*****Mimi’s Glance - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind

*****Mimi’s Glance - With Richard Thompson’s  Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind

 

 

Mimi’s Glance, Circa 1963

 

 

 

 

Mimi Murphy knew two things, she needed to keep moving, and she was tired, tired as hell of moving, of the need, of the self-impose need, to keep moving ever since that incident five years before, back in 1958, with her seems like an eternity ago sweet long gone motorcycle boy, her “walking daddy,” Pretty James Preston, although he as long as she had known him never walked a step when his “baby,” his bike was within arm’s length. I knew this information, knew this information practically first hand because the usually polite but loner Mimi Murphy had told me her thoughts and the story that went with it one night after she had finished a tough on the feet night working as a cashier at concession stand the Olde Saco Drive-In Theater out on Route One in Olde Saco, Maine.

That night, early morning really, she had passed me going up to her room with a bottle of high-end Scotch, Haig& Haig, showing its label from a brown bag in her hand while I was going down the stairs in the rooming house we lived in on Water Street in Ocean City, a few miles from Olde Saco. A number of people, including Mimi and me, were camped out there in temporary room quarters after the last of the summer touristas had decamped and headed back to New York, or wherever they came from. The cheap off-season rent and the short stay-until-the-next-summer-crowd-showed-up requiring no lease drew us there. Most residents, mostly young and seemingly unattached to any family or work life kept to themselves, private drinkers or druggies (probably not grass since I never smelled the stuff which I had a nose for from youthful smoke-filled dreams while I was there so coke, opium, speed, maybe horse although I saw no obvious needle marks on arms or cold turkey screams either), a couple of low profile good looking young hustling girls, probably just graduating from amateur status and still not jaded “tarts” as my father used to call them, who didn’t bring their work home, guys maybe just out of the service, or between jobs, and so on. I had seen a couple of guys, young guys with horny looks in their eyes, maybe an idea of making a play, making passes at Mimi but thought nothing of it since they also targeted the hustling girls too.

 

Since I had never bothered Mimi, meaning made a pass at her, she must have sensed that being contemporaries, she was twenty-one then and I twenty-two, that maybe she could unburden her travails on a fellow wayward traveler. That no making a pass business by the way due to the fact that slender, no, skinny and flat-chested Irish red-heads with faraway looks like Mimi with no, no apparent, warm bed desires, that year and in those days not being my type after tumbledown broken-hearted youthful years of trying to coax their Irish Catholic rosary bead novena favors to no avail over in the old Little Dublin neighborhood around the Acre in Olde Saco.

 

Whatever she sensed and she was pretty closed-mouth about it when I asked her later she was right about my ability to hear the woes of another wanderer without hassles, and she did as she invited me up into her room with no come hither look (unlike those pretty hustling girls who made a profession of the “come hither look” and gave me a try-out which after proving futile turned into small courtesy smiles when we passed each other). But she showed no fear, no apparent fear, anyway.

After a couple of drinks, maybe three, of that dreamboat scotch that died easy going down  she loosened up, taking her shoes off before sitting down on the couch across from me. For the interested I had been down on my uppers for a while and was drinking strictly rotgut low-shelf liquor store wines and barroom half empty glass left-overs so that stuff was manna from heaven I can still taste now but that is my story and not Mimi’s so I will move on. Here is the gist of what she had to say as I remember it that night:

She started out giving her facts of life facts like that she had grown up around this Podunk town outside of Boston, Adamsville Junction, and had come from a pretty pious Roman Catholic Irish family that had hopes that she (or one of her three younger sisters, but mainly she) might “have the vocation,” meaning be willing, for the Lord, to prison cloister herself up in some nunnery to ease the family’s way into heaven, or some such idea. And she had bought into the idea from about age seven to about fourteen by being the best student, boy or girl, in catechism class on Sunday, queen of the novenas, and pure stuff like that in church and the smartest girl in, successively, Adamsville South Elementary School, Adamsville Central Junior High, and the sophomore class at Adamsville Junction High School.

As she unwound this part of her story I could see where that part was not all that different from what I had encountered in my French-Canadian (mother, nee LeBlanc) Roman Catholic neighborhood over in the Acre in Olde Saco. I could also see, as she loosened up further with an additional drink, that, although she wasn’t beautiful, certain kinds of guys would find her very attractive and would want to get close to her, if she let them. Just the kind of gal I used to go for before I took the pledge against Irish girls with far-away looks, and maybe red hair too.

 

About age fourteen thought after she had gotten her “friend” (her period for those who may be befuddled by this old time term) and started thinking, thinking hard about boys, or rather seeing that they, some of them, were thinking about her and not novenas and textbooks her either she started to get “the itch.” That itch that is the right of passage for every guy on his way to manhood. And girl on her way to womanhood as it turned out but which in the Irish Roman Catholic Adamsville Junction Murphy family neighborhood was kept as a big, dark secret from boys and girls alike.

Around that time, to the consternation of her nun blessed family, she starting dating Jimmy Clancy, a son of the neighborhood and a guy who was attracted to her because she was, well, pure and smart. She never said whether Jimmy had the itch, or if he did how bad, because what she made a point out of was that being Jimmy’s girl while nice, especially when they would go over Adamsville Beach and do a little off-hand petting and watching the ocean, did not cure her itch, not even close. This went on for a couple of years until she was sixteen and really frustrated, not by Jimmy so much as by the taboos and restrictions that had been placed on her life in her straight-jacket household, school and town. (Welcome to the club, sister, your story is legion) No question she was ready to break out, she just didn’t know how.

