You Have Come A Long Way, Baby-Maybe-Traversing The Woman Question, Circa 1940-With Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, Rosalind Russell And A Fistful Of Notable Lesser Female Stars And Starlets-No Men-“The Women”(1939)-A Film Review, Maybe

You Have Come A Long Way, Baby-Maybe-Traversing The Woman Question, Circa 1940-With Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, Rosalind Russell And A Fistful Of Notable Lesser Female Stars And Starlets-No Men-“The Women”(1939)-A Film Review, Maybe

DVD Review

By Leslie Dumont

The Women, starring Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, Rosalind Russell and the above mentioned fistful of lesser stars, starlets, fashion models, some producers’ mistresses, a few tramps, a couple more who look like they came out of a high-end bordello in the high rent district of New York City, a couple of  taxi dancers, a few lap dancers and at least half a dozen gold-diggers and not necessarily those lesser females, directed by George Cukor he of the trio of directors who made the classic age of romantic comedy classic, adapted from a play by Claire Luce, she of the Luce of Time magazine founder, screenplay by Anita Loos, she of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes adage (sparked by Dorothy Parker’s Big Blonde the prototype for all subsequent blonde worship and hair rinses), 1939                

Why the hell have I been forced marched into writing a freaking, Sam Lowell’s favorite expression more on him in a moment, silly review about the fantasy lives of the rich upper-crust, the Riverside Drive set, in late Great Depression New York, the film The Women, which I dozed off on at least a few times without missing a beat. More on that in a moment, and hopefully the new policy instigated by site manager Greg Green that some films, some turkeys can be dispensed with by a short brutish swipe and then more on. What I feel compelled to explain is why me, Leslie Dumont, out of the blue has received this loser as her latest assignment.   

This is where Sam Lowell comes in, comes in on the negative side where later when actually dealing with the film after I have had my bilious say he will be redeemed, for now. Greg Green, always Greg Green when stupid stuff happens at this publication, has had a bee up his bonnet around the lack of reviews about art in this publication indirectly pointing the finger at previous site manager Allan Jackson who before he went over the edge a couple of years ago around commemoration of all things 1960s assigned tons of political commentary and film, book and music reviews. (Somebody asked Allan recently on his return here as a contributing editor, whatever that is, if he had ever gone to an art museum, he gave that sly sideways glance when he was in his “don’t suffer fools gladly” mood meaning WFT.     

Sam who had actually been heading toward an art career, had been pushed by his high school art teacher who had paved the way for him to be admitted to art school had always dreamed of being an artist. Having grown up desperately poor his stern and practical Irish Catholic mother who had lesser visions eventually talked him out of that path hoping instead he would get a nice white- collar civil service and push the family fortunes up a notch. He didn’t do that either. Nevertheless, having haunted art museums for years, he was the logical choice to take the continuing assignment, a gravy train assignment meaning he would have had to travel to various art museums and the like. No go though since Sam of late has been knee- deep in his other love writing about the fates of various private detectives and currently why they have or have not been inducted in the P.I. Hall of Fame. He is hot on the case of famous California P.I. Lew Archer who despite a great start in the profession never made the cut. Sam has a theory, a theory about Lew’s sexual impotency which was the major cause of his failure to thrive as he ended up doing “repo” work and peeping through keyholes when that was lucrative divorce work. Greg Green has given Sam a bye on the art front to pursue those leads.      

Now things get dicey. Greg desperate to get started on this projected continuing series cornered me at the water cooler one day and asked me if I wanted the assignment. No way, not interested, never been to an art museum since about high school when we took at trip from Trenton to the Met in New York City. Me and my then boyfriend snuck in some back halls and made out until we were ready to get the bus back to Trenton. To hold Greg off I mentioned that Laura Perkins, a fellow writer here and Sam’s longtime companion, had told me once that she had taken art classes in high school and college and had been to at least one art museum. So, yes, I, according to her “ratted her out.” But revenge is sweet and now that she is herself knee-deep in doing art research and articles and immune from other work, she has put the word in to Greg, who is her poodle now, to give me crazy film assignments like the brain-dead thing I am being forced to review, and review right now.

At this point Sam Lowell redeems himself for a very simple proposition-if you are at a loss, a total loss for a “hook” which every storyline needs to float then go back to tried and true “slice of life” when as here you have an old-time film. And frankly that is the only way that I can figure to say two words, positive or negative, about this film despite the fact that it has an all-female cast. Actually, that may be what is wrong with the thing, with the concept behind Ms. Luce’s original intention. To 2018 eyes which have gone through a few phases of feminism this thing doesn’t fly. For lots of reasons. Here is where I probably should make an act of contrition about any bottom-dwelling I have said about the 24/7 Christmas-etched films which have recently ended on the Hallmark channels. With the lame slapstick and over-the-top sudsy melodrama every Hallmark venture looks like an Academy award nominee.

