In The Beginning Was...The Jug- The Music of Jim Kweskin And The Jug Band Plus Friends - An Encore

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for jug bands to give a little flavor to this sketch.

CD Review

Jug Band Extravaganza, Jim Kweskin, Geoff Muldaur, Maria Muldaur, John Sebastian and guest, Folk Era Records, 2010

It is a fact, a known historical fact, maybe unnoted in the schoolboy history books but a fact nevertheless, that jug music was invented in 1961, make that the night of October 23, 1961, in the cellars of 47 Mount Auburn Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts 02139. And that invention was made by one Fitz-Hugh Montgomery, previously a graduate student in anthropology at Harvard University, and just then, well, just then between things, and working as a dishwasher/general roustabout at the establishment located above those cellars. That night he stumbled upon this world-historic fact-the empty apple cider jugs piling up down there having previously been emptied into folk coffee mugs and awaiting salvation in next trash pick-up made sounds when the cellar windows were opened and the wind was able to reach their small mouths. Made to one Fitz-Hugh Montgomery’s ear music. Serious new wave-breaking music.

Now like all great inventions this was not sheer accident because, as fate would have it, Fitz-Hugh had been fretting over the problem of the wasteland of the contemporary music scene since he dropped out of that anthropology program to seek a newer world, a world as an easy rider cosmic biker in this wicked old universe (Harley, naturally, not some old British import like a Vincent Black Lightning, Christ no).

He fretted over the choices, the dish-water choices (no pun intended), that he heard wherever he turned musically. Stuff, trash stuff, like Oh, Donna, Mack The Knife and Running Bear that filled the radio airwaves ever since Elvis went in the tank, Jerry Lee got caught up in his kissing cousin love thing, and Chuck got put away for messing with Mister’s women. Worse the Henry Mancini and Percy Faith orchestra sleep stuff, and also that old-time Ellington Taking The A-Train jazz stuff. Hell, even the stuff upstairs, that earnest plaintive Kumbaya and nasal twangy the times-are-a-changing and something is blowing-in-the-wind folk stuff was getting on his nerves. More importantly, no, most importantly, there was no music alive to help him get his easy rider mama, Larissa Bell, in the mood, and if I need to tell you the mood for what then please go back to listening to Mister Percy Faith and his Orchestra, to “do the do (see the previous part of this sentence)” with her easy rider man. Thus jug.

Some have argued over the years, like those infernal folk archivists Alan Lomax and Pete Seeger, years that the jug has been around musically for a long time and they point to Gus Cannon, the one hundred and one sheik bands (most famously the Mississippi Sheiks) and the like in the 1920s. Hell, those guys were using soda bottles, ball jars, or something, not the deep resonance of the apple cider jug. Kid’s stuff. Others have argued, like the music critics for The NewYorker and The New York Review Of Booksrespectively, that they hear some jug in Beethoven’s Fifth. Jesus, they either had a fifth or should take the fifth. And on and on it goes. Strictly error, serious error fit for those academic types. You heard the real deal and heard it here first.

And what you will also hear is that like all great inventions there are those who are always trying to get their grimy little mitts on the next best thing. And that was the case here with jug as the previously nowhere, nothing Jim, Geoff, Maria, Fritz, Mel Band (very snappy band name, right) interlopers that headlined upstairs one night heard those cellar sounds, grabbed an empty apple cider jug from a table and morphed into Jim Kweskin and the Jug Band (another snappy band name, right, but what do you expect of thieves) and ran with the thing to the heights.

Ran with it for a time until, like all thing musical, it ran out of air, or ran into hubris, or… well you fill in the or. As so the jug fell dormant until the inevitable revival, the inevitable 1960s folk minute revival revival, reared its ugly head and morphed into this album. The older but wiser, raised the kids or raised hell, reflection that in that 1960s night to be, as Wordsworth said, “to be young was very heaven,” needed to break out to a new generation. So the old now AARP-worthy gang got together in ‘Frisco, after much prodding, procrastination and many snafus, and delivered up once more time

that old- time jug religion for the aficionados, filled with Sweet Sue, Richland Woman, Wild Ox Moan, Stealin Stealin moments.

And Fitz-Hugh Montgomery? He later went on to find some nails in that old cellar, and some wood, to make the very first nail chime instrument known to humankind, also not duly noted by history. But remember here is where you got the “skinny” on the who, when, where, what and why of the jug. And that in the beginning …was the jug. Oh yah, and check this album out to prove my point.

Dear All, Once again, our tax dollars are at work as Israel's brutal assault on Gaza escalates, including a potential ground invasion. The violence on both sides must end, including the rocket launches from Gaza aimed at Israeli civilians. We mourn the dead on both sides (MSNBC reports this morning 95 dead in Gaza, including 24 children, with three Israelis also dead.) As U.S. taxpayers, we must speak out against the asymmetrical attack by Israel enabled by the annual $4 billion in U.S. military aid. As is the norm in these situations, U.S. weaponry is almost surely being used illegally by Israel (in violation of the Arms Export Control Act as well as international humanitarian law) against civilians living under a de facto blockade in Gaza. Please take action: Call the White House at 202-456-1111 and the State Department at 202-647-6575. · Demand that the U.S. exert immediate pressure on Israel to end its violent aggression; · Demand that Israel immediately lift its illegal blockade and siege of Gaza · Demand the U.S. exert diplomatic pressure on Israel for an immediate cease-fire and initiate an investigation into Israel’s misuse of U.S. weapons to commit human rights abuses of Palestinians. If you voted for President Obama, I don't think it would hurt to note that in your call. Sen. John McCain has called for former President Bill Clinton to be appointed as a peace envoy to help end this conflict, which is not a bad idea in terms of bringing someone with prestige into the picture (former President Jimmy Carter might even be better but we won't quibble). This is surely a terrible humanitarian crisis, but also perhaps an opportunity to seek not just a cease fire, but an end to the blockade of Gaza and a way forward toward a just and lasting peace for both the Palestinian and Israeli peoples. Other resources from colleagues of Peace Action: Statement by American Friends Service Committee (Quakers) http://afsc.org/story/afsc-calls-immediate-end-violence-gaza-and-israel American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Commitee http://www.adc.org/media/press-releases/2012/november-2012/take-action-help-gaza/ U.S. Campaign to End the Israeli Occupation http://www.endtheoccupation.org/article.php?id=2948 Jewish Voice for Peace http://jewishvoiceforpeace.org/campaigns/take-action-for-gaza Humbly for Peace, Kevin Martin Executive Director Peace Action