Then in late 1957 Pretty James Preston came roaring into town. Pretty James, who despite the name, was a tough motorcycle wild boy, man really about twenty-one, who had all, okay most all, of the girls, good girls and bad, wishing and dreaming, maybe having more than a few restless sweaty nights, about riding on back of that strange motorcycle he rode (a Vincent Black Lightning, a bike made in England which would put any Harley hog to shame from rev number one when I looked for information about the beast later, stolen, not by Pretty James but by third parties, from some English with dough guy and transported to America where he got it somehow, the details were very vague about where he got it, not from her, him) and being Pretty James’ girl. One day, as he passed by on his chopper going full-throttle up Hancock Street, Mimi too got the Pretty James itch.

But see it was not like you could just and throw yourself at Pretty James that was not the way he worked, no way. One girl, one girl from a good family who had her sent away after the episode, tried that and was left about thirty miles away, half-naked, after she thought she had made the right moves and was laughed at by Pretty James as he took off with her expensive blouse and skirt flying off his handle-bars as he left her there unmolested but unhinged. That episode went like wildfire through the town, through the Monday morning before school girls’ lav what happened, or didn’t happen, over the weekend talkfest first of all.

No Pretty James’ way was to take, take what he saw, once he saw something worth taking and that was that. Mimi figured she was no dice. Then one night when she and Jimmy Clancy were sitting by the seawall down at the Seal Rock end of the beach starting to do their little “light petting” routine Pretty James came roaring up on his hellish machine and just sat there in front of the pair, saying nothing. But saying everything. Mimi didn’t say a word to Jimmy but just started walking over to the cycle, straddled her legs over back seat saddle and off they went into the night. Later that night her itch was cured, or rather cured for the first time.

Pouring another drink Mimi sighed poor Pretty James and his needs, no his obsessions with that silly motorcycle, that English devil’s machine, that Vincent Black Lightning that caused him more anguish than she did. And she had given him plenty to think about as well before the end. How she tried to get him to settle down a little, just a little, but what was a sixteen-year old girl, pretty new to the love game, totally new, new but not complaining to the sex game, and his well-worn little tricks to get her in the mood, and make her forget the settle down thing. Until the next time she thought about it and brought it up.

Maybe, if you were from around Adamsville way, or maybe just Boston, you had heard about Pretty James, Pretty James Preston and his daring exploits back in about 1957 and 1958. Those got a lot of play in the newspapers for months before the end. Before that bank job, the one where as Mimi said Pretty James used to say all the time, he “cashed his check.” Yes, the big Granite City National Bank branch in Braintree heist that he tried to pull all by himself, with Mimi as stooge look-out. She had set him up for that heist, or so she thought. No, she didn’t ask him to do it but she got him thinking, thinking about settling down just a little and if that was to happen he needed a big score, not the penny ante gas station and mom and pop variety store robberies that kept them in, as he also used to say, “coffee and cakes” but a big payday and then off to Mexico, maybe down Sonora way, and a buy into the respectable and growing drug trade.

And he almost, almost, got away clean that fatal day, that day when she stood across the street, an extra forty-five in her purse just in case he needed it for a final getaway. She never having handled a gun mush less fired one was scared stiff it might go off in that purse although she Pretty James had her in such a state that she would have emptied the damn thing if it would have done any good. But he never made it out the bank door. Some rum brave security guard tried to uphold the honor of his profession and started shooting nicking Pretty James in the shoulder. Pretty James responded with a few quick blasts and felled the copper. That action though slowed down the escape enough for the real coppers to respond and blow Pretty James away. Dead, DOA, done. Her, with a tear, sweet boy Pretty James.

According to the newspapers a tall, slender red-headed girl about sixteen had been seen across the street from the bank just waiting, waiting according to the witness, nervously. The witness had turned her head when she heard the shots from the bank and when she looked back the red-headed girl was gone. And Mimi was gone, maybe an accessory to felony murder or worst charge hanging over her young head, and long gone before the day was out. She grabbed the first bus out of Braintree headed to Boston where eventually she wound up holed up in a high-end whorehouse doing tricks to make some moving on dough. (She mentioned some funny things about that stay, which was not so bad at the time when she needed dough bad, and about strange things guys, young and old, wanted her to do but I will leave that stuff out here.)

And she had been moving ever since, moving and eternally hate moving. Now, for the past few months, she had been working nights as a cashier in the refreshment stand at Olde Saco Drive-In to get another stake to keep moving. She had been tempted, a couple of times, to do a little moon-lighting in a Portland whorehouse that a woman she had worked with at her last job, Fenner’s Department Store, where she modeled clothes for the rich ladies, had told her about to get a quick stake but she was almost as eternally tired at that prospect as in moving once again.

And so Mimi Murphy, a few drinks of high-shelf scotch to fortify her told her story, told it true I think, mostly. A couple of days later I saw her through my room’s window with a suitcase in hand looking for all the world like someone getting ready to move on, move on to be a loner again after maybe an indiscrete airing of her linen in public. Thinking back on it now I wish, I truly wish, that I had been more into slender, no skinny, red-headed Irish girls with faraway looks that season and maybe she would not have had to keep moving, eternally moving.

 

ARTIST: Richard Thompson
 
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
 

Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike

A girl could feel special on any such like

Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you

It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952

And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems

Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme

And he pulled her on behind

And down to Box Hill they did ride

/ A - - - D - / - - - - A - / : / E - D A /

/ E - D A - / Bm - D - / - - - - A - - - /

Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand

But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man

I've fought with the law since I was seventeen

I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine

Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22

And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you

And if fate should break my stride

Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride

Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae

For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery

Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside

Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside

When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left

He was running out of road, he was running out of breath

But he smiled to see her cry

And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride

Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world

Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl

Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do

They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52

He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys

He said I've got no further use for these

I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome

Swooping down from heaven to carry me home

And he gave her one last kiss and died

As The Obama Regime Ends-Mister President Pardon Chelsea Manning Now!

