle, and Roll and when we heard Joe’s finger-snapping version we flipped out. So Billy had his choice made, no question. Jack had heard on some late Sunday night radio station out in Chicago on his transistor radio a thing called Be-Bop Benny’s Blues Hour where he first heard this guy wailing on the piano a be-bop tune. It turned out to be Ike Turner (without Tina then) blasting Rocket 88. So Jack had his position firm, and a good choice. Me, well I caught this obscure folk music station (obscure then not a few years later though) which played not just folk but what would be later called “roots music.” And the blues is nothing but roots music in America. One night I heard Elmore James slide guitar his way through Look On Yonder Wall. That is the song I defended that night. Did any of us change each other’s mind that night. Be serious. I later, several years later, saw the wisdom of Jack’s choice and switched but old Elmore still was a close second. Enough said.       

CD REVIEW

The History of Elmore James: The Sky Is Crying, Elmore James, Rhino Records, 1993

When one thinks of the classic blues tune “Dust My Broom” one tends to think of the legendary Robert Johnson who along with his “Sweet Home, Chicago” created two of the signature blues songs of the pre-World War II period. However, my first hearing of “Dust My Broom” was on a hot LP vinyl record (the old days, right?) version covered and made his own by the artist under review, Elmore James. I have heard many cover versions since then, including from the likes of George Thoroughgood and Chris Smither, and they all reflect on the influence of Elmore’s amazing slide guitar virtuosity to provide the "heat" necessary to do the song justice. Moreover, this is only the tip of the iceberg as such blues masters and aficionados as B.B. King and The Rolling Stones have covered other parts of James’ catalog.

Perhaps because Elmore died relativity young at a time when blues were just being revived in the early 1960’s as part of the general trend toward “discovering” roots music by the likes of this reviewer he has been a less well-known member of the blues pantheon. However, for those who know the value of a good slide guitar to add sexiness and sauciness to a blues number James’ is a hero. Hell, Thoroughgood built a whole career out of Elmore covers (and also, to be sure, of the late legendary Bo Didderly). I never get tired of hearing these great songs. Moreover, it did not hurt to have the famous Broom-dusters backing him up throughout the years. As one would expect of material done in the pre-digital age the sound quality is very dependent on the quality of the studio. But that, to my mind just makes it more authentic.

Well, what did you NEED to listen to here? Obviously,” Dust My Broom". On this CD though you MUST listen to Elmore on "Standing At The Crossroads". Wow, it jumps right out at you. "Look On Yonder Wall" (a song that I used to believe was a key to early rock 'n' rock before I gravitated to Ike Turner's "Rocket 88" as my candidate for that role), "It Hurts Me Too" and the classic "The Sky is Crying" round out the minimum program here. Listen on.

Lyrics To "Dust My Broom"

I'm gonna get up in the mornin',

I believe I'll dust my broom (2x)

Girlfriend, the black man you been lovin',

girlfriend, can get my room

I'm gon' write a letter,

Telephone every town I know (2x)

If I can't find her in West Helena,

She must be in East Monroe, I know

I don't want no woman,

Wants every downtown man she meet (2x)

She's a no good doney,

They shouldn't 'low her on the street

I believe, I believe I'll go back home (2x)

You can mistreat me here, babe,

But you can't when I go home

And I'm gettin' up in the morning,

I believe I'll dust my broom (2x)

Girlfriend, the black man that you been lovin',

Girlfriend, can get my room

I'm gon' call up Chiney,

She is my good girl over there (2x)

If I can't find her on Philippine's Island,

She must be in Ethiopia somewhere

Robert Johnson

When The Capitalist World Was On The Rise-The 16th and 17th Dutch And Flemish Paintings at the Museum Of Fine Arts In Boston –Art And The Revolution

When The Capitalist World Was On The Rise-The 16^th and 17^th Dutch And Flemish Paintings at the Museum Of Fine Arts In Boston –Art And The Revolution   

By William Bradley

I have not been a writer on this site for very long having just been hired by site manager Greg Green to give a younger view to the blog (and a few linked on-line publications) so I do not know unlike older writer Frank Jackman whether it is normal to response to something written by one of the other writers in this space as he did to me in recent exchange about art and the progress of early capitalism.  (I do know we are under mandate not to write about the previous site manager as I found out the hard way when I was blue-penciled for a reference to him for supporting articles about art.)

