Tuesday, April 18, 2017

The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-LessonsForToday- The Russian Revolution and Black Liberation

The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-LessonsForToday- The Russian Revolution and Black Liberation   


The full text below the quote 



Workers Vanguard No. 1105
10 February 2017

TROTSKY

LENIN
The Russian Revolution and Black Liberation
(Quote of the Week)
The Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 gave a powerful impetus to the struggle for black freedom. Lenin and Trotsky’s Third (Communist) International fought to make American Communists understand the centrality of the fight against black oppression to socialist revolution in the U.S. Jamaican-born poet Claude McKay, who was a fraternal delegate to the Communist International’s 1922 Fourth Congress in Moscow, underlined the significance of the Bolshevik Revolution for American blacks in an essay published by the NAACP’s magazine The Crisis.
When the Russian workers overturned their infamous government in 1917, one of the first acts of the new Premier, Lenin, was a proclamation greeting all the oppressed peoples throughout the world, exhorting them to organize and unite against the common international oppressor—Private Capitalism. Later on in Moscow, Lenin himself grappled with the question of the American Negroes and spoke on the subject before the Second Congress of the Third International. He consulted with John Reed, the American journalist, and dwelt on the urgent necessity of propaganda and organizational work among the Negroes of the South. The subject was not allowed to drop. When Sen Katayama of Japan, the veteran revolutionist, went from the United States to Russia in 1921 he placed the American Negro problem first upon his full agenda. And ever since he has been working unceasingly and unselfishly to promote the cause of the exploited American Negro among the Soviet councils of Russia.
With the mammoth country securely under their control, and despite the great energy and thought that are being poured into the revival of the national industry, the vanguard of the Russian workers and the national minorities, now set free from imperial oppression, are thinking seriously about the fate of the oppressed classes, the suppressed national and racial minorities in the rest of Europe, Asia, Africa and America. They feel themselves kin in spirit to these people. They want to help make them free.
—Claude McKay, “Soviet Russia and the Negro” (The Crisis, Vol. 27, No. 2, December 1923)

"Soviet Russia and the Negro"-- An Essay by Claude McKay

Claude McKay
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The label of propaganda will be affixed to what I say here. I shall not mind; propaganda has now come into its respectable rights and I am proud of being a propagandist. The difference between propaganda and art was impressed on my boyhood mind by a literary mentor, Milton's poetry and his political prose set side by side as the supreme examples. So too, my teacher,--splendid and broadminded though he was, yet unconsciously biased against what he felt was propaganda--thought that that gilt-washed artificiality, "The Picture of Dorian Gray", would outlive "Arms and the Man" and "John Bull's Other Island". But inevitably as I grew older I had perforce to revise and change my mind about propaganda. I lighted on one of Milton's greatest sonnets that was pure propaganda and a widening horizon revealed that some of the finest spirits of modern literature-- Voltaire, Hugo, Heine, Swift, Shelly, Byron, Tolstoy, Ibsen--had carried the taint of propaganda. The broader view did not merely include propaganda literature in my literary outlook; it also swung me away from the childish age of the enjoyment of creative work for pleasurable curiosity to another extreme where I have always sought for the motivating force or propaganda intent that underlies all literature of interest. My birthright, and the historical background of the race that gave it to me, made me very respectful and receptive of propaganda and world events since the year 1914 have proved that it is no mean science of convincing information.

American Negroes are not as yet deeply permeated with the mass movement spirit and so fail to realize the importance of organized propaganda. It was Marcus Garvey's greatest contribution to the Negro movement; his pioneer work in that field is a feat that the men of broader understanding and sounder ideas who will follow him must continue. It was not until I first came to Europe in 1919 that I came to a full realization and understanding of the effectiveness of the insidious propaganda in general that is maintained against the Negro race. And it was not by the occasional affront of the minority of civilized fiends--mainly those Europeans who had been abroad, engaged in the business of robbing colored peoples in their native land--that I gained my knowledge, but rather through the questions about the Negro that were put to me by genuinely sympathetic and cultured persons.