l

Nobel Laureates Salute Bradley Manning. Take action 9/27, Watch David Coombs 12/3 Is this email not displaying correctly? View it in your browser. Nobel Laureates Salute Bradley Manning Following last Wednesday's announcement that PFC Bradley Manning acknowledges releasing classified documents as an act of conscience, Nobel Peace Laureates Archbishop Desmond Tutu (Nobel Peace Prize, 1984), Mairead Maguire (Nobel Peace Prize, 1977) and Adolfo Pérez Esquivel (Nobel Peace Prize, 1980), have published a letter in support of the WikiLeaks whistle-blower. Their letter states: "As people who have worked for decades against the increased militarization of societies and for international cooperation to end war, we have been deeply dismayed [PFC Manning's] treatment... Responsible governance requires fully informed citizens who can question their leadership. For those citizens worldwide who do not have direct, intimate knowledge of war, yet are still affected by rising international tensions and failing economies, WikiLeaks releases attributed to Bradley Manning have provided unparalleled access to important facts." Read the full letter at: The Nation, The Guardian (UK), or at bradleymanning.org When Bradley Manning was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize earlier this year, world famous Laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu stated that: "The effect of his alleged actions was to hold to account powerful people with selfish motives who preferred to remain unaccountable and anonymous, and has been applauded by many righteous people around the world. I implore the United States government to prioritize addressing the systemic frailties exposed in the leaked documents above persecuting whistle-blowers." Archbishop Tutu was himself honored by the Nobel committee for helping end the system of South African apartheid. Donate now to the Bradley Manning defense fund. For more information about the defense fund click here. Upcoming Events Protest at Fort Meade Fort Meade, MD Nov. 27th. International Call to Action Worldwide Nov. 27th - Dec. 3rd. Presentation by Bradley's Lawyer Washington, DC Dec. 3rd. View more solidarity events and/or add your own!

Defend The Palestinian People - Boston Rally Today

e-mail from Students for Justice in Palestine at Northeastern U:

Hi everyone!

I have just created an event on Facebook for a Boston-wide demonstration this Tuesday at 7pm in Copley Square. For those of you that would like to invite people through means other than Facebook (link to event below) or if you don't use Facebook here is the event description:

As the days progress and deaths escalate, our need to continue demonstrations against Israel's actions is ESSENTIAL. Israel's assault on Gaza will not be tolerated, and as such we once again CALL ON EVERYONE to take a stand against these ongoing massacres! This rally is being organized in advance so that we can ensure that WE ALL stand together and stand strong in solidarity with Gaza. Each and every one of you need to invite everyone you know to this event, so that this action can be as EFFECTIVE as possible. Bring flags, posters, flyers, friends, and your VOICES! Demonstrations are taking place around the world so it is up to us to maintain that presence here in Boston and the US in general - especially since we are in a country that has officially expressed its FULL support towards Israel's military actions. WE WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS. Informational flyers will be posted so that you can print and bring them to distribute to the general public during the march. Side note: This demonstration in no way means there will not be any rallies today or on Monday, this demonstration is being planned ahead of time so that we have the BEST possible chance of reaching the largest number of people. Please keep your eyes and ears open for information about sooner demonstrations. LETS SHOW BOSTON WHAT WE THINK ABOUT ISRAEL'S ACTIONS! THIS IS OUR PRIORITY! Invite EVERYONE - on Facebook, Twitter, by email, etc. Follow and tag us on twitter: @NortheasternSJP FREE PALESTINE!

https://www.facebook.com/#!/events/116427225184555/

Please forward and post on websites.

Palestinian civilian toll climbs in Gaza

Loading... Share No Thanks Must Read?Thank YouYes 433

Email Story Print

By IBRAHIM BARZAK and KARIN LAUB, AP
2 hours ago

A member of the Abdel Aal family is rescued after his family house collapsed...

GAZA CITY, Gaza Strip — Israeli aircraft struck crowded areas in the Gaza Strip on Monday, driving up the civilian death toll and in one case devastating several homes belonging to one clan — the fallout from a new tactic in Israel's six-day-old offensive meant to quell Hamas rocket fire on Israel.

Escalating its bombing campaign, Israel on Sunday began attacking homes of activists in Hamas, the Islamic militant group that rules Gaza. These attacks have led to a sharp spike in civilian casualties, killing 24 civilians in less than 24 hours, a Gaza health official said. Overall, the offensive that began Wednesday killed 91 Palestinians, including 50 civilians.

The rising civilian toll was likely to intensify pressure on Israel to end the fighting. Hundreds of civilian casualties in an Israeli offensive in Gaza four years ago led to fierce international condemnation of Israel.

Hamas fighters, meanwhile, have fired hundreds of rockets into Israel in the current round of fighting, including 12 on Monday, among them one that hit an empty school.

The new airstrikes came as Egypt was trying to broker a cease-fire, with the help of Turkey and Qatar. The Turkish foreign minister and a delegation of Arab foreign ministers were expected in Gaza on Tuesday. However, Israel and Hamas appeared far apart in their demands, and a quick end to the fighting seemed unlikely.

In Monday's violence, a missile struck a three-story home in the Gaza City's Zeitoun area, flattening the building and badly damaging several nearby homes. Shell-shocked residents searching for belongings climbed over debris of twisted metal and cement blocks in the street.

The strike killed two children and two adults, and injured 42 people, said Gaza heath official Ashraf al-Kidra.

Residents said Israel first sent a warning strike at around 2 a.m. Monday, prompting many residents in the area to flee their homes. A few minutes later, heavy bombardment followed.