Okay, slice of life time (thanks again, Sam). This is about the rich and spoiled women who despite the Great Depression still in full blast (it would not really abate until the cataclysmic beginning of World War II in the Pacific for this country) had nothing but time bile on their hands. “Catty” is the word that came to mind very early as the vultures flocked around the latest victim to scavenge. That being pure as the driven snow, Mary, played by super-melodramatic Noma Shearer who made a career doing this tearful muck. Mary, who in real life is the appendage of one Stephen Hanes. One Stephen Hanes, unseen as are all other men from minute one to the end, at least breathing men although the whole plot stinks of men and their perfidy, has left the reservation. Who is having an affair, who is paying the rent for some hat check girl. No, for a damsel in distress met at the perfume counter of Black’s Department Store which I believe is now part of the Macy’s chain but which in its day was the place of places for the high-hatted high-toned set, female division. Middle life crisis Stephen has a yearning for exotic Chrystal, played by Joan Crawfish, oops, Joan Crawford, I am under the influence of a Jack Kerouac short story about a film she did in San Francisco which he witnessed and wrote about. (By the way this is the 50^th anniversary of Kerouac’s too early death.)      

The sweet Mary, sultry Chrystal axis will drive the film’s ups and down, ups and downs aided a cluster of chucking hens led by Rosaline Russell who will convey far and wide at the drop of a hat, maybe just a hefty tip to the all-knowing wait staff at the exclusive combination beauty parlor and health spa where they all go to get refueled for the next bouts whose marriage is on the chopping block. Tough work between sitting through exotic (and truly over-the-top) fashion shows, long martini lunches and back to the exercise room. Tough work too the little witty bon mots and flaming arrows thrown around without discrimination for the truth of the matter or how hurtful it might be to the victim of the latest “be-heading” (the only discrimination, real , is the shabby second-rate treatment of the working class white and black female help which would make one hard pressed then, maybe now to, to believe that every woman is part of one sisterhood)    

Naturally younger gold-digger Chrystal will win round one, will win it almost without a fight which is something these high society dames seem incapable of when the deal goes down. Mary is out on streets. No, that is not the way of that world. She just goes to the West, to Reno for a sweet divorce with all the trimmings. Chrystal wins round two as well snagging Stephen into the marriage bed and easy street. But see Chrystal both overplayed her hand and is nothing but a gold-digging tramp who once she snagged Stephen started lining up the next best thing. Even Stephen got wise by then. And Mary when she got the word drew some from nowhere inner strength to go after her man. Round three to Mary although why she wanted back with her lover man I don’t really know, maybe he made her toes curl in bed, although in 1939 Code world we can’t even think such sexy thoughts. Maybe in the end this is really just another variation on the “boy meet girl” trope that has carried many movies and is another “hook” when you are desperate. I will stick with “slice of life,” circa 1940 since no way would a film like this be produced, not even on the Hallmark channels.  

Finally, and this might sound crazy but when I watched this film, watched it with Josh Breslin and yes, we are friends and let’s leave it at that for the rumor-mongers on the Internet, he blurred out that this film should be reviewed by a male, by a man. I agree.

Where Have The Girls Gone- When Young Women’s Voices Ruled the Airwaves Before The British Rock Invasion, Circa 1964- With Ruby And The Romantics' "Our Day Will Come" In Mind

Where Have The Girls Gone- When Young Women’s Voices Ruled the Airwaves Before The British Rock Invasion, Circa 1964- With Ruby And The Romantics' "Our Day Will Come" In Mind

By Sam Lowell

This is the second installment (the first dated January 13, 2018) set as an introduction to the history of the American Left History blog. I am, as pointed out before one of the few people, more importantly one of the few writers, who has taken part in almost all of the key junctures in this forty something year attempt to address the unwritten history of the poor and oppressed in America and the world. That includes the latest flare-up which has brought about a new regime, partially with my help, so I am well-placed to tell the tale. As part of the “truce” arranged with current site manager Greg Green I will tell the story and will elicit comments from a couple of other Editorial Board members. The first installment dealt with the genesis of this blog with predecessors going back to the late 1960s when a number of the older writers still standing came on board, many through long friendships with the previous site manager going back to high school days, including myself.  Today I will deal with the old hard copy version of ALH and the transfer due to economic necessary of going on-line at the beginning of the century.           

**********

With the seed money we were able to gather after the sale of Progressive Nation we put together the hard copy version of ALH. We, as well, got a big financial boost from our old high school friend and great running back for the North Adamsville Red Raiders, Jack Callahan,  who now is Mr. Toyota of Eastern Massachusetts and has sold a million cars based on his charming ways (and that of Mrs. Toyota, Chrissie McNamara, his forever high school sweetheart whom he is still married too unlike the rest of us who have at least two marriages per person, a ton of kids, and two tons of college tuitions which are still being paid for or only recently extinguished).  Our idea, really Allan’s idea, no again, really way back when Markin’s idea was to do in a journalistic way what Boston University professor the late Howard Zinn did with his book The People’s History of the United States which is to say look under the rocks, the crevices, the off-beat places in the American experience. Tell the story that doesn’t make the mainstream media, or didn’t for a long time certainly in the time of Reagan’s time in the 1980s when everybody but us it seemed was keeping his or her head down.