The average Europeans who read the newspapers, the popular books and journals, and go to see the average play and a Mary Pickford movie, are very dense about the problem of the Negro; and they are the most important section of the general public that the Negro propagandists would reach. For them the tragedy of the American Negro ended with "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and Emancipation. And since then they have been aware only of the comedy--the Negro minstrel and vaudevillian, the boxer, the black mammy and butler of the cinematograph, the caricatures of the romances and the lynched savage who has violated a beautiful white girl.

A very few ask if Booker T. Washington is doing well or if the "Black Star Line" is running; perhaps some one less discreet than sagacious will wonder how colored men can hanker so much after white women in face of the lynching penalty. Misinformation, indifference and levity sum up the attitude of western Europe towards the Negro. There is the superior but very fractional intellectual minority that knows better, but whose influence on public opinion is infinitesimal, and so it may be comparatively easy for white American propagandists--whose interests behoove them to misrepresent the Negro--to turn the general indifference into hostile antagonism if American Negroes who have the intellectual guardianship of racial interests do not organize effectively, and on a world scale, to combat their white exploiters and traducers.

The world war has fundamentally altered the status of Negroes in Europe. It brought thousands of them from America and the British and French colonies to participate in the struggle against the Central Powers. Since then serious clashes have come about in England between the blacks that later settled down in the seaport towns and the natives. France has brought in her black troops to do police duty in the occupied districts in Germany. The color of these troops, and their customs too, are different and strange and the nature of their work would naturally make their presence irritating and unbearable to the inhabitants whose previous knowledge of Negroes has been based, perhaps, on their prowess as cannibals. And besides, the presence of these troops provides rare food for the chauvinists of a once proud and overbearing race, now beaten down and drinking the dirtiest dregs of humiliation under the bayonets of the victor.

However splendid the gesture of Republican France towards colored people, her use of black troops in Germany to further her imperial purpose should meet with nothing less than condemnation from the advanced section of Negroes. The propaganda that Negroes need to put over in Germany is not black troops with bayonets in that unhappy country. As conscript-slave soldiers of Imperial France they can in no wise help the movement of Negroes nor gain the sympathy of the broad-visioned international white groups whose international opponents are also the intransigent enemies of Negro progress. In considering the situation of the black troops in Germany, intelligent Negroes should compare it with that of the white troops in India, San Domingo and Haiti. What might not the Haitian propagandists have done with the marines if they had been black instead of white Americans! The world upheaval having brought the three greatest European nations--England, France and Germany--into closer relationship with Negroes, colored Americans should seize the opportunity to promote finer inter-racial understanding. As white Americans in Europe are taking advantage of the situation to intensify their propaganda against the blacks, so must Negroes meet that with a strong counter-movement. Negroes should realize that the supremacy of American capital today proportionately increases American influence in the politics and social life of the world. Every American official abroad, every smug tourist, is a protagonist of dollar culture and a propagandist against the Negro. Besides brandishing the Rooseveltian stick in the face of the lesser new world natives, America holds an economic club over the heads of all the great European nations, excepting Russia, and so those bold individuals in Western Europe who formerly sneered at dollar culture may yet find it necessary and worth while to be discreetly silent. As American influence increases in the world, and especially in Europe, through the extension of American capital, the more necessaryit becomes for all struggling minorities of the United States to organize extensively for the world wide propagation of their grievances. Such propaganda efforts, besides strengthening the cause at home, will certainly enlist the sympathy and help of those foreign groups that are carrying on a life and death struggle to escape the octuple arms of American business interests.

And the Negro, as the most suppressed and persecuted minority, should use this period of ferment in international affairs to lift his cause out of his national obscurity and force it forward as a prime international issue.

Though Western Europe can be reported as being quite ignorant and apathetic of the Negro in world affairs, there is one great nation with an arm in Europe that is thinking intelligently on the Negro as it does about all international problems. When the Russian workers overturned their infamous government in 1917, one of the first acts of the new Premier, Lenin, was a proclamation greeting all the oppressed peoples throughout the world, exhorting them to organize and unite against the common international oppressor--Private Capitalism. Later on in Moscow, Lenin himself grappled with the question of the American Negroes and spoke on the subject before the Second Congress of the Third International. He consulted with John Reed, the American journalist, and dwelt on the urgent necessity of propaganda and organizational work among the Negroes of the South. The subject was not allowed to drop. When Sen Katayama of Japan, the veteran revolutionist, went from the United States to Russia in 1921 he placed the American Negro problem first upon his full agenda. And ever since he has been working unceasingly and unselfishly to promote the cause of the exploited American Negro among the Soviet councils of Russia.