After having been given an assignment to view the Vermeer and friends exhibit down at the National Gallery in Washington since I was in that town on another matter I was looking at the archives here to find out if anybody had written about the high tide of Dutch and Flemish Art (you know the time of Rembrandt, Hals, Reubens, Van Dyck and their respective schools, workshops and progeny) and out popped an article by Frank Jackman then the senior political commentator under the old regime. Truly knowing nothing about the subject of Dutch and Flemish art other than liking some of it and being bored by the endless paintings of fruit and such perfectly detailed, I figured that I would ask Frank about his take. As it turned out I didn’t know much either about his so-called Marxist perspective combining art and the productive system in a way that seemed odd to me.

I wrote an article about the Vermeer crowd basically on the like/don’t like aspects mentioned a minute ago since it had escaped me about putting the fight by capitalism against feudalism and art together except the Dutch and Flemish painters unlike the Italians weren’t hung up on Christian piety themes and Old Testament sagas. Frank responded that I had a lot to learn about milieu and its effect on artists which he explained in another way when I mentioned in that first article that I liked abstract expressionism and he mentioned back that you could not understand that milieu without knowing about the effect of the 20^th century wars and alienation produced by late capitalism which he called imperialism on the artists.

Greg Green recently asked me since I was going to be in Boston for the holidays to visit my sister to go check out the latest Dutch and Flemish exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts which some collectors had promised to the Museum and which they were going to display. Lance Lawrence when he heard about the assignment dubbed me “Leonard De Bois” whom I did not know by name but who is a big wheel in the Dutch and Flemish academic art field. My only comment was that it seemed in my experience that these museums seem to run into common exhibitionism. Washington and now Boston (and New York I think) are on a Dutch-Flemish jag. Last year half the world seemed to be featuring various stages of Matisse’s career. Japanese art seems to be the new up and coming thing. In any case now that I am an “expert” I can rehash my stuff about Vermeer and his crowd with the stuff in Boston. An honored academic tradition:            

“Frank did a whole series of articles under the title When The Capitalist World Was Young to be found in the archives making the connection between the artistic sensibilities of the rising bourgeoisie and their clamoring for paintings which showed that they were on the rise, that they were the new sheriffs in town and could afford like the nobles and high clergy in the ancient regime to show their new-found prosperity by paying for portraits, collective and singular, and displays of their domestic prosperity. Of course Frank, an old radical from the 1960s … was coming at his view from something that he called a Marxist prospective. A prospective which not knowing much about it except it had a lot to do with the demise of the old Soviet Union now Putin’s Russia and why it had failed I asked him about since I was clueless about how that artwork had anything to do with politics. What he told me, and I don’t want to get into a big discussion about it is that Marxism, Marx saw capitalism as a progressive force against the feudal society and that would get reflected in lots of things like art and social arrangements.      

“Under that set of ideas Frank was able to give a positive spin on a lot of the art from the 16^th and 17^th century, especially Dutch and Flemish art in the days when those grouping were leading the capitalist charge via their position in the shipping, transport and the emerging banking world. In one part of that above mentioned series Frank highlighted the connection between art and economics by referring to a famous painting in the National Gallery down in Washington, D.C. where some very self-satisfied burghers and civil officials were feasting and showing off their new found emergence as trend-setters. I took his point once I saw the painting he was referring to and noted that these guys and it was all guys except the hard-pressed wait staff really were self-satisfied even though I am still not sure that you can draw that close a connection between art and economics.    

“That discussion with Frank was in the back of my mind when I was assigned by Greg Green, since I was down in Washington for another reason, to check out the Vermeer and friend retrospective at the National Gallery (that Frank referred painting of the burghers was nowhere in sight and I wound up viewing it on-line while we were discussing it). I took a different view of what I saw there since I am not very political and certainly would not draw the same line as Frank did. What struck me, and I am willing to bet many others who viewed the exhibit as well, was the extreme attention to detail in almost all the paintings observed. The sense that the artists had to whether it was portraiture, domestic scenes, or landscape, including those famous frozen lakes and canal winter activity scenes, show in extreme detail and shadowing exactly what they were observing. I admit I am more interested in let’s say abstract expressionism that this kind of  imagery but my hat is off to those who were able to do such detailed and exact work. Whether or not they were rising with the high tide of capitalist expansion.”      

  

Frank left me with a few political ideas to think about which I can apply as well to the Boston clot. He told me to look at that self-satisfied burgher business, look at the pot-bellies of the men and the rounded face of the young women which indicated how well-fed they were, look at the very neat way they arranged their domestic lives. Most importantly look at those unadorned halls and churches which a very far away from the medieval overkill of the huge centuries to build cathedrals that kept everybody tied down to looking inward. Like he said these guys were the “elect,” knew they were the elect and they could push forward come hell or high water.  