As The Obama Regime Ends-Mister President Pardon Chelsea Manning Now!

 

 

The Cold Civil War Has Started- Resist Trump: Jan. 20 Inauguration Day Protests  

Resist Trump: Jan. 20 Inauguration Day Protests

 

12/12/2016 6:33 PM

Kshama Sawant

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SIsters and Brothers, Donald Trump and the Republican Party are preparing to unleash a storm of attacks on ordinary people.  Trump’s plans to deport three million immigrants, establish a “registry” for Muslims, criminalize protest, and nominate a Supreme Court justice who would vote to overturn Roe v Wade and shred public-sector union rights are not just idle threats.  His appointments of racists like Stephen Bannon and Michael Flynn, alongside a gang of conservative multi-millionaire and billionaire business people, point in the direction of one of the most right wing administrations in modern U.S. history. While many are waiting to see how events unfold or hoping against hope that Trump will moderate his positions, hundreds of thousands have already taken to the streets and the mood to resist is growing. Within hours of Trump's victory, Movement for the 99% and Socialist Alternative were the first to call mass protests in cities across the country. Within 24 hours, over 50,000 people took to the streets, helping to spark a nationwide wave of protest in the days and weeks following. Now preparations are underway for what could be truly massive protests around Trump’s inauguration, particularly the Women’s March on Washington DC on January 21.  Movement for the 99% and Socialist Students are focusing on building student walkouts across the country on inauguration day, January 20, which could become the biggest nationally coordinated student actions since the Vietnam War. Please donate $25, $50, $100 or what you can to help build the largest protests and national student walkouts on inauguration day, January 20. From Occupy Wall Street to Black Lives Matter to Standing Rock, young people and women have bravely been at the forefront of recent movements.  We also saw this clearly in the response to Bernie Sanders’ call for a political revolution against the billionaire class. Voters aged 18-29 supported Sanders over Clinton by a margin of 3-to-1 during the primary. The frustration of young people and search for an alternative has manifested itself through a myriad of polls. A recent nationwide study found that a majority of incoming freshman, for the first time, said they would join a protest or engage in campus activism. Recent polls also show young people have a more positive view of socialism than capitalism. Movement for the 99% and Socialist Students have come together in an ongoing partnership to help organize a powerful youth and student-led movement.  We can challenge and defeat the corporate and right-wing forces intent on rolling back the hard-won rights of women, labor unions, immigrants, and people of color by building powerful mass movements. We cannot rely on the Democratic Party leadership to defeat Trump, anymore now than during the elections. The Democrats played a very dangerous game in backing a candidate widely seen as the epitome of the establishment in the midst of enormous anger at corporate politics.  Both the corporate-controlled media and the DNC did everything in their power to ensure that Bernie Sanders’ campaign was stopped, and took their chances with Trump rather than allowing their corporate party to be further challenged by a “political revolution.” In the end, Clinton and the Democratic establishment failed to defeat the most unpopular candidate in modern American history. History has shown time and again it’s only through mass social movements that we are able to decisively defeat the right.  In 2005, during George W. Bush’s administration, “The Border Protection, Anti-Terrorism, and Illegal Immigration Control Act” (H.R. 4437) was passed by the Republican-dominated House of Representatives. This infamous legislation contained a host of vicious, reactionary measures aimed at immigrants, including militarizing the border, criminalizing undocumented immigrants, and building a border wall. A true mass movement arose in opposition and succeeded in making it politically impossible for H.R. 4437 to become law. United together, we can build a wall of mass resistance to Trump's vile agenda.We can shut down right-wing attacks on working people and attempts to scapegoat the most vulnerable among us. But we need your help.  We aim to raise $25,000 by the end of December to organize mass student walkouts at universities and schools across the country. Already we have walkouts being organized in 13 major cities. There is potential for a historic, massive mobilization to send a powerful message to the incoming administration on Inauguration Day. But we need your help to get there.Please donate $25, $50, $100 or more today. Your contribution will determine whether we can send students to Washington DC to participate in the historic demonstrations on January 20 and 21. Your contribution will determine whether we can print more fliers, posters, and picket signs. Your contribution will determine whether we can hire student organizers to help organize citywide, statewide, and nationally. The youth are our future, let’s support them in fighting for it.  In solidarity, Kshama Sawant Socialist Alternative Seattle City Councilmember Contribute $25 Share Tweet Forward

When Elvis Was The 'King'

DVD REVIEW

American Classic Albums: Elvis Presley, Elvis Presley, 1956, American Classic Productions, 2001



Over the past several months I have spend more than my fair of time investigating the effect of the career of Elvis Presley on my generation of ’68, and on me personally. That has entailed listening to some CDs and looking at old footage provided in various DVD compilations. One such documentary, hosted by Jack Scott, traced Elvis’s rise in the key year of 1954, the ‘dog days’. The present documentary breaks down a classic Elvis Presley (that is the title, and really all that is necessary as a title) album of 1956, his breakout year. The year he moved from Sam Phillips Sun Records to the big time, RCA Records.

This DVD is part of a series on classic American albums. I am not familiar with the others in the series yet but based on this introduction these efforts seem to be labors of love. Here we have the expected ‘talking heads’ dissecting the meaning of each song, some anecdotes from various and sundry performers and music historians interspersed with very illuminating footage of Elvis’s progress from Southern regional phenomena to national (and international) rock star at a time when the youth of my generation were desperately in need of a jailhouse breakout figure.