With the mammoth country securely under their control, and despite the great energy and thought that are being poured into the revival of the national industry, the vanguard of the Russian workers and the national minorities, now set free from imperial oppression, are thinking seriously about the fate of the oppressed classes, the suppressed national and racial minorities in the rest of Europe, Asia, Africa and America. They feel themselves kin in spirit to these people. They want to help make them free. And not the least of the oppressed that fill the thoughts of the new Russia are the Negroes of America and Africa. If we look back two decades to recall how the Czarist persecution of the Russian Jews agitated Democratic America, we will get some idea of the mind of Liberated Russia towards the Negroes of America. The Russian people are reading the terrible history of their own recent past in the tragic position of the American Negro to-day. Indeed, the Southern States can well serve the purpose of showing what has happened in Russia. For if the exploited poor whites of the South could ever transform themselves into making common cause with the persecuted and plundered Negroes, overcome the oppressive oligarchy--the political crackers and robber landlords--and deprive it of all political privileges, the situation would be very similar to that of Soviet Russia to-day.

In Moscow I met an old Jewish revolutionist who had done time in Siberia, now young again and filled with the spirit of the triumphant Revolution. We talked about American affairs and touched naturally on the subject of the Negro. I told him of the difficulties of the problem, that the best of the liberal white elements were also working for a better status for the Negro, and he remarked: "When the democratic bourgeoisie of the United States were execrating Czardom for the Jewish pogroms they were meting out to your people a treatment more savage and barbarous than the Jews ever experienced in the old Russia. America", he said religiously, "had to make some sort of expiatory gesture for her sins. There is no surfeited bourgeoisie here in Russia to make a hobby of ugly social problems, but the Russian workers, who have won through the ordeal of persecution and revolution, extend the hand of international brotherhood to all the suppressed Negro millions of America".
I met with this spirit of sympathetic appreciation and response prevailing in all circles in Moscow and Petrograd. I never guessed what was awaiting me in Russia. I had left America in September of 1922 determined to get there, to see into the new revolutionary life of the people and report on it. I was not a little dismayed when, congenitally averse to notoriety as I am, I found that on stepping upon Russian soil I forthwith became a notorious character. And strangely enough there was nothing unpleasant about my being swept into the surge of revolutionary Russia. For better or for worse every person in Russia is vitally affected by the revolution. No one but a soulless body can live there without being stirred to the depths by it.

I reached Russia in November--the month of the Fourth Congress of the Communist International and the Fifth Anniversary of the Russian Revolution. The whole revolutionary nation was mobilized to honor the occasion, Petrograd was magnificent in red flags and streamers. Red flags fluttered against the snow from all the great granite buildings. Railroad trains, street cars, factories, stores, hotels, schools--all wore decorations. It was a festive month of celebration in which I, as a member of the Negro race, was a very active participant. I was received as though the people had been apprised of, and were prepared for, my coming. When Max Eastman and I tried to bore our way through the dense crowds, that jammed the Tverskaya Street in Moscow on the 7th of November, I was caught, tossed up into the air, and passed along by dozens of stalwart youths.

"How warmly excited they get over a strange face!" said Eastman. A young Russian Communist remarked: "But where is the difference? Some of the Indians are as dark as you." To which another replied: "The lines of the face are different. The Indians have been with us long. And so people instinctively see the difference." And so always the conversation revolved around me until my face flamed. The Moscow press printed long articles about the Negroes in America, a poet was inspired to rhyme about the Africans looking to Socialist Russia and soon I was in demand everywhere--at the lectures of poets and journalists, the meetings of soldiers and factory workers. Slowly I began losing self-consciousness with the realization that I was welcomed thus as a symbol, as a member of the great American Negro group--kin to the unhappy black slaves of European Imperialism in Africa--that the workers in Soviet Russia, rejoicing in their freedom, were greeting through me.
Russia, in broad terms, is a country where all the races of Europe and of Asia meet and mix. The fact is that under the repressive power of the Czarist bureaucracy the different races preserved a degree of kindly tolerance towards each other. The fierce racial hatreds that time in the Balkans never existed in Russia. Where in the South no Negro might approach a "cracker" as a man for friendly offices, a Jewish pilgrim in old Russia could find rest and sustenance in the home of an orthodox peasant. It is a problem to define the Russian type by features. The Hindu, the Mongolian, the Persian, the Arab, the West European--all these types may be traced woven into the distinctive polyglot population of Moscow. And so, to the Russian, I was merely another type, but stranger, with which they were not yet familiar. They were curious with me, all and sundry, young and old, in a friendly, refreshing manner. Their curiosity had none of the intolerable impertinence and often downright affront that any very dark colored man, be he Negro, Indian or Arab, would experience in Germany and England.