Ahed Kitati, 38, had rushed out after the warning missile to try to hustle people to safety. But he was fatally struck by a falling cinderblock, leaving behind a pregnant wife, five young daughters and a son, the residents said.

Sitting in mourning with her mother and siblings just hours after her father's death, 11-year-old Aya Kitati clutched a black jacket, saying she was freezing, even though the weather was mild. "We were sleeping, and then we heard the sound of the bombs," she said, then broke down sobbing.

Ahed's brother, Jawad Kitati, said he plucked the lifeless body of a 2-year-old relative from the street and carried him to an ambulance. Blood stains smeared his jacket sleeve.

Another clan member, Haitham Abu Zour, 24, woke up to the sound of the warning strike and hid in a stairwell. He emerged to find his wife dead and his two infant children buried under the debris, but safe.

Clan elder Mohammed Azzam, 61, denied that anyone in his family had any connections to Hamas.

"The Jews are liars," he said. "No matter how much they pressure our people, we will not withdraw our support for Hamas."

Late Sunday, an Israeli missile killed a father and his eight-year-old son on the roof of their Gaza City home. The father, a Hamas policeman, was on the roof to repair a leaking water tank, his relatives said.

In another area of Gaza City, the patriarch of the Daloo family, Jamal, sat in mourning for 11 members of his family killed in a missile strike on his home Sunday. Among the dead were his wife, his son, daughter-in-law, his sister and four grandchildren. His face swollen from crying, he embraced relatives and neighbors paying their condolences.

The mourners sat in plastic chairs just meters away from bulldozers clearing the ruins of Daloo's home. His 16-year-old daughter Yara was still missing and believed under the rubble, family members said.

Daloo, who is left with two sons, tried to take comfort in the belief that the loss of his family was God's will and that the dead are now in paradise. He vehemently disputed Israel's initial claim that a senior operative of Islamic Jihad, a smaller sister group of Hamas, was hiding in his house. He said his son Mohammed, one of those killed, was a policeman in the Gaza police, but not an activist.

"The international public opinion witnessed the facts," he said of the tragedy that befell him. "This does not require my words."

Also Monday, Israel bombarded the remains of the former national security compound in Gaza City. Flying shrapnel killed one child and wounded others living nearby, al-Kidra said. Five farmers were killed in two separate strikes, al-Kidra said, including three who he said had been mistakenly identified earlier by Hamas security officials as Islamic Jihad fighters.

Other strikes killed two fighters on a motorcycle in southern Gaza and two passengers in a taxi that had put a press signs in the windshield, al-Kidra said.

In addition to 91 Palestinians killed over the past six days, some 720 were wounded, al-Kidra said.

On the Israeli side, three civilians have died from Palestinian rocket fire and dozens have been wounded. An Israeli rocket-defense system has intercepted hundreds of rockets bound for populated areas.

Israeli police spokesman Micky Rosenfeld said 12 rockets had struck Israel by late Monday morning, including one that hit a school. Schools in southern Israel have been closed since the offensive started.

Israel launched the current offensive after months of intensifying rocket fire from the Gaza Strip, which continued despite the strikes.

In the night from Sunday to Monday, aircraft targeted about 80 militant sites, including underground rocket-launching sites, smuggling tunnels and training bases, as well as Palestinian command posts and weapons storage facilities located in buildings owned by militant commanders, the Israeli military said in a release. Aircraft and gunboats joined forces to attack Hamas police headquarters, and Palestinian rocket squads were struck as they prepared to fire, the release said.

In all, 1,350 targets in the Gaza Strip have been struck since the Israeli operation began. However, military activity over the past two nights has dropped off as targets change and international efforts to wrest a cease-fire plod ahead.

Israel and Hamas have put forth widely divergent conditions for a truce. But failure to end the fighting threatens to touch off an Israeli ground invasion, for which thousands of soldiers, backed by tanks and armored vehicles, have already been mobilized and dispatched to Gaza's border.

President Barack Obama said he was in touch with players across the region in hopes of halting the fighting. While defending Israel's right to defend itself against the rocket fire, he also warned of the risks the Jewish state would take if it were to expand its air assault into a ground war.

"If we see a further escalation of the situation in Gaza, the likelihood of us getting back on any kind of peace track that leads to a two-state solution is going to be pushed off way into the future," Obama said.

___

Associated Press writer Amy Teibel in Jerusalem contributed reporting.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- The Late Caleb Marcus Jackson’s Hills and Hollows Of Appalachia , Take Two

The late Caleb Marcus Jackson, Jr. (always called Calvin Marcus to distinguish him from his father, Caleb Marcus Jackson, Sr. by Mother Jackson and anyone else who was unsure of themselves when calling out for a Jackson, father or son) knew how to tell a story, knew the rhythm, knew how to get emotionally involved with whatever subject he was going on about, and best of all he knew how to wrap it up with a snappy punch line or some ponderous moral. Yah, Caleb Marcus, could tell a story, tell them in that southeast Kentucky mountain hills and hollows drawl that was not as harsh as deep south planation two hundred years at the bourbon barrel, handkerchief in hand mopping off the midday (hell midnight too) sweat in high season summer, rousting n----rs out of their pre-dawn cabins to go to the fields and cut that damn white ball boll cotton in order to keep that bourbon barrel well-filled. Nor was that Caleb Marcus drawl so pale, so say Maryland tidewaters pale, that those from further south thought the speaker was trying to pass, pass for a yankee. So put the drawl, the two hundred years secluded drawl perfected by those who did not go further west than Kentuck when the soil finally ran out back east or decided to go west but wound up in the hills and hollows and for lack of anything better to do settled in, poor boy settled in, put in a thousand years of grit, put in some detail and you had a classic storyteller, a plebeian master at work.

Except Caleb Marcus had one problem, or maybe two problems but they kind of went together. A problem for me anyway when I decided that I would try to get some of his stuff printed after I had tracked him down in Prestonsburg, Kentucky where I had first run into him about twenty-five years ago when I was doing a series of articles entitled Brothers Under The Bridge for the now long defunct East Bay Eye (California) on the fate (and/or plight) of various Vietnam veterans I had run into out under the bridges, in the ravines, along the railroads tracks and other “jungle’ spots dotted in the Southern California landscape a couple who told me about Caleb. First, he couldn’t read, read so good anyway, and what he could read was done in such a painfully halting fashion that it was better not to put him, or me, in that quandary. Second, Calvin Mark could not write, write much more than his name. When I asked him why he never learned those two skills he said, “there weren’t no call for learning them,” and so he didn’t.