The highlight here is a very interesting discussion about Heartbreak Hotel, a song that whose depressive lyrics would seem to be out of sync with what Elvis was trying to project (including here are also various takes on Elvis’s performance of the song on television at different times). This segment makes a very strong case for Elvis’s emergence as ‘king of the hill’ in 1956. Whether he continued that role later is a separate question but 1956 was his year, and his alone. This little album also contained a very well thought out and performed mix of ballads, black bluesy numbers (Shake, Rattle and Roll), a little country, a little gospel. In short something any record producer would die for. If you need to know the history of rock and roll, or a slice of it anyway, this documentary is for you. If you just want the music grab the Elvis Presley CD, with both hands.

*An Encore With John Prine- My Arky Angel-The Music Of Iris DeMent

Click on to title to link to YouTube's film clip of Iris Dement and John Prine performing "In Spite Of Ourselves".



DVD Review

John Prine At Sessions At West 54th, John Prine with Iris Dement and various artists, OnBoy Records, 2001



Over the last several months I have done more musically-oriented reviews that I had expected. One of the themes that keep cropping up is that for some folk/blues-oriented musical artists like Bob Dylan my attachment was immediate, long time and on-going. For other artists like John Prine it has been more of a recently acquired taste. I had, obviously, heard Bonnie Raitt do his "Angel From Montgomery" but I never associated his name with that song. Then a couple of years ago I happened to listen to his "Hello In There" and "Sam Stone". Yes, this guy has something to say that I wanted to (on some songs, needed to) hear.

This concert represents a small selection of some of his work, although with the exception of "Sam Stone", "Lake Marie" and "Hello in There" not much in the way of classics, at least that I am familiar with. This concert would thus only rate as a pretty fair performance except that on a few songs like "When Two World Collide" he is accompanied by Iris Dement ( a powerful folk singer/song writer in her own right. She is also the wife of the folksinger/songwriter Greg Brown whom I have also reviewed in this space). Iris is also a recent acquisition. I would travel very far to hear that voice of hers (and have done so). Incidentally, I have seen both these performers in person over the past couple of years- they still have it. Still this is not the DVD that YOU need to understand either talent, but you may want it.

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-"Charlie On The M.T.A."

Click on the title to link a Boston Globe article, dated December 26, 2010, on the hidden history of Charlie on the M.T.A.

In this series, presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist. Sadly though, hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground and have rather more often than not been fellow-travelers. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.
*********

Charlie on the MTA
Melody | Lyrics | History | Charlie's Route | Back to my Transit Page

10/4/2008: Linked to from comments on FARK. Welcome, FARKers!


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I have long enjoyed listening to "The M.T.A. Song", better known as "Charlie on the M.T.A". In recent years, I have learned a great deal about the song and about the M.T.A (now M.B.T.A) itself, and would like to share this information here. About a year ago, I had the privilege to hear the original recording of the song (only two copies of the record exist) - regrettably I did not have a tape recorder with me at the time :-). I would like to give credit to the speaker at the BSRA meeting who gave the presentation, but I can't recall his name. If you're that person, let me know.

Melody

The melody of this song is a fairly old one. The first song (as far as I know) to use this melody was "The Ship That Never Returned", written in 1865 by Henry Clay Work. Work also wrote the more well-known song "My Grandfather's Clock" (and there are some similarities in melody between the two). The more famous use of this melody was in "The Wreck of Old #97".

Short clips of the songs are here (MP3 format):
The Ship That Never Returned (899K) - listen to the chorus - it's almost exactly the same
The Wreck of Old 97 (860K)


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Lyrics
Copyright Info: These words, as far as I know, are copyright Jacqueline Steiner, and Bess Lomax-Hawes. The Kingston Trio version is copyright Capitol Records.
Before I get into the background of the song, let me present the lyrics in their entirety. The version recorded by The Kingston Trio includes the chorus after each verse. Words in italics indicate the changes made by The Kingston Trio in their later recording. Parentheses indicate backing vocals.

Let me tell you the story
Of a man named Charlie
On a tragic and fateful day
He put ten cents in his pocket,
Kissed his wife and family
Went to ride on the MTA

Charlie handed in his dime
At the Kendall Square Station
And he changed for Jamaica Plain
When he got there the conductor told him,
"One more nickel."
Charlie could not get off that train.

Chorus:
Did he ever return,
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearn'd
He may ride forever
'neath the streets of Boston
He's the man who never returned.

Now all night long
Charlie rides through the tunnels
the station
Saying, "What will become of me?
Crying
How can I afford to see
My sister in Chelsea
Or my cousin in Roxbury?"

Charlie's wife goes down
To the Scollay Square station
Every day at quarter past two
And through the open window
She hands Charlie a sandwich
As the train comes rumblin' through.

As his train rolled on
underneath Greater Boston
Charlie looked around and sighed:
"Well, I'm sore and disgusted
And I'm absolutely busted;
I guess this is my last long ride."
{this entire verse was replaced by a banjo solo}

Now you citizens of Boston,
Don't you think it's a scandal
That the people have to pay and pay
Vote for Walter A. O'Brien
Fight the fare increase!
And fight the fare increase
Vote for George O'Brien!
Get poor Charlie off the MTA.

Chorus:
Or else he'll never return,
No he'll never return
And his fate will be unlearned
He may ride forever
'neath the streets of Boston
He's the man (Who's the man)
He's the man who never returned.
He's the man (Oh, the man)
He's the man who never returned.
He's the man who never returned.

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History
(If you have any corrections to the information here, please let me know)

In the 1940s, the MTA fare-schedule was very complicated - at one time, the booklet that explained it was 9 pages long. Fare increases were implemented by means of an "exit fare". Rather than modify all the turnstiles for the new rate, they just collected the extra money when leaving the train. (Exit fares currently exist on the Braintree branch of the Red Line.) One of the key points of the platform of Walter A. O'Brien, a Progressive Party candidate for mayor of Boston, was to fight fare increases and make the fare schedule more uniform. Charlie was born.