In 1920, while I was trying to get out a volume of my poems in London, I had a visit with Bernard Shaw who remarked that it must be tragic for a sensitive Negro to be an artist. Shaw was right. Some of the English reviews of my book touched the very bottom of journalistic muck. The English reviewer outdid his American cousin (except the South, of course, which could not surprise any white person much less a black) in sprinkling criticism with racial prejudice. The sedate, copperhead "Spectator" as much as said: no "cultured" white man could read a Negro's poetry without prejudice, that instinctively he must search for that "something" that must make him antagonistic to it. But fortunately Mr. McKay did not offend our susceptibilities! The English people from the lowest to the highest, cannot think of a black man as being anything but an entertainer, boxer, a Baptist preacher or a menial. The Germans are just a little worse. Any healthy looking black coon of an adventurous streak can have a wonderful time palming himself off as another Siki or a buck dancer. When an American writer introduced me as a poet to a very cultured German, a lover of all the arts, he could not believe it, and I don't think he does yet. An American student tells his middle class landlady that he is having a black friend to lunch: "But are you sure that he is not a cannibal?" she asks without a flicker of a humorous smile!

But in Petrograd and Moscow, I could not detect a trace of this ignorant snobbishness among the educated classes, and the attitude of the common workers, the soldiers and sailors was still more remarkable. It was so beautifully naive; for them I was only a black member of the world of humanity. It may be urged that the fine feelings of the Russians towards a Negro was the effect of Bolshevist pressure and propaganda. The fact is that I spent most of my leisure time in non-partisan and antibolshevist circles. In Moscow I found the Luxe Hotel where I put up extremely depressing, the dining room was anathema to me and I grew tired to death of meeting the proletarian ambassadors from foreign lands some of whom bore themselves as if they were the holy messengers of Jesus, Prince of Heaven, instead of working class representatives. And so I spent many of my free evenings at the Domino Café, a notorious den of the dilettante poets and writers. There came the young anarchists and menshevists and all the young aspirant fry to read and discuss their poetry and prose. Sometimes a group of the older men came too. One evening I noticed Pilnyal the novelist, Okonoff the critic, Feodor the translator of Poe, an editor, a theatre manager and their young disciples, beer-drinking through a very interesting literary discussion. There was always music, good folk-singing and bad fiddling, the place was more like a second rate cabaret than a poets' club, but nevertheless much to be enjoyed, with amiable chats and light banter through which the evening wore pleasantly away. This was the meeting place of the frivolous set with whom I eased my mind after writing all day.

The evenings of the proletarian poets held in the Arbot were much more serious affairs. The leadership was communist, the audience working class and attentive like diligent, elementary school children. To these meetings also came some of the keener intellects from the Domino Café. One of these young women told me that she wanted to keep in touch with all the phases of the new culture. In Petrograd the meetings of the intelligentzia seemed more formal and inclusive. There were such notable men there as Chukovsky the critic, Eugene Zamiatan the celebrated novelist and Maishack the poet and translator of Kipling. The artist and theatre world were also represented. There was no communist spirit in evidence at these intelligentzia gatherings. Frankly there was an undercurrent of hostility to the bolshevists. But I was invited to speak and read my poems whenever I appeared at any of them and treated with every courtesy and consideration as a writer. Among those sophisticated and cultured Russians, many of them speaking from two to four languages, there was no overdoing of the correct thing, no vulgar wonderment and bounderish superiority over a Negro's being a poet. I was a poet, that was all, and their keen questions showed that they were much more interested in the technique of my poetry, my views on and my position regarding the modern literary movements than in the difference of my color. Although I will not presume that there was no attraction at all in that little difference!