Me, well, I just kept up with his stories as best I could, writing down little notes, or keeping them in my head for sunnier times when they could be expanded into something bigger, but now, now that he is gone, a sketch will have to do-a sketch from Caleb Marcus about what it was like on Saturday night, or at least one late 1960s Saturday night after he had gotten back to the “real” world (from Vietnam) down in the hills and hollows, down where the mountain winds blow through and create a song of their own. A night when fearing some Sunday morning preacher man retribution, but willing to risk it, the god-fearing brethren let loose, let the liquor (corn of course where would one get city Johnny Walker some color down in the rutted ravens, or have cash money for such city goods) flow, got out the fiddles, banjos, guitars, mandolins, bells, washboards and whatever else would make noise and headed for Farmer Johnson’s old unused broke down red barn (unused except for Saturday night dances and drinking bouts, liquor courtesy of Moonshine Prescott whose moniker speaks for itself and also acted as dance sponsor, as long as anybody around the hollows could remember, and they are a long-memoried people).

This one night, the night Caleb Marcus spoke of, the Prestonsburg Sheiks (some of whom would later go on to form the mountain music-famous Kentucky Sheiks and receive a record contract from Decal Records, after they had been heard over in Hazard by one of their agents who had been sent out to scour the countryside, sour those damn hills and hollows, looking for talent for their mountain music division in the wake of the success of the Carter Family revival) were brought in to play since the banjo player was engaged to Miss Catherine Prescott, one of Moonshine Prescott’s daughters.

In any case bringing in this locally famous talent in the music-starved hills and hollows assured a great turn-out. And plenty of business for Moonshine Prescott (plenty of corn liquor business if you are clueless), plenty of loose talk, plenty of flirting (and more) and plenty of heaven- sent music.

Listen to the details (spruced up a little by me in the language department but pure Caleb Marcus in the telling) of this one, about a guy, a yankee guy, a guy named Frank (I think that was the name Caleb mentioned although my notes have a couple of names, but the important thing was this guy was strictly a yankee), who found himself at that dance that night with a gal, a flat-lands Indiana gal named Angelica, who had kin in area and who had come through Prestonsburg just in time to learn about the magic of the mountains down Caleb Marcus’s way. Caleb had picked this Frank up hitchhiking outside of Lexington (Kentucky, okay) while he was transporting whatever he transported on his job for Giant Trucking and was heading back to home base Prestonsburg. This is maybe four or five years after the incidents described in the story. They got to talking Frank, mainly, talking about why he wanted to get back to southeastern Kentucky and so to while away the time Frank told him why he was heading that way.

It seems that Frank and Angelica had started out in Steubenville up the Ohio River in the summer of 1969 where Angelica had been serving them off the arm at some backwater truck-stop diner when Frank drifted in after being let off by a truck driver who had picked him up on the hitchhike road in Boston. This was just supposed to be a way-station stop for Frank who was heading west to California, in search of whatever guys were searching for in the late 1960s. They hit it off right away, and in 1960s fashion, Angelica ditched her job and joined Frank on the road west. This story is really about a detour as will be explained because they headed south first before moving west. Calvin Mark said some other stuff I forgot before this part but I have lost the notes so let’s pick it up where Caleb has this Frank explaining how they wound up at that red barn:

“In the few weeks that Angelica had been working long hours at the diner trying to help make a stake to head west (I was washing dishes in the diner and doing odd jobs as a gas jockey as well) she served many of the truckers whose rigs were idling in the truck stop rest area we were cruising for rides [on the first day they finally started heading west]. So, naturally, she tried to find out where some of those that she knew were heading. This day, they were heading mainly east, or anyway not west. Finally, she ran into one burly teamster, Eddie, who was heading down Route 7 along the Ohio River to catch Interstate 64 further down river and then across through to Lexington, Kentucky. Angelica was thrilled because, as it turned out, she had kin [her term, okay], a cousin or something, down in Prestonsburg, Kentucky whom she hadn’t seen in a while and where we could stay for a few days and take in the mountain air (her idea of rest, mine was strictly ocean breezes, thank you).

I tried, tried desperately, without being obnoxious about it, to tell her that heading south was not going to get us to the west very easily. She would have none of it, and she rightly said, that we were in no rush and what was wrong with a little side trip to Kentucky anyway. Well, I suppose in the college human nature course, Spat-ology 101, if there was such a course, and they taught it, I should have had enough sense to throw in the towel. After all this was Angelica’s first, now seriously, whimsical venture out on the road. And I did, in the end, throw in the towel, except not for the reason that you think.

What Angelica didn’t know until later was that I was deathly afraid of going to Kentucky. See, I had set myself up to the world as, and was in fact in my head, a Yankee, an Oceanside Yankee, if you like. I was born in Massachusetts and have the papers to prove it, but on those papers there is an important fact included. My father’s place of birth was Hazard, Kentucky probably not more than fifty to one hundred miles away from Prestonsburg. He was born down in the hills and hollows of mining country, coal mining country, made famous in song and legend. And also made infamous (to me) by Michael Harrington’s Other America which described in detail the plight of Appalachian whites, my father’s people. And also, as a result of the publicity about the situation down there, the subject in my early 1960s high school of a clothing drive to help them out. My father had left the mines when World War II started, enlisted in the Marines, saw his fair share of battles in the Pacific, got stationed before discharge at a Naval Depot in Massachusetts and never looked back. And see I never wanted him to look back. Like I said I threw in the towel, but I was not happy about it. Not happy at all.