The text of the song was written in 1949 by Jacqueline Steiner and Bess Lomax Hawes. It was one of seven songs written for O'Brien's campaign, each one emphasized a key point of his platform. One recording was made of each song, and they were broadcast from a sound truck that drove around the streets of Boston. This earned O'Brien a $10 fine for disturbing the peace.

A singer named Will Holt recorded the story of Charlie as a pop song for Coral Records after hearing an impromptu performance of the tune in a San Francisco coffee house by a former member of the group. The record company was astounded by a deluge of protests from Boston because the song made a hero out of a local "radical". During the McCarthy era of the 1950s, the Progressive Party became synonymous with the Communist Party, and, since O'Brien was a Progressive, he was labeled a Communist. It is important to note that, contrary to popular belief, O'Brien was never on the Communist Party ticket. Holt's record was hastily withdrawn.

In 1959, The Kingston Trio released a recording of the song. The name Walter A. was changed to George to avoid the problems that Holt experienced. Thus ended Walter O'Brien's claim to fame.

Walter A. O'Brien lost the election, by the way. He moved back to his home state of Maine in 1957 and became a school librarian and a bookstore owner. He died in July of 1998.

While the information above is in the public domain, the text was written by me in late '98/early '99. Some wanker ripped off part of my text and is using it on other pages.

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Charlie's Route
Of course, one has to estimate Charlie's route given that the MBTA has changed dramatically between 1949 and the current day, but I have compiled what I imagine is a fairly accurate route:

Kendall Square -> Park Street -> Arborway

Here is my basis for this:

Charlie handed in his dime at the Kendall Square Station
that's pretty self-explanatory
and he changed for Jamaica Plain
As far as I know, there was no stop called "Jamaica Plain", so that line means that Charlie changed to a train going in the general direction of JP. The only lines that go anywhere near Jamaica Plain are the E branch of the Green line and the Orange Line.
The Red line from Kendall Square connects to both the Green and Orange lines, however in the next step, you'll see why he didn't take the Orange Line.

Charlie's wife goes down to the Scollay Square Station..
Scollay (pronounced 'Scully') Square Station is the old name for Government Center, which is on the Green Line. When Charlie got to his stop on the E-line, he couldn't get off without paying the five cents. So, they kept him on the train, which would have eventually gone through the loop at Arborway and returned to the line, probably passing through Scollay Square.
Charlie might just have been able to get off the train at some point the '70s. From 1968 to 1980, the subway fare was 25 cents. In the mid 1970s, a senior citizen discount was introduced for "half fare". Rather than charge 12.5 cents, half-fare was defined as "10 cents". If Charlie was well into his 30s when he got on the train, he might just have been over 65 before 1980, and could have gotten off the train in Jamaica Plain. Getting back might be a problem...
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Reader Comments
(Since some folks prefer not to have their information posted on line, I am using initials. If you wrote one of these comments and would prefer to be credited different, please let me know.)

R.N. writes in to say that between the "Now all night long..." and "As his train rolled on..." verses there was another on the original song:


"I can't help," said the conductor,
"I'm just working for a living,
But I sure agree with you."
"For the nickels and the dimes you'll be spending in Boston
You'd be better off in Timbuktu."


J.G. writes in to say:


"Who was that San Francisco singer [who performed in a coffeehouse that inspired Will Holt's recording]?"
His name is "Specs" and he owns a tavern here in SF. He told me that a theater company was interested in the song and his friend warned him to copyright it before they got their hands on it...[sic] so he did. He told the two ladies who wrote it [Steiner & Hawes] about what had happened and they were so grateful about him saving it from being copyrighted by someone else that they cut him in 1/3 for publishing royalties. When the Kingston Trio made their big hit with it in 1959 the money really started rolling in (back in 1960 a few thousand dollars went a long way) and to this day when the odd check shows up, people in the tavern Specs owns find themelves with a "drink on the house" sitting in front of them.

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days, Maybe More, Of ......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days, Maybe More, Of  ......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

*****Got Them Down-Hearted Blues-With The Empress Of The Blues Bessie Smith In Mind

*****Got Them Down-Hearted Blues-With The Empress Of The Blues Bessie Smith In Mind  

From The Pen Of Sam Eaton

Sure 1920s guys, gals too, black guys, black gals sweating out their short, brutalized lives on Mister’s 28,000 acres of the best bottomland along the river in Mississippi or some such number of acres,  probably it didn't matter to have an official count on the acres to them because all of the land went endlessly to the horizon and the work too had plenty to have the blues about. Had suffered the double whack of having to put up with Mister's Mister James Crow laws to boot which only added to the misery of those endless acres. Sure maybe some woe begotten poor white trash down in hard-boiled Appalachia in those famed hills and hollows had plenty of blues too although they did not call them that even in those few integrated evenings when the whole town went to Rence Jackson's dirty red barn in need of a serious paint job but this is about the blues, the musical blues and not some general social issues commentary. So those “no account” whites don’t play a role here at this time, don't play except as devotes of generic old country British Isles ballads like the ones collected by Francis Child back in the 1850s which thrilled the Brahmins of Brattle Street on a wild utilitarian Saturday night. Actually whites in general don't play a role in the blues since their access to such songs by the likes of the various Blinds, Robert Johnson, and the belting barrelhouse mamas would be minimal in an age when "race" record pieced everybody off into their own tangent. They will not play a role until the music heads north in a generation, or so,  and the “white negro” hipsters (to use big daddy Norman Mailer’s term for the little daddies who hung around the back streets of cool, Harlem 125th Street cool at that time), “beats (to use Jack Kerouac term hustled from some dead-pan beat down hustler, a white negro hipster if it came right down to it named Huncke via high brow John Clellon Holmes for Christ sake),” folkies (to use the Lomaxes’, father and son, expression), college students (to use oh I don’t know the U.S. Department of Education’s expression), and assorted others (junkies, grifters, midnight sifters, drifters on the wing, winos trying to sober up, good time prostitutes, the denizens of Hayes-Bickford's, the Automat, places like that, no hip as a rule) decided that that beat in their heads had Mother Africa who spawned us all had to be investigated but all that indeed was later.