On my last visit to Petrograd I stayed in the Palace of the Grand Duke Vladimir Alexander, the brother of Czar Nicholas the Second. His old, kindly steward who looked after my comfort wanders round like a ghost through the great rooms. The house is now the headquarters of the Petrograd intellectuals. A fine painting of the Duke stands curtained in the dining room. I was told that he was liberal minded, a patron of the arts, and much liked by the Russian intelligentzia. The atmosphere of the house was theoretically non-political, but I quickly scented a strong hostility to bolshevist authority. But even here I had only pleasant encounters and illuminating conversations with the inmates and visitors, who freely expressed their views against the Soviet Government, although they knew me to be very sympathetic to it.

During the first days of my visit I felt that the great demonstration of friendliness was somehow 
expressive of the enthusiastic spirit of the glad anniversary days, that after the month was ended I could calmly settle down to finish the book about the American Negro that the State Publishing Department of Moscow had commissioned me to write, and in the meantime quietly go about making interesting contacts. But my days in Russia were a progression of affectionate enthusiasm of the peopl  towards me. Among the factory workers, the red-starred and chevroned soldiers and sailors, the proletarian students and children, I could not get off as lightly as I did with the intelligentsia. At every meeting I was received with boisterous acclaim, mobbed with friendly demonstration. The women workers of the great bank in Moscow insisted on hearing about the working conditions of the colored women of America and after a brief outline I was asked the most exacting questions concerning the positions that were most available to colored women, their wages and general relationship with the white women workers. The details I could not give; but when I got through, the Russian women passed a resolution sending greetings to the colored women workers of America, exhorting them to organize their forces and send a woman representative to Russia. I received a similar message from the Propaganda Department of the Petrograd Soviet which is managed by Nicoleva, a very energetic woman. There I was shown the new status of the Russian women gained through the revolution of 1917. Capable women can fit themselves for any position; equal pay with men for equal work; full pay during the period of pregnancy and no work for the mother two months before and two months after the confinement. Getting a divorce is comparatively easy and not influenced by money power, detective chicanery and wire pulling. A special department looks into the problems of joint personal property and the guardianship and support of the children. There is no penalty for legal abortion and no legal stigma of illegitimacy attaching to children born out of wedlock.

There were no problems of the submerged lower classes and the suppressed national minorities of the old Russia that could not bear comparison with the grievous position of the millions of Negroes in the United States to-day. Just as Negroes are barred from the American Navy and the higher ranks of the Army, so were the Jews and the sons of the peasantry and proletariat discriminated against in the Russian Empire. It is needless repetition of the obvious to say that Soviet Russia does not tolerate such discriminations, for the actual government of the country is now in the hands of the combined national minorities, the peasantry and the proletarian By the permission of Leon Trotsky, Commissar-in-chief of the military and naval forces of Soviet Russia, I visited the highest military schools in the Kremlin and environs of Moscow. And there I saw the new material, the sons of the working people in training as cadets by the old officers of the upper classes. For two weeks I was a guest of the Red navy in Petrograd with the same eager proletarian youth of new Russia, who conducted me through the intricate machinery of submarines, took me over aeroplanes captured from the British during the counter-revolutionary war around Petrograd and showed me the making of a warship ready for action. And even of greater interest was the life of the men and the officers, the simplified discipline that was strictly enforced, the food that was served for each and all alike, the extra political educational classes and the extreme tactfulness and elasticity of the political commissars, all communists, who act as advisers and arbitrators between the men and students and the officers. Twice or thrice I was given some of the kasha which is sometimes served with the meals. In Moscow I grew to like this food very much, but it was always difficult to get. I had always imagined that it was quite unwholesome and unpalatable and eaten by the Russian peasant only on account of extreme poverty. But on the contrary I found it very rare and sustaining when cooked right with a bit of meat and served with butter--a grain food very much like the common but very delicious West Indian rice-and-peas.