So in a funny way we were running against the stream, having only a small steady dedicated readership and writing staff made up of guys I have already mentioned and who readers will know including Josh Brelin from up in Maine who we treated like one of our own. That last statement is important because what happened (and might be the real genesis of what brought about Allan’s downfall) was that for financial reasons, emotional reasons, and a certain tendency on the part of all those involved to get wrapped up in a nostalgia trip back the halcyon days of the 1960s when you couldn’t walk a block in most cities and college towns without running into fellow kindred spirits, some cause bringing people to the streets, and a feeling that the new breeze that Markin had talked endlessly about from high school days on was going to happen almost by default. We were going to turn the world upside down and for keeps.

Obviously at the height of the Reagan era (1980-1992 throwing the first Bush, number 41 in the succession, into the mix) and beyond for a while that was a very tough dollar to pull off as the years going by would develop a divide between the old-time “hippie” base and the generation turning into two generations who were off in a different direction, could as I mentioned in the recent internal wrangling “give a f- - k” about the 1960s except maybe the dope and cool fashions now somewhat revived in a retro movement. For years though Allan and the rest of us were in a running battle over where to go and still deal with our basic mission which is still on the masthead of this blog. Allan would wax and wane with that deep tendency to drift back to the 1960s and cover stuff like all the folk movement stuff when the folk minute (almost literally) was in bloom.

Against a reality, against the real world where except Bob Dylan, and even that would be suspect, nobody knew any of the folk singers and the spirit that drove Allan and me as well, probably everybody but Si Lannon who to this day cringes whenever anybody mentions a guy like faded folksinger Erick Saint Jean whom we thought would be the next Dylan. Spent much cyber-ink of stuff like film noir which was all the rage in college town 1960s film festival retrospectives, Bogie, Robert Mitchum, the French “New Wave.” And deeply into reviewing and commenting on books and the politics of the times which had clearly faded into the dust and that even our older readership got tired of hearing about since they had drifted out of politics seeing the whole thing as a “bummer” to use a 1960s-etched expression or had drifted rightward to the party of the possible-the Democrats. They definitely did not want to hear about the finer points of the Russian Revolution, the Stalin-Trotsky fist fight, or the food fight among American radicals toward the end of the 1960s and early 1970s.                

Every once in a while we would change course a bit, would get more into contemporary politics, move onto the newer versions on the musical scene, review more current books and films but there was something missing. Something that the younger writers in the recent dispute hollered about endlessly when asked to write about the 1960s 24/7/365 when Allan finally went off the deep end for good in the summer of 2017. Having to endlessly write about the Summer of Love, 1967 which set up the explosion that brought everything to a head. Having to write about stuff they were clueless about which is what we were feeling when we confronted the changes in the 1990s. Even then Allan would try an end around and force everybody like he did last year with Alden Riley to write stuff as “punishment” for not knowing every single piece of arcana from the 1960s even if was about, oh I don’t know, plastic surgery, something weird like that.

As you could expect off of this lack of focus drained individual writers, we lost Sal Rizzo, Danny Shea, Henry Sullivan to the ennui, to hubris and lack of candor. Lost a lot of money too, a lot of Jack Callahan’s dough although he was always too much of a good guy to complain (and would tell us “I will just sell more Toyotas”). So we had to when we saw an opportunity to keep going with an on-line publication we did. That would cut expenses dramatically (and Jack would say I don’t have to carry such a large car inventory now) not needing a large office, paper costs and such. We also, or rather Allan came to a big decision which we rubber-stamped, a very big decision once we did transfer to an all on-line operation-bringing in new blood, bringing in younger writers with the original idea to get a more current take on the American political, cultural, social experience. It was a tricky proposition since the older core, including me and Allan, were worried that bringing in more professionally trained writers which is the norm these days since nobody can get anywhere without some kind of Iowa Writers Workshop pedigree would run circles around us. They, I, could not see then that this was necessary, In the end we, Allan, squandered that talent by the straight-jacket maneuvers mentioned earlier driving them to write second-rate stuff just to fill space and fill Allan’s ego when crunch time came.

I was going to finish up this second installment by discussing our first new writer, the now long gone, Jesse Perrier, yes, that Jesse Perrier, who went on to write that slew of crime novels that you see in every airport kiosk, but I will wait and introduce him in the third installment when I discuss the first few years of ALH on-line. More later.     

       

A YouTube film clip of Ruby & The Romantics performing the classic, Our Day Will Come. 

Our day will come
And we'll have everything.
We'll share the joy
Falling in love can bring.

No one can tell me
That I'm too young to know (young to know)
I love you so (love you so)
And you love me.

Our day will come
If we just wait a while.
No tears for us -
Think love and wear a smile.

Our dreams have magic
Because we'll always stay
In love this way
Our day will come.
(Our day will come; our day will come.)

[Break]

Our dreams have magic
Because we'll always stay
In love this way.
Our day will come.
Our day will come.