Like I said the real blues aficionados, if only by default, had their say, had their lyrics almost written for them by the events of everyday human existence what with talking in their own "code words" about how Mister and his Mister James Crow laws fitted him, Mister, and his just fine at the expense of those black guys, their women and their righteous children (righteous when they, his children and their children smote the dragon come freedom summer times, come Mississippi and Alabama too goddamn times but that is a story for their generations to tell I want to talk about the great-grand pa’s and ma’s and their doings).

Here is how the scene played out as near as I can figure from a wide-ranging reading of most of the lyrics from that time (and always remember when you speak of "blues," speak of the folk in general this is mostly an oral tradition handed down and bastardized as it gotten handed down so there are very few definitive lyrics but rather more a sense of what miseries were being talked about. How Mister James Crow said every day of the week, even the Lord’s Day, Sunday that if you were black, get back, if you were white and right you were alright and proved it by separate this and separate that, keeping his street clear of stray “negros,” yeah, with small “n” if he was being kind that day, another today socially not acceptable expression if not, telling the brethren to go here, not go there, look this way but not that (and by all means not peeking at his womenfolk), walk there but not here, or face nooses and slugs for his troubles.

So yeah the blues almost cried out to be the order of things. Working all day for chump change in Mister’s fields or worse share-cropper-ing and having Mister take the better portion and leaving the leavings he didn’t want, meaning what he couldn’t sell to his profit as the rest.

Yeah, so there is no way that black guys could not have had the blues back then except some old nappy Tom who didn’t get the word but they were far fewer than you might think the others just fumed at who knows what psychic costs (now too but that in dealt with by the step-child of the blues, maybe second step-child via in your face if there is space hip-hop nations, the angry ones who put words to the rages of the modern “post racial” American society that somebody has jerked them around with lately). Hey and to Mister’s miseries, very real, very scary when the nightriders came, woman trouble (maybe at night the worse kind of trouble if Mister wasn’t in your face all day with her where you been, do this, do that, put it right here, put it right there), trouble with Sheriff Law (stay off the sidewalks, keep your head down, stay down in the bottom lands or else) and trouble with Long Skinny Jones if you mess with his woman, get your own (or face his razor and gun down on Black Mountain).

Plenty of stuff to sing about come Saturday night after dark at Smilin’ Billy’s juke joint complete with his home-made brew, freshly batched, which insured that everybody would be at Preacher Jack’s  Sunday service to have their sins, lusts, greeds, avarices, covets, swaggers, cuts, from the night before (or maybe just minutes before) washed clean under the threat of damnation and worse, worse for listening to the “devil’s music” (funny because come the white rock and roll teen explosion a generation later Mister, some Mister, said that too was the devil’s music which confused those clean cut angelic angst-filled teens although not enough to stop listening to Satan and his siren song) by a guy like Charley Patton, Son House (who had the worst of both worlds being a sinner, loving his whiskey more than somewhat which Howlin’ Wolf took him to task for down in Newport one year in the early 1960s at a jam session, and a preacher man), Lucky Quick, Sleepy John, Robert J, and lots of hungry boys who wanted to get the hell out from under Mister and his Mister James Crow laws by singing the blues and making them go away.          

That’s the guys, black guys and they had a moment, a country blues moment back in the 1920s and early 1930s when guys, white guys usually as far as I know, from small label record companies like Paramount, RCA, the radio company looking to feed the hours on their stations with stuff people would listen to (could listen to in short wave range times and hence regional roots work). They were agents who were parlaying two ideas together getting black people, black people with enough money  (and maybe a few white hipsters, Village, North Beach, Old Town denizens tired of the same old, same old if they were around and if they were called that before the big 1950s “beat” thing), buy, in this case, “race records,” that they might have heard on that self-same radio, nice economics, scoured the South looking for talent and found plenty in the Delta (and on the white side of that same coin plenty in the Southern hill-billy mountains, and hills and hollows too).

But those black blues brothers were not what drove the race label action back then since the rural poor had no money for radios or records for the most part and it was the black women singers who got the better play, although they if you look at individual cases suffered under the same Mister James Crow ethos that the black guys did. There they were though singing barrelhouse was what it was called mostly, stuff with plenty of double meanings about sex and about come hither availability and too about the code that all Southern blacks lived under. And the subjects. Well, the subjects reflected those of the black guys in reverse, two-timing guys, guys who would cut their women up as soon as look at them, down-hearted stuff when some Jimmy took off with his other best girl leaving her flat-footed, the sins of alcohol and drugs (listen to Victoria Spivey sometime on sister cocaine and any number of Smiths on gin), losing your man to you best friend. Some sound advice too like Sippy Wallace’s don’t advertise your man, and some bad advice about cutting up your no good man and taking the big step-off that awaited you, it is all there to be listened to.   