The red cadets are seen in the best light at their gymnasium exercises and at the political assemblies when discipline is set aside. Especially at the latter where a visitor feels that he is in the midst of early revolutionary days, so hortatory the speeches, so intense the enthusiasm of the men. At all these meetings I had to speak and the students asked me general questions about the Negro in the American Army and Navy, and when I gave them common information known to all American Negroes, students, officers and commissars were unanimous in wishing this group of young American Negroes would take up training to become officers in Army and Navy of Soviet Russia. The proletarian students of Moscow were eager to learn of the life and work of Negro students. They sent messages of encouragement and good will to the Negro students of America and, with a fine gesture of fellowship, elected the Negro delegation of the American Communist Party and myself to honorary membership in the Moscow Soviet.

Those Russian days remain the most memorable of my life. The intellectual Communists and the intelligentsia were interested to know that America had produced a formidable body of Negro intelligensia and professionals, possessing a distinctive literature and cultural and business interests alien to the white man's. And they think naturally, that the militant leaders of the intelligentsia must feel and express the spirit of revolt that is slumbering in the inarticulate Negro masses, precisely the emancipation movement of the Russian masses had passed through similar phases. Russia is prepared and waiting to receive couriers and heralds of good will and interracial understanding from the Negro race. Her demonstration of friendliness and equity for Negroes may not conduce to produce healthy relations between Soviet Russia and democratic America, the anthropologists 100 per cent pure white Americanism will soon invoke Science to prove that the Russians are not at all God's white people I even caught a little of American anti-Negro propaganda in Russia. A friend of mine, a member of the Moscow intelligentsia, repeated to me the remarks of the lady respondent of a Danish newspaper: that I should not be taken as a representative Negro for she had lived in America and found all Negroes lazy, bad and vicious, a terror to white women. In Petrograd I got a like story from Chukovsky, the critic, who was on intimate terms with a high worker of the American Relief Administration and his southern wife. Chukovsky is himself an intellectual "Westerner", the term applied to those Russians who put Western-European civilization before Russian culture and believe that Russia's salvation lies in becoming completely westernized. He had spent an impressionable part of his youth in London and adores all things English, and during the world war was very pro-English. For the American democracy, also, he expresses unfeigned admiration. He has more Anglo-American books than Russian in his fine library and considers the literary section of the New York Times a journal of a very high standard. He is really a maniac of Anglo-Saxon American culture. Chukovsky was quite incredulous when I gave him the facts of the Negro's status in American civilization.

"The Americans are a people of such great energy and ability," he said, "how could they act so petty towards a racial minority?" And then he related an experience of his in London that bore a strong smell of cracker breath. However, I record it here in the belief that it is authentic for Chukovsky is a man of integrity: About the beginning of the century, he was sent to England as correspondent of a newspaper in Odessa, but in London he was more given to poetic dreaming and studying English literature in the British museum and rarely sent any news home. So he lost his job and had to find cheap, furnished rooms. A few weeks later, after he had taken up his residence in new quarters, a black guest arrived, an American gentleman of the cloth. The preacher procured a room on the top floor and used the dining and sitting room with the other guests, among whom was a white American family. The latter protested the presence of the Negro in the house and especially in the guest room. The landlady was in a dilemma, she could not lose her American boarders and the clergyman's money was not to be despised. At last she compromised by getting the white Americans to agree to the Negro's staying without being allowed the privilege of the guest room, and Chukovsky was asked to tell the Negro the truth. Chukovsky strode upstairs to give the unpleasant facts to the preacher and to offer a little consolation, but the black man was not unduly offended:

"The white guests have the right to object to me," he explained, anticipating Garvey, "they belong to a superior race."

"But," said Chukovsky, "I do not object to you, I don't feel any difference; we don't understand color prejudice in Russia."

"Well," philosophized the preacher, "you are very kind, but taking the scriptures as authority, I don't consider the Russians to be white people."
From Crisis 27 (December 1923, January 1942): 61-65, 114-18



*In Honor Of The Late Chuck Berry- The King Is Dead- Long Live The King- Elvis When He Was Elvis

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Elvis performing "One Night With You".