Actually the ride down Route 7 was pretty uneventful and, for somebody who did not feel comfortable looking at trees and mountains, some of the scenery was pretty breath-taking. That is until we started getting maybe twenty miles from Prestonsburg and the air changed, the scenery changed, and the feel of the social milieu changed. See we were getting in the edges of coal country, not the serious “Bloody Harlan” stuff of legend but the older, scrap heap part that had been worked over, and “worked out” long along. The coal bosses had taken the earth’s assets and left the remnants behind to foul the air and foul the place.

But, mostly, and here is where I finally understood why my father took his chances in World War II and also why he never looked back, shacks. Nothing but haphazardly placed unpainted shacks, hard-scrabble patched roofs just barely covering them. With out-houses, out-houses can you believe that in America. And plenty of kids hanging out in the decidedly non-manicured front yards waiting… well, just waiting. All that I can say about my feelings at the time was that I would be more than willing to crawl on all fours to get back to my crummy old growing up homestead rather than fight the dread of this place.

Fortunately Angelica’s kin (second cousin), Annadeene, husband, both about twenty, and two kids , lived further down the road, out of town, in a trailer camp which the husband, Fred, had expanded so that it had the feel of a small country house. Most importantly it had indoor plumbing and a spare room where Angelica and I could sleep and put our stuff. Fred, as I recall, was something of a skilled mechanic (coal equipment mechanic) who worked for a firm that was indirectly connected to the Eastern Kentucky coal mines.

This Prestonsburg was nothing but one of a thousand such towns that I have passed through. A main street with a few essential stores, some boarded up retail space and then you are out of town. Moreover, Route 7 as it turned into Route 23 heading into Prestonsburg and then further down turned into nothing but an old country, pass at your own risk, country road about where Angelica’s cousin lived. What I am trying to get at though is that although these people were in the 20th century they were somewhat behind the curve. This is, as it probably was in my father’s time, patriotic country, country where you did your military service came home, worked, if you could find it, got married and raised a family. Just in tougher circumstances than elsewhere. [Caleb Marcus chuckled over that one, especially since this Frank was clueless that he had been born and raised right in the middle of this coal slag heap.]

I understood that part. What I did not understand then, and am still somewhat confused about, is the insularity of the place. The wariness, serious wariness, of strangers even of strangers brought to the hills and hollows by kin. I was not well received at least first, and I still am not quite sure if I ever was, by Angelica’s kin and I suppose if I thought about it while they had heard of “hippies” (every male with beard, long hair, and jeans was suspected of belonging to that category) Prestonsburg was more like something from Merle Haggard’s Okie From Muskogee lyrics than Haight-Ashbury. [Another Caleb chuckle, this yankee kid really had his say and some stuff to get off his chest that day.] Angelica kept saying that I would grow on them (like I did on her) but I knew, knew down deep that we had best get out of there. I kept pressing the issue but she refused to listen to any thoughts of our leaving until after Saturday night’s barn dance. After all Fred and Annadeene had “‘specially invited us to go with them, ” she said. We could leave Sunday morning but not before. Christ, a hillbilly hoe-down.

I would have felt no compulsion to go into anything but superficial detail about this barn dance but something happened requiring more detail. Otherwise this scene lacks completeness. I will say that I have a very clear picture of Angelica being fetching for this dance. All her feminine wiles got a workout that night. What I can’t remember is what she wore or how she wore her hair (up, I think) but the effect on me (and the other guys) was calculated to make me glad, glad as hell, that we stayed for this thing. What I can remember vividly though is that this barn dance actually took place in a barn, just a plain old ordinary barn that had been used in this area for years (according to the oldsters since back in the 1920s) [Caleb-1905] for the periodic dances that filled up the year and broke the monotony of the mountain existence. The old faded red-painted barn, sturdily build to withstand the mountain winds and containing a stage for such occasions was something out of a movie, some movie that you have seen, so you have some idea of what it was like even if you have never been within a hundred miles of a barn.

Moreover the locals had gone to some effort to decorate the place, provide plenty of refreshments and use some lighting to good effect. What was missing was any booze. This was a “dry” county then (and maybe still is) but not to worry wink, wink there was plenty of “white lightning” around out in the makeshift dirt parking lot where clusters of good old boys hovered around certain cars whose owners had all you needed (and who all worked for Moonshine Prescott, the guy who was sponsoring the dance and the king pin of the local corn liquor industry). Just bring your own fixings. After we had checked out the arrangements in the barn and Annadeene had introduced us to her neighbors Fred tapped me on the shoulder and “hipped” me to the liquor scene. We went outside. Fred talked quietly to one of the busy car owners and then produced a small jar for my inspection. “Hey, wait,” he said “you have to cut that stuff a little with some water if you are not used to it.” I took my jar, added some water, and took a swig. Jesus Christ, I almost fell down the stuff was so powerful. [Caleb: damn right.]

Look, I was used to drinking whiskey straight up, or I thought I drank whiskey straight up but after one swig, one swig, my friends, I confess I was a mere teetotaler. Several minutes later we went back inside and I nursed, literally nursed, that jar for the rest of the night. But you know I got “high”off it and was in good spirits. So good that I started dancing with Angelica once the coterie of banjo players, fiddlers, guitarists and mandolin players got finished warming up, a group calling itself the Prestonsburg Sheiks. I am not much of a dancer under the best of circumstances but, according to her, I did okay that night.

Hey, you’d expect that the music was something out of the Grand Ole Opry, some Hee-Haw hoe-down stuff, some Arkansas Jamboree hokum, right? Forget that. See back in the mountains they did not have access to much television or sheet music or other such refinements. What they played they learned from mama and papa, or some uncle who got it from god knows where. It’s all passed down from something like time immemorial and then traced back to the old county, the British Isles mainly. Oh sure there was a “square” hoe-down thing or two but what I heard that night was something out of the mountain night high-powered eerie winds as they rolled down the hills and hollows (hollas, if you are from there). Something that spoke of hard traveling first from the old country when your luck ran out there, then from the east coast of America when that got too crowded and you just sat down when you hit those grey-blue mountains, or maybe, although I never asked (and under the circumstances would not have dared to ask) formed their version of the great American West night, and this was as far as they got, or cared to go.