 
As I mentioned in a review of a two-volume set of, for lack of a better term, girl doo wop some of the songs which overlapped in a six volume series, I have, of late, been running back over some rock material that formed my coming of age listening music (on that ubiquitous, and very personal, iPod, oops, battery-driven transistor radio that kept those snooping parents out in the dark, clueless, and that was just fine, all agreed including eventually the parents who saw the whole thing was harmful after a bout with the “devil’s music” nonsense we kids had to put up with), and that of my generation, the generation of ’68. Naturally one had to pay homage to the blues influences from the likes of Muddy Waters, Big Mama Thornton, and Big Joe Turner. And, of course, the rockabilly influences from Elvis, Carl Perkins, Wanda Jackson, and Jerry Lee Lewis on. Additionally, I have spent some time on the male side of the doo wop be-bop Saturday night led by Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers on Why Do Fools Fall In Love? (a good question, right, which I spent three marriages with all the trimming trying to figure out ,unsuccessfully). I noted there that I had not done much with the female side of the doo wop night, the great ‘girl’ groups that had their heyday in the late 1950s and early 1960s before the British invasion, among other things, changed our tastes in popular music. I would expand that observation here to include girls’ voices generally. As there, I make some amends for that omission here.

As I also noted in that earlier review one problem with the girl groups, and now with these generic girl vocals for a guy, me, a serious rock guy, me, was that the lyrics for many of the girl group songs, frankly, did not “speak to me.” After all how much empathy could a young ragamuffin of boy brought up on the wrong side of the tracks like this writer have for a girl who breaks a guy’s heart after leading him on, yes, leading him on, just because her big bruiser of a boyfriend is coming back and she needs some excuse to brush the heartbroken lad off in the Angels' My Boyfriend’s Back. Or some lucky guy, some lucky Sunday guy, maybe, who breathlessly catches the eye of the singer in the Shirelles' I Met Him On Sunday from a guy who, dateless Saturday night, was hunched over some misbegotten book, some study book, on Sunday feeling all dejected. And how about this, some two, or maybe, three-timing gal who berated her ever-loving boyfriend because she needs a good talking to, or worst, a now socially incorrect, very incorrect and rightly so, "beating" in Joanie Sommers’ Johnny Get Angry.

And reviewing the material in that volume gave me the same flash-back feeling I felt listening to the girl doo wop sounds. I will give similar examples of that teen boy alienation for this CD set, and this approach drove the reviews of all six of these volumes in the series. I won’t even go into such novelty silly songs as the title self-explanatory My Boy Lollipop by Barbie Gaye; the teen angst hidden behind the lyrics to Bobby's Girl by Marcie Blane; or, the dreamy, wistful blandness of A Thousand Stars by Kathy Young & The Innocents that would have set any self-respecting boy’s, or girl’s, teeth on edge. And prayed, prayed out loud and to heaven that the batteries in that transcendent transistor would burn to hell before having to continue sustained listening to such, well, such… and I will leave it at that. I will rather concentrate on serious stuff like the admittedly great harmonics on Our Day Will Come by Ruby & The Romantics that I actually, secretly, liked but I had no one to relate it to, no our to worry about that day, or any day, or Tonight You Belong To Me by Patience & Prudence that I didn’t like secretly or openly but gave me that same teen angst feeling of having no one, no girl one, belonging to, me.

And while today it might be regarded as something of a pre-feminist feminist anthem for younger women, You Don't Own Me by Lesley Gore, was meaningless for a guy who didn’t have girl to own, or not own, to fret over her independent streak, or not. Moreover, since I was never, at least I never heard otherwise, that I was some damsel in distress’ pining away boy next store The Boy Next Door by The Secrets was wrapped with seven seals. And while I had many a silent, lonely, midnight waiting by the phone night how could Cry Baby by The Bonnie Sisters, Lonely Blue Nights by Rosie & The Originals, and Lonely Nights by The Hearts give me comfort when even Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry hard-rockin’ the night away could not console me, and take away that blue heart I carried like a badge, a badge of almost monastic honor. Almost.

So you get the idea, this stuff could not “speak to me.” Now you understand, right? Except, surprise, surprise foolish, behind the eight- ball, know-nothing youthful guy had it all wrong and should have been listening, and listening like crazy, to these lyrics because, brothers and sisters, they held the key to what was what about what was on girls’ minds back in the day, and maybe now a little too, and if I could have decoded this I would have had, well, the beginning of knowledge, girl knowledge. Damn. But that is one of the virtues, and maybe the only virtue of age. Yah, and also get this- you had better get your do-lang, do-lang, your shoop, shoop, and your best be-bop, be-bop into that good night voice out and sing along to the lyrics here. This, fellow baby-boomers, was our teen angst, teen alienation, teen love youth and now this stuff sounds great.

And from girls even.

This Ain’t Your Whistler’s Mother-Traipsing Through The National Gallery Of Art In Sunnier Pre-Shutdown Times-James McNeill Whistler’s “The White Girl,” Symphony In White Whatever Hustle They Are Pulling Now With The Title

This Ain’t Your Whistler’s Mother-Traipsing Through The National Gallery Of Art In Sunnier Pre-Shutdown Times-James McNeill  Whistler’s “The White Girl,” Symphony In White Whatever Hustle They Are Pulling Now With The Title  

By Laura Perkins      

Some people apparently, at least in the art work have a hard time moving on, letting things go. That is the case with one Arthur Gilmore Doyle (hereafter Doyle sine I utterly refuse to buy into the late 19^th fashion among the bluebloods and their wannabes to set themselves apart from the plebian Tom, Dick and Harrys with the three- name moniker to prove I think that they were not illegitimate, foundlings or could trace their genealogy back to the “Mayflower”). Doyle has been my upscale upstart nemesis since I took on this assignment under duress (when my longtime companion Sam Lowell balked on the assignment to pursue other interests I was “ratted out” by Leslie Dumont for having taken a couple of art classes and gone to an art museum making me candidate number one against the rest of the field here).