*In Honor Of The Late Legendary Chuck Berry- The King Is Dead- Long Live The King- Elvis When He Was Elvis

CD compilation Review

Elvis; The King Of Rock And Roll, Five CD Set, BMG, 1992



I have been doing a series of commentaries elsewhere on another site on my coming of political age in the early 1960s, but now when I am writing about musical influences I am just speaking of my coming of age, period, which was not necessarily the same thing. No question those of us who came of age in the 1950s are truly children of rock and roll. We were there, whether we appreciated it or not at the time, when the first, sputtering, moves away from ballady show tunes, rhymey Tin Pan Alley tunes and, most importantly, any and all music that your parents might have approved of, even liked, or at least left you alone to play in peace up in your room hit post World War II America like, well, like an atomic bomb.

Well, as most of us know and believe, I hope anyway, the subject of this review, Elvis, is gone now. But it is hard to go back to the roots of rock and roll without paying much lip service to his musical influence, his showmanship, his energy when performance time came and he was in the mood to kick up some dust, and his sneerily-etched good looks. I will tell you that Jerry Lee Lewis was most of an influence on my early music tastes than Elvis. I also believe pound for pound that Jerry Lee had more energy on almost all days than Elvis could release in his early career. But on the one proverbial any given day, and this day is it and this massive CD compilation serves as proof, the king was the King.

Later Elvis, the Elvis of Las Vegas, except for severe aficionados, was almost entirely forgettable but in the early to mid-1950s, and maybe a little later, when he was still hungry and still wanted to fight to be king of rock he more than held his own. That is the time of this compilation and the Elvis time any serious rock aficionado, or historically-inclined rock fan wants to look at. This five CD set provides all the ammunition you will ever need for the why behind why he drove the girls wild in the 1950s, and the rest of us, just ordinary teen guys, crazy trying how to figure out to break his spell. It’s wasn’t pretty because no way we could win.

But enough of that. Elvis sneers, swivel hips and those long side-burns aside what in this compilation goes down in rock history. Please note that some of these songs that are outstanding examples of his early work are done in several versions here, some very well done others less so. “That’s Where The Heartbreak Begins” has a nice talking part. “Heartbreak Hotel”, of course, although the lyrics are hardly the stuff of teen romance. The Carl Perkins rockabilly classic, “Blue Suede Shoes”, which Elvis made his own. Other rockabilly classics like “That ‘s All Right” and “Good Rockin’ Tonight”. Some covers like Roy Orbison’s “I Got A Woman”. “Big Mama” Thornton’s “Hound Dog”. Ballads like “Love Me Tender” and “True Love”. And so on. If you want Elvis, good bad, or indifferent this is a primer, no, a graduate course in Elvisology.

Note: I have not mentioned “One Night” above because I want to pay special to that song. On every variation in this set he smokes it. This song, more so that “Jailhouse Rock", “Heartbreak Hotel” or “Don’t Be Cruel” gets my nod as the epitome of Elvis rock, sneer, and swivel. This is one time that he is not mailing it in. Now I know, finally, why those young girls of my generation were swooning, getting all sweaty and more over the mere mention of Elvis’ name. On this one Jerry Lee takes a back seat, way back. Wow!

One Night - Elvis Presley

One night with you
Is what I'm now praying for
The things that we two could plan
Would make my dreams come true

Just call my name
And I'll be right by your side
I want your sweet helping hand
My loves too strong to hide

Always lived, very quiet life
I ain't never did no wrong
Now I know that life without you
Has been too lonely too long

One night with you
Is what I'm now praying for
The things that we two could plan
Would make my dreams come true

Always lived, very quiet life
I ain't never did no wrong
Now I know that life without you
Has been too lonely too long

One night with you
Is what I'm now praying for
The things that we two could plan
Would make my dreams come true

*Coming Of Age, Period-An Encore- The Rock Music Of The 1950s

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Mark Dinning performing his class teen tragedy song, "Teen Angel".

CD Review

Oldies But Goodies, Volume Seven, Original Sound Record Co., 1986




I have been doing a series of commentaries elsewhere on another site on my coming of political age in the early 1960s, but here when I am writing about musical influences I am just speaking of my coming of age, period, which was not necessarily the same thing. No question that those of us who came of age in the 1950s are truly children of rock and roll. We were there, whether we appreciated it or not at the time, when the first, sputtering, musical moves away from ballady Broadway show tunes and rhymey Tin Pan Alley pieces hit the radio airwaves. (If you do not know what a radio is then ask your parents or, ouch, grandparents, please.) And, most importantly, we were there when the music moved away from any and all music that your parents might have approved of, or maybe, even liked, or, hopefully, at least left you alone to play in peace up in your room when rock and roll hit post- World War II America teenagers like, well, like an atomic bomb.