Some of this music I knew from my folk experiences in Boston and Cambridge when everybody, including me, was looking for the roots of folk music. Certainly I knew Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies when the band played it instrumentally. That was one of the first songs, done by gravelly-voiced Dave Van Ronk, I heard on the folk radio station that I listened to. But, see, back in those early days that stuff, for the most part, was too, well you know, too my father’s music for me to take seriously. Bob Dylan was easier to listen to for a message that “spoke” to me. But this night I thrilled to hear real pros going one-on-one to out-fiddle, out-banjo, out-mandolin, out, out-any instrument each other in some mad dash to appease the mountain nymphs, or whatever or whoever was being evoked to keep civilization away from the purity of the music. That night was as close as I got to my roots, and feeling good about those roots, and also as close as I got to Angelica.

About 12:30 or one o’clock the dance broke up, although as we headed down the rutted, jagged street we could still hear banjos and fiddles flailing away to see who really was “king of the hill.”Angelica said she was glad that we stayed, and I agreed. She also said that, yes, I was right; it was time to head west. She said it in such a way that I felt that she could have been some old time pioneer woman who once she recognized that the land was exhausted knew that the family had to pull up stakes and push on. It was just a matter of putting the bundles together and saying goodbye to the neighbors left behind. Needless to say old resourceful road companion Angelica, sweet, fetching Angelica put that fetchiness to good use and had us lined up for a ride from another Eddie truck driver who, if he was sober enough, was heading out with a load at 6:00 AM to Winchester just outside Lexington from where we could make better connections west. 6:00 AM, are you kidding? I was still wearing about eight pound of that white lightning, or whatever it was. Angelica merely pointed out in her winsome, fetching way that nobody forced me to drink that rotgut (her word) liquor when softer refreshments had been available inside. Touché, 6:00 AM it is.

Dog tired, smelling of a distillery, or some old-time hardware store (where the white lightning ingredients probably came from) Angelica and I laid our heads down to get a few hours sleep. Gently she nuzzled up to my side (how she did it through the alcoholic haze I do not know) and gave every indication that she wanted to make love. Now we are right next door to the two unnamed sleeping children, sleeping the sleep of the just, and as she got more aggressive we have to be, or we think we have to be, more quiet. No making the earth under the Steubenville truck stop motel cabin shake [a reference to the first night they made love] shake that night. And, as we talked about it on the road later, that was not what was in her mind. She just wanted to show, in a very simple way, that she appreciated that I had stayed, that I had been wise enough to figure out how long we should stay, and that, drunk or sober, I would take her feelings into account. Not a bad night’s work. And so amid some low giggles we did our exploration. Oh, here is the part that will tell you more than a little about Angelica. She also wanted to please me this night because she did not know, given the vagaries of the road, when we would be able to do it again. Practical girl.

In the groggy, misty, dark before dawn, half awake, no quarter awake night Angelica tapped me to get up. We quickly packed, she ate a little food (I could barely stand never mind do something as complicated as eat food), and we made our goodbyes, genuine this morning by all parties. As we went out the front trailer door and headed up the road to the place where Eddie had said to meet him I swear, I swear on all the dreams of whatever color that I have ever had, that the background mountains that were starting to take form out of the dark started to play, and to play like that music I heard last night from those demon fiddlers and banjo players. I asked, when we met Eddie, who was only a few minutes late, and who looked and felt (as he told me) worst that I did (except that he proudly stated that he was used to it, okay Eddie) if those musicians were still at it over at that old devil of a red barn. “No,” he said. “Where is that music coming from then?” I said. Old Eddie (backed by Angelica) said “What music?” That angel music I said. Eddie just looked bemused as he revved that old truck engine up and we hit the road west.

Sometime later I was half-listening to some music, some background eerily haunting mountain music coming from a folk radio station when I had the strangest feeling that I had heard the tune before. I puzzled over it sporadically for a few days and then went to the local library to see if they had some mountain music available. They did and I began on that date a feverish re-acquaintance with this form of music, especially the various Carter Family combinations. I, however, never did find out the name of that song.

And in a sense it has not name. It was the music from that old mountain wind as it trailed down the hills and hollows that I heard that last night in Prestonsburg. See here is what you didn’t know as you listened to all this stuff, and I only half knew it back then. I had been in Kentucky before that trip down from Steubenville, Ohio with sweet Angelica. No, not the way you think. My parents, shortly after they were married and after my father got out of the service, took a trip back to his home in Hazard so his family could meet his bride, or maybe just so he could show her off. They stayed for some period of time, I am not sure exactly how long, but the long and short of it was, that I was conceived and was fussing around in my mother’s womb while they were there. So see, it was that old mountain wind calling me home, calling me to my father’s roots, calling me to my roots as I was aimlessly searching for that great American West night. And here I am again, looking again. Double thanks, Angelica.

[Caleb: “You had a hell of a story to tell Frank and welcome home, brother,” as he left Frank off at Millie’s Café in downtown Prestonsburg late in that same afternoon.]

 

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- His Rock And Roll Ruby Moment

 

 

Rock and Roll Ruby Lyrics-Johnny Cash

 

Well I took my ruby jumpin on a dance in the town

 

She took her high heels off and let her stockings down

           A

She put a quarter in the jukebox to get a little beat

      E

Everybody started dancin` on the rhythm of her feet

A

She’s my rock and roll ruby

E

rock and roll ruby

       B7                                    E

When ruby starts a rocking it satisfies my soul 

 

Well ruby started rocking bout one O`clock

And when she started rocking she just couldn’t stop

She rocked on the tables and she rocked on the floor

When everybody yelling ruby rock some more

 

Chorus

 

It was round about 4 and I thought she would stop

She looked at me and then she looked at the clock

She said wait a minute daddy now don’t you get soul all I wanna do I rock a little bit more

 

Chorus

 

One night my ruby left me all alone

I tried to contact her on the telephone

I finally found her bout 12 O`clock

She said leave me alone daddy cause your ruby wants to rock

 

Chorus

************

He remembered the first time he saw her, spotted her really, when he entered
Johnny Jake’s Bar, Johnny Jake’s up in Olde Saco, Maine, the old time textile town then having seen better days , that late 1956 night, that night he learned about hunger, hell, maybe desire was a better word but he didn’t want to get caught up with words not once he got a look at her. All he had  wanted that night, that cold Friday night, was a few drinks with his corner boys (corner boys whom he had known from hunger high school day at Olde Saco High when they all hung out in front of Mama’s Pizza Parlor over off Atlantic Avenue near the Acre just like his father, and his father before him, had done, waiting, waiting for something, some fresh breeze in that no air town, in that no air state, and, although he wasn’t complaining, no way, this no air red scare cold war country), listen to this mad max daddy rockabilly music that was getting so much play on the local rock station, WMEX, and was drawing big crowds into Jimmy Jack’s on the weekends, and go home after a hard week’s work at the mills.             