First Doyle challenged my assertion that the famous, or infamous, Madame X (Madame Guiteau) of John Singer Sargent’s (ditto on the trifecta names) The Portrait of Madame X where she flouted her stuff was a tramp, originally, I said a whore but we are being a little more high-toned now working against a blue-blooded scion. I replied, taking up way too much time away from my commentary on John White Alexander’ Isabella and the Pot of Basil at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston (see, Archives, January 15, 2019) in my second foray, that all the documentation, all the memoirs and biographies not basically done by her press agents, then or now, pointed to her sleeping her way up the food chain into French high society. And with all regard to the #MeToo movement today what of it. History is replete with woman who have used their beauty to get ahead in the world, professional beauties who we hope don’t have to do so in the future. Doyle to the contrary argued showing his knowledge of the class as well as sex line, that if Sargent painted her she must be as pure as the driven snow or he would not have truck with tramps, whores, professional beauties. We have gone over that so enough said except I still find it strange that he or anybody else wanted to spill their bile over my comment about Madame’s horrendous bird-like nose. Apparently that was a sign of beauty back then although today nothing by sorrow for her ghastly condition.                      

Now Mr. Doyle, seemingly with plenty of time on his hands indicative of the leisure class has after reading my screed on Alexander’s Isabella has challenged my claims to be an art critic, that I am a disgrace to the profession for stating that this Isabella was some kind of doped up Johns the Baptist-initiated cultist for being sexually aroused by her murdered lover’s head (by her fearful brothers) in that so-called pot of basil. Doyle apparently had not read the fine print or was so bilious about my take on Madame X that he “forgot” that I am not an art critic, not a member of the art museum curator, art gallery owner, high-end art collector, or art journal fraternity which runs the art world. I have already mentioned that I took this art assignment under duress when Greg Green approached after hearing what Leslie Dumont has said about my art “resume.” I took this assignment with the understanding that I would following my muse, my art muse, and pepper my comments with ideas, with my take, which would not be found in the vocabularies of the curators, gallery owners, collectors and journal editors. And I have not.     

What has made Doyle’s temperature rise this time, why he felt the need to foul up cyberspace was my comments about dear Isabella’s drug problem and about her devotion to that bizarre “head in a pot” cult (or platter, bowl, in hand I have seen many variations on how the severed head was handled but they all shared that fetish to worship at the shrine with sensual, sexual desire hence bizarre). He challenged my assertion based on Sam Lowell’s expertise that the plants in the jar were not harmless if symbolic basil but poppies, the stuff of opium and heroin. Sam rechecked the plants at my request and asserted that definitely the plants were poppy. Here is where the class and sex issues totally go over Doyle’s head. Like with the purity of Madame X argument he believes that Alexander would never stoop, his word, to painting some twisted dope fiend hung up on a bizarre cult. That could be left to those Frenchman of the day who made their money by titillating the plebes. Doyle seems to have been obvious to among other things in high Victorian times sniffing dope, snuff boxes, mixing up lanadum was an everyday occurrence to get through the day, especially but not exclusively by women. What about it though if it got them through the day, or through their sorrows. Beyond that I cannot educate the man, nor will I.

On to finally Whistler’s Woman in White, Symphony in White, Number 1, The White Girl or whatever name some curator or high-toned art critic wants to put on one of James McNeill Whistler’s great mood painting in order to argue that the model is either the Madonna, a whore, no, a tramp, somebody’s kept woman, a streetwalker or a nymphomaniac. I will stop there although I have not run out of names for the poor gal depending on the theory being presented. Some Earth mother thing connected with the Pre-Ralphelite Brotherhood being the most popular, although the most ludicrous since her lips are not nearly Angela Joie-full enough for Rosetti and the brethren, a sure tip off Whistler was in some deep opium funk when he created this piece and messed up the lips. Or ran out of ruby red paint. What it is not though is Whistler’s mother, oh, excuse me Symphony in Gray and Black if we want to humor the guy in his funk, and in his bogus art for art’s sake hustle like some preternatural colorist (meant to bring in big bucks from unknowing but rabid collectors looking for something for the wall above the fireplace mantle with cachet).

Let’s get real though this is not down at the heels shop girl who didn’t know the score, didn’t know a certain truth that would forever haunt her image, her reputation.   It took about my fifth time down at the National Gallery of Art in sunnier times when it was open, now closed by government shutdown to figure what was going on here. The deep symbolism which puts Brother Whistler right in vortex as the precursor of the Surrealist movement of the next century. Maybe as one art critic speculated this was a tip of the hat to the coming storm in Whistler’s America, the gathering storm when they had painter’s bloc.  Doyle is not going to like my comments on this one any more than my sexual suggestiveness regard three-name moniker Singer and Alexander and Madame X and Isabella respectively. This portrait has nothing to do with first communion-like virginity, bride of Christ or lost innocence after the Edenic fall, far from it.