From The Guys And Gals Who Know The Face Of War-The Smedleys-Veterans For Peace

From The Guys And Gals Who Know The Face Of War-The Smedleys-Veterans For Peace    

When The Capitalist World Was On The Rise-The Dutch And Flemish Paintings at the National Gallery-A Reply

When The Capitalist World Was On The Rise-The Dutch And Flemish Paintings at the National Gallery-A Reply

By Frank Jackman

Normally I don’t have occasion to response to something written by one of the other writers in this space but young William Bradley has set the pace by referring to your humble servant in his piece about his take on Vermeer and his cohort who after Rembrandt, Hals, Reubens, and Van Dyck lit up the firmament and kept the torch burning for the rest of that impressive Dutch and Flemish-driven century when they were kings of the hill. That Bradley reference to me came after he had seen Vermeer and crew in a big retrospective down at the National Gallery in Washington which since he was down there for another reason site manager Greg Green had assigned him. Somehow young Bradley had been thoughtful enough about his assignment to check the archives here to see if anybody had written anything about this period of Dutch-Flemish ascendancy in European art (and really the last time that this section of Europe made a big splash on the art world for reasons that I could speculate on but which don’t really concern us here so I will push on).    

What William found in the archives was a short piece I did several years ago after I had been down at the National Gallery myself and was smitten by a huge mural-like painting at the 4^th Street entrance detailing in exhaustive fashion a banquet that a small cohort of self-satisfied Dutch burghers were attending and that sight sparked an idea that had been in my head for a while about the days when now wore out capitalism, worn out to do anybody but lift a few people up, was a progressive force in the world. That sense (along with that self-satisfied well-fed feeling that the world was their oyster) is what put pen to paper. Not so much for the art aspect, the painting was done by a lesser light and would if were judging on a scale was only so-so in the heady atmosphere of 17^th century Dutch painting, but for the way art intersects with economic forces. That (and I don’t know what else Bradley might have seen in the archives that would have helped him) was when he came to me to ask a few questions since his take as anybody could see from his short screed dealt with the art for art’s sake aspect of what he had seen at the Vermeer exhibit.

I had originally written that little nugget rank for the on-line edition of Progressive Nation when I was the senior political commentator here under the old regime, a time before Bradley came on boards so the art part was not fundamental to my idea.  I agree with him though that I liked to write about the proud beginnings when the rising bourgeoisie was going mano a mano (my words from the piece he saw in the archives and used in his article) against the old stagnant feudal society that depended on the static-and hard core universal church Catholic religion which promised the good life not now but in the great by and by. These guys were not worried about paying some middleman indulgence trafficker to insure their road to salvation. They were getting theirs in this world and if God approved so much the better if not well too bad.   

I did a whole series of articles under the title When The Capitalist World Was Young to be found in the archives making the connection between the artistic sensibilities of the rising bourgeoisie and their clamoring for paintings which showed that they were on the rise, that they were the new sheriffs in town and could afford like the nobles and high clergy in the ancient regime to show their new-found prosperity by paying for portraits, collective and singular, and displays of their domestic prosperity. Of course my perspective as an old radical from the 1960s was coming from something like a Marxist prospective. I had to laugh, laugh a bitter laugh that through no fault of his own Bradley was clueless about such a prospective. About not knowing much about Marxism except it had a lot to do with the demise of the old Soviet Union now Putin’s Russia so he was clueless about how that artwork had anything to do with politics. What I told him, and I don’t want to get into a big discussion about it is that Marxism, Marx saw capitalism as a progressive force against the feudal society and that would get reflected in lots of things like art and social arrangements.      

Under that set of ideas I was able to give a positive spin on a lot of the art from the 16^th and 17^th century, especially Dutch and Flemish art in the days when those grouping were leading the capitalist charge via their position in the shipping, transport and the emerging banking world. Funny young Bradley took my point once he saw the painting I was referring to and noted that these guys and it was all guys except the hard-pressed wait staff even though he was still not sure that you can draw that close a connection between art and economics.  We have a lot of make-up work to do for the lack of serious leftist perspectives the past couple of generations. 

I left William with a few political ideas to think about. Also told him to look at that self-satisfied burgher business, look at the pot-bellies of the men and the rounded face of the young women which indicated how well-fed they were, look at the very neat way they arranged their domestic lives. Most importantly look at those unadorned halls and churches which a very far away from the medieval overkill of the huge centuries to build cathedrals that kept everybody tied down to looking inward. Like I said these guys were the “elect,” knew they were the elect and they could push forward come hell or high water.