He remembered that guys, and maybe a few girls too, were calling out to her, calling out rock, Ruby, rock in honor of  the new wave Sun Records rockabilly hit by Warren Smith, Rock and Roll Ruby, that had everybody, every guy, in a lather about their dream Ruby, and maybe every girl dreaming her Ruby dream too. It wasn’t until later, much later, that he found out her name was actually Iris, Iris Genet then living in Biddeford (but really almost fresh from French-Canadian homeland up near the Gaspe heading south to catch some of the fresh breeze). But that was later, much later, and until that time Ruby fit her just fine. Yah, just fine.

It wasn’t like Ruby was some great beauty, although she had that wholesome prettiness that almost all French-Canadians girls of interest had whether from the Gaspe or from greater Olde Saco. Naturally she was slender; some would say thin and get no argument, with the genetic small breasts and long legs of F-C girls of interest, topped off by blue eyes and brownish blonde hair. She was wearing capri pants that night and a form- fitting white blouse. But all of this was so much hot air because what Ruby had, had in spades, had in diamonds, had in hearts, had in clubs, had in any part of the deck was, well, energy, sexual energy, enough sexual energy to float battleships if there was some way to transport the one to the other. And all of that energy was on display on the dance floor of Jimmy Jake’s that night as she danced to Good Rockin’ Tonight, the song the rockabilly cover band, the Rockin’ Ramrods, was playing as he came in, spotted her, and learned what hunger, was all about.  

Funny there was nothing choreographed about her moves, not at all, her play was based on, one, that slender (okay, thin) athletic body moving in about six direction at once in almost perfect harmony with the beat coming from the band, and two, that she was doing it all by herself, solo, alone, on the floor, on a couple of tables and in a flash  on top of Johnny Jake’s beaten up, beaten down, whiskey/beer/rum- stained brown mahogany bar. And guys and girls were egging her on although he distinctly saw some cat-like daggers in the eyes of some of the girls when their guys got, well, a little too carried away. And thus he took up Ruby dreams.

And just Ruby dreams because that night he sensed, and maybe correctly, that, one, every guy, every warm-blooded guy, in the place probably wanted to take a run at her too and from what he saw did (even some of those cat-like dagger- eyed girl attached guys) and, two, he noticed that while she was on everybody’s mind never once did she dance with a guy, fast or slow, and while the drinks piled up in front of her spot at the bar (rum and coke seemed to be her drink) no walking daddy was around that spot and no guy got a chance to sit near her for more than a quick minute, and then was dismissed. No this Ruby dream was not going to be conquered, if conquered at all, in any one evening and so that night he had his corner boy drinks, left with them, and  spent a restless toss and turn night.   

He went back to Johnny Jake’s the next few, maybe four Friday nights in a row, sometimes with his corner  boys, sometime solo depending  of his feel for the night (and the amount of tossing and turning that he had done that week), his lucky rabbit’s foot Frenchman luck feel for the night. No soap, Ruby, dancing with the saints of rock and roll or something, making more moves as she turned into a whirling dervish, looking foxier by the week, drinks piled up in front of her spot, no walking daddy around, no guys spending more than a few minutes at her station, dancing on the tables, and that hard-bitten bar counter, now mainly with her shoes off and in a dress rather than capris to fire guy dreams even more. And with the inevitable calls of rock, Ruby, roll (although the dated girls were noticeably more silent and their dates, probably having been rebuffed a little too often for eyeing Ruby just a little too often, had noticeably less lust in their eyes, Ruby lust anyway).

He figured, one, sweet Ruby was a “lessie,” some hellhole bitch just out to rile the plebes, cause riffs among the heteros and move on, two, she was some kind of hooker who was just letting off steam after a hard week at the pillows (although Johnny Jake, Johnny Jake in person as the manager of the place, was very, very careful about letting whores, obvious whores anyway, work his room) and, three, she was just some tease, some damn F-C tease just like the F-C (and Irish girls) from Olde Saco with a novena book in one hand and eat your heart out boys in the other.                 

Then one Wednesday night, an off day in the blues department, he dropped in to Johnny Jake’s for a couple of shots, whisky shots (hold the water chaser came with it on the first order  which told Tim the friendly bartender he was in for some serious drinking), and sat at the bar. Then Ruby came out of the Ladies’ Room all Ruby-like, dress, blouse, no shoes on, and sat down at her “spot” a few stools from his. She worked on a rum and coke for a few minutes then went to the jukebox  and dropped some change in the machine, change that sounded like quarters , made a bunch of selections, and soon Sonny Burgess’ Red-Headed Woman was blaring over the speakers and Ruby was working the table tops (mainly empty that night). He decided this was his time, he was ready to move, but something, maybe something in the determinedly provocative  way she danced, something in her abandon like nobody  else was in the room(and if there was it was of no import), and sometime  in her face that spoke of sorrows, maybe not deep sorrows but sorrows, held him back. He finished his drink and left.        