What this painting is though is a homage to the Whole of Babylon, the queen bee of courtesans which is how Whistler saw his model, his girlfriend what did they call their relationship in polite society then, yes, consort. Don’t be fooled like all the high-brow Victorian art critics with their handy snuff boxes and be taken in by the white dress, the too skinny red lips, the white curtain, that very convenient white rose. That is all show. That is for the gullible art collectors and museum patrons. The key is the wolf’s head, and I am surprised nobody else has caught the naked symbolism. Although I don’t read or speak Aramaic there is a clear reference in the Book of the Dead according to the Babylonian history scholar James Cee about the wolf’s head and the Whore of Babylon. That the wolf’s head and fur were both an advertisement for a high-born courtesan and as an aphrodisiac for her clients. Nice work, James. For those who have me written down as some Freudian sexual reference cretin or frustrated post-menopausal matron well go to work. As for Doyle when he comes out of his dead faint after reading this give it your best shot. Give it your best shot.    

          

This Land IS Your Land- With Folk Troubadour Woody Guthrie In Mind.

This Land IS Your Land- With Folk Troubadour Woody Guthrie In Mind.                   

     

Some songs, no, let’s go a little wider, some music sticks with you from an early age which even fifty years later you can sing the words out chapter and verse. Like those church hymns that you were forced to sit through (when you would have rather been outside playing before you got that good dose of religion which made the hymns make sense), like the bits of music you picked up in school from silly children’s songs in elementary school to that latter time in junior high school when you got your first does of the survey of the American and world songbook once a week for the school year, or more pleasantly your coming of age music, maybe like me that 1950s classic age of rock and roll when certain songs were associated with certain rites of passage, mainly about boy-girl things. One such song from my youth, and maybe yours too, was Woody Guthrie surrogate “national anthem,” This Land is Your Land. (Surrogate in response to Irving Berlin’s God Bless America in the throes of the Great Depression that came through America, came through his Oklahoma like a blazing dust ball wind.    

Although I had immersed myself in the folk minute scene of the early 1960s as it passed through the coffeehouses and clubs of Harvard Square (and got full program play complete with folk DJs and for a time on television via the Hootenanny show) that is not where I first heard or learned the song. No for that one song I think the time and place was in seventh grade in junior high school where Mr. Dasher would each week in Music Appreciation teach us a song and then the next week expect us to be able to sing it without looking at a paper. He was kind of a nut for this kind of thing, for making us learn songs from difference genres (except the loathed, his, rock and roll) like Some Enchanted Evening from South Pacific, Stephen Foster’s My Old Kentucky Home, or Irving Berlin’s Easter Parade and stuff like that. So that is where I learned it.

Mr. Dasher might have mentioned some information about the songwriter on these things but I did not really pick up on Woody Guthrie’s importance to the American songbook until I got to that folk minute I mentioned where everybody revered him (including most prominently Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott) not so much for that song but for the million other songs that he produced seemingly at the drop of a hat before the dreaded Huntington’s disease got the better of him. Almost everybody covered him then, wrote poems and songs about him, sat at his feet in order to learn the simple way that he took song to entertain the people with.                 

It was not until sometime later that I got the drift of his early life, the life of a nomadic troubadour singing and writing his way across the land. That is what the serious folk singers were trying to emulate, that keep on moving thing that Woody perfected as he headed out of the played-out dustbowl Oklahoma night, wrote plenty of good dustbowl ballads about that too, evoking the ghost of Tom Joad in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes Of Wrath  as he went along. Wrote of the hard life of the generations drifting West to scratch out some kind of existence on the land, tame that West a bit. Wrote too of political things going on, the need for working people to unionize, the need to take care of the desperate Mexico braceros brought in to bring in the harvest and then abused and left hanging, spoke too of true to power about some men robbing you with a gun others with a fountain pen, about the beauty of America if only the robber barons, the greedy, the spirit-destroyers would let it be. Wrote too about the wide continent called America and how this land was ours, if we knew how to keep it. No wonder I remembered that song chapter and verse.             

Once Again On The 1960s Folk Minute-The Cambridge Club 47 Scene

Once Again On The 1960s Folk Minute-The Cambridge Club 47 Scene

By Sam Lowell 

I am not the only one who recently has taken a nose-dive back in time to that unique moment from the late 1950s to the mid-1960s when folk music had its minute as a popular genre. People may dispute the end-point of that minute like they do about the question of when the 1960s ended as a counter-cultural phenomenon but clearly with the advent of acid-etched rock by 1967-68 the searching for and reviving the folk roots had passed. As an anecdote in support of that proposition that is the period when I stopped taking dates to the formerly ubiquitous home away from home coffeehouses, cheap poor boy college student dates to the Harvard Square coffeehouses where for the price of a couple of cups of coffee, a shared pastry, and maybe a couple of dollars admission charge you could hear up and coming talent working out their kinks, and took them instead to the open-air fashion statement rock concerts that were abounding around the town. Some fifty years out in fits of nostalgia and maybe to sum up life’s work there have been two recent documentaries concerning the most famous Harvard Square coffeehouse of them all, the Club 47 (which still exists under the name Club Passim in a similar small venue near the Harvard Co-Op Bookstore).