And the queen, the self-anointed queen, no, better you stay with the flow of her moniker, the empress, of barrelhouse blues was Bessie Smith, who sold more records than anybody else if nothing else. But there is more to her claim than mere record sales since she left a treasure trove of songs, well over two hundred before her untimely early death in the mid-1930s (untimely in the Mister James Crow South after an car accident and they would not admit an empress for chrissakes into a nearby white hospital, yes, rage, rage against the night unto the nth generation-black lives matter).

Guys, sophisticated guys, city guys, black guys mainly, guys like Fletcher Henderson, Tin Pan Alley kind of guys in places like high holy Harlem and Memphis, Saint Louis would write stuff for her, big fat sexy high white note sax and chilly dog trombone players would back her up and that was that. Sure Memphis Minnie could wag the dog’s tail with her lyrics about every kind of working guy taking care of her need (and you know she needed a little sugar in her bowl just like Bessie and a million, million other women, and a quick listen to any of a dozen such songs will tell you what that need was or you can figure it out and if you can’t you had better move on), the various other Smiths could talk about down-hearted stuff, about the devil’s music get the best of them, Sippy Wallace could talk about no good men, Ivy Stone could speak about being turned out in the streets to “work” the streets when some guy left town, address unknown, and Victoria Spivey could speak to the addictions that brought a good girl down but Bessie could run it all.

From down-hearted blues, killing her sorrows with that flask of gin, working down to bed-bug flop houses, thoughts of killing that no good bastard who left her high and dry, seeing a good Hustlin’ Dan man off to the great yonder after losing that bout with TB coughing, blowing high and heavy in the thick of the Jazz Age with the prince of wails, looking for a little sugar in her bowl, and every conceivable way to speak of personal sorrows.

Let me leave it like this for now with two big ideas. First if you have a chance go on YouTube and listen and watch while she struts her stuff on Saint Louis Woman all pain, pathos and indignity as her good man throws her over for, well, the next best thing. That will tell you why in her day she was the Empress. The other is this-if you have deep down sorrows, some man or woman left you high and dry, maybe you need a fixer man for what ails you, you have deep-dyed blues that won’t quite unless you have your medicine then you have to dust off your Billie Holiday records and get well. But if the world just has you by the tail for a moment, or things just went awry but maybe you can see the light of day then grab the old Bessie Vanguard Record or later Columbia Record multiple albums (four double record sets from beginning to end) and just start playing you won’t want to turn the thing off once Bessie gets under your skin.

That’s what I done more than once when I was down on my luck living in flea-bitten rooming house in a cold-water flat with me and my bed, bureau, desk and chair and a battered old RCA record player and just let it wail, let the fellow stew-ball tenants usually behind on their rents anyway howl against the night. Bessie was on the square.                

 

 

 

*****The Latest From The Justice For Lynne Stewart Website

*****The Latest From The Justice For Lynne Stewart Website

 

 

 Click below to link to the Justice For Lynne Stewart website

http://lynnestewart.org/

Although Lynne Stewart has been released by “Uncle” on medical grounds since last winter (2014) after an international campaign to get her adequate medical attention her case should still be looked at as an especially vindictive ploy on the part of the American government in post-9/11 America to tamp down on attorneys (and others concerned about the fate of "los olvidados," the forgotten ones, the forgotten political prisoners)  who  have been zealously defending their unpopular clients (and political prisoners). A very chilling effect on the legal profession and elsewhere as I have witnessed on too many occasions when legal assistance is desperately needed. As a person who is committed to doing political prisoner defense work I have noted how few such “people’s lawyers” there around to defend the voiceless, the framed and “the forgotten ones.” There are not enough, there are never enough such lawyers around and her disbarment by the New York bar is an added travesty of justice surrounding the case. 

Back in the 1960s and early 1970s there were, relatively speaking, many Lynne Stewarts. Some of this reflecting the radicalization of some old-time lawyers who hated what was going in America with its prison camp mentality and it’s seeking out of every radical, black or white but as usual especially black revolutionaries, it could get its hands on.  Hell, who hated that in many cases their sons and daughters were being sent to the bastinado. But mostly it was younger lawyers, lawyers like Lynne Stewart, who took on the Panther cases, the Chicago cases, the Washington cases, the military cases (which is where I came to respect such “people’s lawyers” as I was working with anti-war GIs at the time and we needed, desperately needed, legal help to work our way in the arcane military “justice” system then, and now witness Chelsea Manning) who learned about the class-based nature of the justice system. And then like a puff those hearty lawyers headed for careers and such and it was left for the few Lynne Stewarts to shoulder on. Probably the clearest case of that shift was with the Ohio Seven (two, Jann Laamann and Tom Manning, who are still imprisoned) in the 1980s, working-class radicals who would have been left out to dry without Lynne Stewart. Guys and gals who a few years before would have been heralded as front-line anti-imperialist fighters like thousands of others were then left out to dry. Damn.      

From The Partisan Defense Committee-Former Class-War Prisoners Address NYC Holiday Appeal Benefit

Workers Vanguard No. 1102	16 December 2016

Former Class-War Prisoners Address NYC Holiday Appeal Benefit

(Class-Struggle Defense Notes)

Some 150 people turned out on December 2 for the Partisan Defense Committee’s 31st annual Holiday Appeal benefit in New York City. This year’s lively benefit included two new guests for the PDC, courageous former class-war prisoners Robert King and Albert Woodfox of the Angola 3. The successful event raised funds for the PDC’s monthly stipend program and holiday gifts to class-war prisoners—not as an act of charity but of solidarity with these victims of racist capitalist injustice.

The Spartacist League initiated the PDC in 1974. The model was the International Labor Defense under James P. Cannon of the early Communist Party. As a class-struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense organization, the PDC takes up cases and causes whose successful outcome is in the interests of the whole of the working people. Those defended need not, and often do not, share our Marxist outlook. It is more important than ever to continue the work of the PDC. As a PDC spokesman noted at the event, “Class-struggle legal and social defense, including support for class-war prisoners, is of vital importance to labor activists, fighters for black rights and immigrant rights and defenders of civil liberties.”