He had another toss and turn night although this time more over reevaluating his “take” on Ruby, he sorrowed-up version of Ruby, the thing  he sensed in her that held him back earlier in the evening . Gone were the “lessie,”whore, tease theories of her reason for existence replaced by a story line of displacement and loss that drove her from Quebec. One line went along an axis of her being too much of a free spirit, too “advanced” for some sleepy fishing village along the Saint Lawrence or the bay, maybe she had been the subject some “shunning” campaign from the shrill villagers jealous (and fisherman desirous of that energy, and fisherman wife responding with those same cat-like Olde Saco dagger eyes) and so she packed up and left. Left but did not leave, first time from home, her old country ways against the fast-paced new country ways. The second line, the obviously second line, was that she had been unlucky in love, some stupid guy had abandoned her, some local guy and so she had to flee to get a fresh start. He liked that second one better, better because it provided some kind of hope against the restless nights.          

That next Friday night he and his corner boys showed up once again at Johnny Jake’s, and he expectantly looked for his Ruby. She was not there. He asked Tim if he knew why she wasn’t. Tim filled him in, including informing of her real name and a few other sketchy details. His Ruby had flown the coop, or rather gone back to the Gaspe, because her man, her bad- ass man, Jeanbon Bleu, had just been released from prison. He said to himself, jesus, turning pale, pale inside anyway, was that who she was hooked up with. Jeanbon was well-known to every hard-ass (and soft-ass) corner boy from the Gaspe to Nashua for half the armed robberies and crazy madness in that part of Canada. He thanked his Wednesday night lucky stars he had stayed put. He had had his rock and roll Ruby moment. No, his rock and roll Iris moment. And that was enough.        

 

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- When The Corner Boys Grow Up- Ben Affleck’s–“The Town”

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Ben Affleck’s The Town.

DVD Review

The Town, starring Ben Affleck, Rebecca Hall, from the novel by Chuck Hogan, Legendary Pictures, 2010

I have spilled much ink talking about the corner boy society that I grew up in 1950s Olde Saco (that’s up in Maine for those interested) where some hard-ass (and soft-ass too) corner boys ripped up the imaginations of wanna-bes like me and my corner boys who hung around, soft-ass hung around, Mama’s Pizza Parlor over on Atlantic Avenue, waiting, well, waiting for some breathe of fresh air, maybe coming in from the nearby ocean to wash over us and take out of that red scare cold war night. In the meantime we hung out, doing a little of this and a little of that, some stuff legal other stuff well, let’s just leave it as other stuff.

So on any given night, mostly weekends, from about junior high school on you could find us in those environs playing pinball on Mama’s back room machine, the Madame LaRue busty ladies pictured on the scoreboard begging you to play for their favors, play fiercely although empty-handedly (except those seventeen free games you racked up in your, ah, frenzy to please Madame). Or when rock and roll threw its fresh breathe over us we tossed many quarters in Mama’s jukebox to hear the latest songs like the Chiffon’s He’s So Fine about twelve times straight and hoped that certain shes came in to listen and maybe help make us those selections. Or, on some dark moonless night, maybe a little drunk, maybe a little dough hunger, or needing dough girl hungry, we might just be found doing our midnight creep around the neighborhood in order to make ends meet, that little of this and that stuff mentioned early.

As high school turned to work world, or maybe college world as things opened up even for working- class kids, the old corner boy society, or our generation’s chapter of it, went in several difference directions, some good some not so good, including those like the legendary Big Red Dubonnet who graduated to armed robberies of gas stations, liquor stores and Shawshank. Yah, Big Red was tough (I once saw him chain-whip, mercilessly chain-whip, a guy for the simple error of being on the wrong corner, Red’s, while breathing), was pretty smart, in a street smart way, knew a couple of things about the world and, and, be still my heart, let me have some free Madame LaRue games after he had racked up a ton and needed to take care of some ever present girl business. And I was the beneficiary of Big Red’s (not Red, Big Red, don’t ever make that mistake, remember what I said about that chain-whipping) largess on many occasions because Big Red attracted girls, and not just slutty girls like you’d expect, but girls who had their Saint Brigitte’s Church (Roman Catholic in that French-Canadian heavy old town) novena book recitals in one part of their brains and lust, bad boy lust, in the other, on more occasions that you would think.

And that is where memories of Big Red and the characters that inhabit The Town intersect in my mind. See Big Red, the late Big Red Dubonnet now, never could find anything better in this whole wide world than to be the king hell king of the corner boy night. But that, just like any kingship, takes dough, and so you either work the work-a-day world with the squares or go where the dough is- for Big Red in Podunk gas stations and liquors stores, maybe an off-hand truck heist, and the guys like Doug and Jem who lead their peoples, their Charlestown corner boy peoples, banks, and other high-stakes projects. They are driven by that same first glance, last chance, imperative though, and by the same need to hone their respective skills on a regular basis before a hostile and unforgiving world.

Thus this film held me, held me in the thought that for a minute back in the 1950s, hell, more than a minute, I could have been lured to the life, no sweat, no looking back. Jesus I was the “holder” on more than one occasion when the great (locally Olde Saco and Portland great) “clip artist” Ronny Bleu had the local merchants in a frenzy anytime he was in the down town area, or maybe even thought about being there. And later in gratitude to Big Red for his favors (no, jesus, no not that lame free pinball game stuff, but when he “gave” me one of his “reject” girls, a college girl he said he couldn’t understand and thought I might be able to) I did a couple of favors for him in return too. And while The Town gets wound up in a little bizarre love interest between Doug and one of the bank female victims and some serious literary license on what was what in that old time Boston Irish neighborhood, Charlestown (where the guys were so tough that even tough guys from Southie, South Boston, had second thoughts about tangling with them), these grown-up corner boys were very recognizable. I’ll never forget the thrill the first time we saw Big Red pull out his gun, some old .32 automatic I think, or when we heard that the Esso gas station over on Gorham Road in Scarborough was hit one dark night by a guy aiming a .32 at the gas jockey attendant. So you can see the pull was strong, real strong.

Oh yah, I don’t know how true the code of omerta (silence) still is in Charlestown (or Southie, or about seventeen other places where corner boys, some corner boys anyway, go on to the life) but I am willing to believe that it is honored more in the breech than the observance. At least it was in Podunk. How do you think they (and you know who the they is just like in film, the cops from the locals to the feds), got the lead that got Big Red after he knocked over the biggest liquor store in Portland that last time before they clipped his wings?