One of the documentaries put out a few years ago (see above) traces the general evolution of that club in its prime when the likes of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Rush, Eric Von Schmidt, the members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band (the forming of jug bands itself a part of the roots revival we were in thrall to), and many others sharpened up their acts there. The other documentary, No Regrets (title taken from one of his most famous songs) which I have reviewed elsewhere in this space is a biopic centered on the fifty plus years in folk music of Tom Rush. Both those visual references got me thinking about how that folk scene, or better, the Harvard Square coffeehouse scene kept me from going off the rails, although that was a close thing.        

Like about a billion kids before and after in my coming of age in the early 1960s I went through the usual bouts of teenage angst and alienation aided and abetted by growing up “from hunger” among the very lowest rung of the working poor with all the pathologies associated with survival down at the base of society where the bonds of human solidarity are often times very attenuated. All of this “wisdom” of course figured out, told about, made many mistakes to gain, came later, much later because at the time I was just feeling rotten about my life, my place in the sun, and how I didn’t have a say in what was going on. Then through one source or another mainly by the accident of tuning my life-saver transistor radio on one Sunday night to listen to a favorite rock and roll DJ I found a folk music program that sounded interesting (it turned out to be the Dick Summer show on WBZ, a DJ who is featured in the Tom Rush documentary) and I was hooked by the different songs played, some mountain music, some jug, some country blues, some protest songs. Each week Dick Summer would announce who was playing where for the week and he kept mentioning various locations, including the Club 47, in Harvard Square. I was intrigued.         

One Saturday afternoon I made connections to get to a Redline subway stop which was the quickest way for me to get to Harvard Square (which was also the last stop on that line then) and walked around the Square looking into the various clubs and coffeehouses that had been mentioned by Summer and a few more as well. You could hardly walk a block without running into one or the other. Of course during the day all people were doing was sitting around drinking coffee and reading, maybe playing chess, or as I found out later huddled in small group corners working on their music (or poetry which also had some sway as a tail end of the “beat” scene) so I didn’t that day get the full sense of what was going on. A few weeks later, having been hipped to the way things worked, meaning that as long as you had coffee or something in front of you in most places you were cool I always chronically low on funds took a date, a cheap date naturally, to the Club Blue where you did not pay admission but where Eric Von Schmidt was to play. I had heard his Joshua Gone Barbados covered by Tom Rush on Dick Summer’s show and I flipped out so I was eager to hear him. So for the price of, I think, two coffees each, a stretched-out shared brownie and two subway fares we had a good time, an excellent time (although that particular young woman and I would not go on much beyond that first date since she was looking for a guy who had more dough to spend on her, and maybe a “boss” car too.

I would go over to Harvard Square many weekend nights in those days, including sneaking out of the house a few time late at night and heading over since in those days the Redline subway ran all night. That was my home away from home not only for cheap date nights depending on the girl I was interested in but when the storms gathered at the house about my doing, or not doing, this or that, stuff like that when my mother pulled the hammer down. If I had a few dollars make by caddying for the Mayfair swells at a private club a few miles from my house I would pony up the admission, or two admissions if I was lucky,  to hear Joan Baez or her sister Mimi with her husband Richard Farina, maybe Eric Von Schmidt, Tom Paxton when he was in town at the 47. If I was broke I would do my alternative, take the subway but rather than go to a club I would hang out all night at the famous Harvard Square Hayes-Bickford just up the steps from the subway stop exit. That was a crazy scene made up of winos, grifters, con men, guys and gals working off barroom drunks, crazies, and… almost every time out there would be folk-singers or poets, some known to me, others from cheap street, in little clusters, coffee mugs filled, singing or speaking low, keeping the folk tradition alive, keeping the faith that a new wind was coming across the land and they, I, wanted to catch it. Wasn’t that a time.          

I Hear Mother Africa Calling-With Odetta In Mind

I Hear Mother Africa Calling-With Odetta In Mind

They say that the blues, you know, the quintessential black musical contribution to the American songbook along with first cousin jazz that breaks you out of your depression about whatever ails you or the world, was formed down in the Mississippi muds, down in some sweat-drenched bayou, down in some woody hollow all near Mister’s plantation, mill, or store. Well they might be right in a way about how it all started in America as a coded response to Mister’s, Master’s, Captain’s wicked perverse ways back in slavery times, later back in Mister James Crow times. I do believe however they are off by several maybe more generations and off by a few thousand miles from its origins in hell-bent Africa, hell-bent when Mister’s forbears took what he thought was the measure of some poor grimy “natives” and shipped them in death slave boats and brought them to the Mississippi muds, bayous and hollows. Took peoples, proud Nubians who had created very sharp civilizations when Mister’s forbears were wondering what the hell a spoon was when placed in their dirty clenched fingers seemed, still wondered later how the heck to use the damn thing, and why and uprooted them whole.          