The stipend program, which began in 1986, currently provides material support to 12 prisoners: Mumia Abu-Jamal; American Indian Movement spokesman Leonard Peltier; Michael Africa, Debbie Africa, Janine Africa, Janet Africa, Delbert Africa, Eddie Africa and Chuck Africa of the Philadelphia MOVE organization; Jaan Laaman and Thomas Manning of the Ohio 7; and Ed Poindexter, a Black Panther supporter and leader of the Omaha, Nebraska, National Committee to Combat Fascism. Poindexter’s comrade and fellow stipend recipient Wopashitwe Mondo Eyen we Langa died last March after 45 years behind bars and was recognized for his unwavering opposition to racial oppression.

This year’s benefit provided an occasion to honor the Angola 3 (King, Woodfox and Herman Wallace), who collectively spent over a century in solitary confinement at one of America’s most notorious hellholes, Angola prison. Its jailers entombed these Black Panther Party members in retaliation for their having organized work stoppages and other protests against horrific prison conditions. Woodfox and Wallace were falsely convicted of the 1972 killing of a guard; King was framed for killing a fellow inmate the next year. Wallace died from liver cancer in October 2013, three days after his release from prison. King was released in 2001, and Woodfox finally in February.

King and Woodfox (who became a stipend recipient in 2014) were introduced at the New York benefit by a recorded greeting from America’s foremost class-war prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal, who also wrote a preface to King’s book From the Bottom of the Heap. A former Panther spokesman and journalist known as “the voice of the voiceless,” Mumia was framed up for his political views on false charges of killing a police officer and spent nearly three decades on Pennsylvania’s death row. Now consigned to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, Mumia is fighting for medical treatment to save his life, as well as for his freedom, which the PDC has long championed. In his recording for the Holiday Appeal, Mumia observed:

“Today you’ll hear from two of the finest former members of the Black Panther Party, brothers Albert Woodfox and Robert King. Truth is, if the free political prisoner movement was stronger, there’d be three brothers standing here, Herman Hooks Wallace among them. Yet we remember Hooks, the third of the Angola 3. These brothers survived decades in solitary, decades in one of the most hellish prisons in America, one whose very name reflects its horrid inheritance of a slave plantation, Angola, Louisiana. All members of the Black Panther Party knew of these brothers because they had the nerve, the revolutionary audacity, to organize a chapter of the Black Panther Party in the very bowels of a maximum-security prison: Angola. For that, and that alone, what the state called ‘Black Pantherism,’ they were sentenced to life bits in solitary, the dictionary definition of torture.”

Both Woodfox and King received standing ovations (for Woodfox’s remarks, see separate article). King, who upon release dedicated himself to winning freedom for his comrades Wallace and Woodfox, thanked Mumia “for his touching introduction of us, and I need to say to Mumia and all the brothers and sisters who remain in prison that hope is on the way.” King explained, “When we say free all political prisoners, free prisoners of class war and so forth, we really mean this. You know, Frederick Douglass said a long time ago, this struggle may be a moral or may be a physical one, but nevertheless there has to be a struggle and the struggle goes on. It continues.”

Touching on a theme of his book, which chronicles the series of racist frame-ups that landed him in Angola, King said: “Legality and morality do not shake hands in a courthouse. They don’t meet.... Because something is legal does not mean that it is morally right, and we have a right to challenge that.” He observed that the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery, maintained involuntary servitude for those “duly convicted” of a crime. He added, “How many people in this United States have been duly convicted of a crime but are actually innocent of it? So, it means that slavery still exists.”

King pointed to “those brothers and sisters who are in prison, who were targeted by COINTELPRO, who were targeted by the FBI” because they “had the audacity” to fight back. He emphasized that these fighters “had this moral right to do so. Anybody in their right mind would do so.” Encouraging everyone to “get out of the box,” he concluded: “Malcolm said a long time ago that if you believe a lot of the stuff that’s out there, they’ll have you loving your enemies and hating your friends.”

Other benefit speakers included Charles Jenkins and Francisco Torres. Jenkins, a member of the powerful Transport Workers Union Local 100, spoke on behalf of the New York chapter of the Coalition of Black Trade Unionists, which has for years contributed to the PDC stipend fund. Torres is one of the San Francisco 8, former Black Panthers prosecuted on bogus charges of killing a San Francisco police officer in 1971. The charges against Torres were thrown out in 2011. After mentioning recently released prisoners, Torres offered: “This is what your work has produced, some of your work anyway. I hope it produces more, which is, you know, the eventual overthrow of the capitalist system.”

Lynne Stewart, who, like Torres, is a familiar face at New York benefits, was not able to attend this year but sent a statement. A lawyer known for representing Black Panthers and leftist radicals, Stewart was imprisoned in 2009, having been convicted in a frame-up “war on terror” show trial for defending an Islamic cleric who was jailed for an alleged plot to blow up NYC landmarks in the early 1990s. After nearly dying from breast cancer in prison, she was finally released in December 2013. Stewart wrote: “There is no event more enjoyable and important than the Holiday Appeal. That is so because it so clearly highlights and champions our true heroes and sheroes—those who wait to be released from sinister political imprisonment. None are more aware than your guests of honor, Robert King and Albert Woodfox, who suffered Angola.”

To support the work of the PDC, send contributions to: PDC, P.O. Box 99, Canal Street Station, New York, NY 10013. For more information on how to contribute and how to correspond with the class-war prisoners, go to www.partisandefense.org.