Uprooted you hear but somehow that beat, that tah, tat, tah, tah, tat, tah played on some stretched string tightened against some cabin post by young black boys kept Africa home alive. Kept it alive while women, mothers, grandmothers and once in a while despite the hard conditions some great-grandmother who nursed and taught the little ones the old home beat, made them keep the thing alive. Kept alive too Mister’s forced on them religion strange as it was, kept the low branch spirituals that mixed with blues alive in plain wood churches but kept it alive. So a few generations back black men took all that sweat, anger, angst, humiliation, and among themselves “spoke” blues on juke joint no electricity Saturday nights and sang high collar blues come Sunday morning plain wood church time.  Son House, Charley Patton, Skip James, Sleepy John Estes, Mississippi John Hurt and a lot of guy who went to their graves undiscovered in the sweat sultry Delta night carried on, and some sisters too, some younger sisters who heard the beat and heard the high collar Sunday spirituals. Some sisters like Odetta, big-voiced, who made lots of funny duck searching for roots white college students mainly marvel that they had heard some ancient Nubian Queen, some deep-voiced Mother Africa calling them back to the cradle of civilization.           

The New Breed Of Sci-Fi Adventure-“Star Wars: The Force Awakens” (2015)-A Film Review

The New Breed Of Sci-Fi Adventure-“Star Wars: The Force Awakens” (2015)-A Film Review    

DVD Review

By Laura Perkins

Star Wars: The Force Awakens (VII), starring Daisy Ridley, Adam Driver, John Boyega, Oscar Isaac, Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, 2015

         

Science Fiction movies sure aren’t what they used to be. Although I was, am not a great fan of the genre and have taken this assignment to review one of the seemingly never-ending Star Wars sagas (number 7 if you can believe it) that ripple through the cinematic universe every few years to give flagging studio tickets sales a boost as our boss Greg Green said when he assigned this beast to “broaden my horizons” I sat through my fair share of them growing up. Growing up just outside of Albany, New York my older brother would in the interest making his “baby-sitting” of me woes lighter take us in his car to the Majestic Theater in downtown Albany on Saturday afternoon’s to the matinees.

Of course since the average film was much shorter then usually around an hour and one half there would be a double-feature, sometimes a horror movie and a sci fi or sometimes two sci fi’s for the afternoon. What has struck me as amazing according to my recollections (and some “cheap sheet” research via invaluable for movie summaries if not for everything Wikipedia) after viewing this chapter of Star Wars was how differently these films have tracked society in their respective times.  Then, the late 1950s maybe early 1960s these sci fi films had “aliens” (not earthly aliens seeking shelter from earth’s storms in places like America to work and raise families without fear of death and disaster from the forces controlling their home societies) who were inevitably scary and ready to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting earth. Were in those deep freeze Cold War days foreboding when we were not quite sure we would make it from one day to the next if the “big one,” the nuclear bombs we rightly feared would blow us away. And the storylines and bad guy monsters and weird forces from outer space left no room for compromise-it was earthly civilization, us, such as it was or them.

Naturally the earthly civilization won out over the mutants and creeps who tried to do us in (read in newspeak the Soviets). Naturally as well in those days the leaders, usually one leader, who figured out how to tame the alien menace was an All-American, uh, guy who as Si Lannon loves to say went mano a mano with these unearthly forces. Saved civilization and grabbed the good-looking young woman in the fall-out (some things haven’t changed witness the younger versions of Hans Solo and Princess now General Leia and their courting ritual in the first three Star War sagas from about a million years ago it seems). Alternatively beat down the mad scientist who created some kid scary stuff, usually grossly radioactive and had to take the fall.      

That was then though. Maybe it is the intervening years where the Soviet menace has turned to dust and those “alien” enemies, the “them” have gone from outer space to around the corner and the world having explored the skies and found nothing unfriendly or otherwise (the cynic would say thus far) that has changed things. Add in a little what I would call sarcastically “universal multi-culturalism” and you have a very different mix. Now those scary monsters who populate the Star Wars alternative planets are just regular guys and gals who hang around bars mixing in with humans and whatnot.

Gruesome monsters that still scare me who I wouldn’t want to run into in daylight much less a dark alley at night but who we can’t offend because they might be allies, and besides “body-shaming” is socially taboo these days. More hopefully real live earthling minorities as in this film actually do good in the struggle against what is now not just earthly evil but universal. But perhaps the biggest difference, surprise is that those delicate passive young women of the 1950s have been transformed into righteous warriors in their own right kicking ass and taking numbers just like the good guys of yore. Here the warrior Rey played by Daisy Ridley showing her metal to good effect and throwing down bad guys left and right.  

All of those changes are basically pluses but that does not stop the story line from being the same old same old-here the latest incarnation of the bad guys, the First Order, looking for universal dominance against the gnat-like Resistance (a very appropriate term these days in America). Here the line-up is a young woman, a young black man, a gung-ho pilot, Hans Solo, General Leia against that mass of incompetent soldiers in that silly white armor aided by massive firepower which would make the Pentagon generals green with envy, led by General Huk, directed by ugly Supreme leader Snoke with the ringer being an imitation Darth Vader dressed in Johnny Cash black Kylo.

The ringer part-this Kylo aka Ben is none other than the progeny of Hans and Leia when they were doing their own version of mano a mano. Get this though Kylo aka Ben is so enamored of the dark side that he kills his Oedipal father Hans. Nothing but mourning all around. Except the Resistance is able to crush the First Order (for now) and that young woman, that Rey, gets to Luke Skywalker which is what this whole trip was all about. Stay tuned for the next one (2017 already filmed and shown) and the next one for 2019 just in time once again to boost flagging studio ticket sales. Nothing here made me want to grab onto the genre for dear life.               

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.