Not all of the material put forth was good, nor was all of it destined to be playable fifty or sixty years later on some “greatest hits” compilation but some of songs had enough chordal energy, lyrical sense, and sheer danceability to make any Jack or Jill jump then, or now. And, here is the good part, especially for painfully shy guys like me, or those who, like me as well, had two left feet on the dance floor. You didn’t need to dance toe to toe, close to close, with that certain she (or he for shes). Just be alive…uh, hip to the music. Otherwise you might become the dreaded wallflower. But that fear, the fear of fears that haunted many a teenage dream then, is a story for another day. Let’s just leave it at this for now. Ah, to be very, very young then was very heaven.

So what still sounds good on this CD compilation to a current AARPer and some of his fellows who comprise the demographic that such 1950s compilations “speak” to. Of course, the sordid tale of teenage treachery, “Wake Up Little Susie” by The Everly Brothers. Nobody can tell me, or you either, in the year 2010 that old Susie and the narrator just innocently fell asleep, right? And how about the died too young Ritchie Valens on “Donna”. Or one of the very first songs that I memorized and sang around the house until I almost was thrown out by my mother, in her tender mercies, “Handy Man”, by Jimmy Jones. But if you want to get a real sense of teen angst, teen alienation, teen romantic longing in the 1950s, then Mark Dinning’s “Teen Angel” is the ticket. In ten thousand years when they unearth this CD and want to try and understand us primitives, and our coming of age traumas this will be the key that unlocks the door.

MARK DINNING lyrics - Teen Angel

(Jean Surrey & Red Surrey)


Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh, ooh

That fateful night the car was stalled
upon the railroad track
I pulled you out and we were safe
but you went running back

Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love

What was it you were looking for
that took your life that night
They said they found my high school ring
clutched in your fingers tight

Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love

Just sweet sixteen, and now you're gone
They've taken you away.
I'll never kiss your lips again
They buried you today

Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Teen angel, teen angel, answer me, please

*From The Archives- POLITICAL CORRECTNESS AND THE 'G-Y' WORD

Click on title to link to Wikipedia's entry for Mormons.

RUMBLINGS FROM iPOD /MP3 NATION

FORGET DONKEYS, ELEPHANTS AND GREENS- BUILD A WORKERS PARTY THAT FIGHTS FOR A WORKERS GOVERNMENT!


Readers of this space know that this writer centers his commentary on ‘high’ politics, usually lambasting the bourgeois politicians, especially Democratic Party politicians for being eunuchs or worst on the war in Iraq and other pressing social questions. And I am entirely comfortable with that, after all we are all adults in this game and it comes with the territory. While I am waiting to comment on what promises to be another ugly Democratic somersault on the upcoming war budget fight however another little issue has crossed my path. Believe me I enter this dispute with more fear and trepidation that I have ever had in my ‘adult’ battles for it involves the mysterious ways of teenagers. I had enough trouble trying to survive my own teenage years to be wary, very wary, of the trials and tribulations of teens a couple of generations behind me. But here goes.

I have recently read about the case of a Mormon girl out in Santa Rosa, California, Rebeka Rice, whose parents have taken school officials there to court over a reprimand and notation in her record that she received as a freshman in high school a few years ago. The gist of the case is that at that time some fellow students, as is the nature of such things, razzed her about her Mormonism by asking whether she had ‘ten mothers’. In response, Rebeka stated that their comment was ‘so gay’, meaning to her stupid. And she was right, it was stupid. However, in the interest of ‘political correctness’ local school officials, assumingly well trained in how to ferret out real gay-bashing hate speech , and apparently with plenty of time on their hands decided to take a forthright stand for gay liberation over the statement and took the above mentioned action. As is the nature of the times the parents thereafter filed suit. And they were right to do so, as well.

Hello, school officials. Apparently someone has been living in a bubble. Haven’t these august school officials been out to the malls in Santa Rosa lately? As least here I have. And assisted by a foreign language translator, a necessity in such situations, I found out that indeed common usage and understanding by teens is on Rebeka’s side. If one wants to use hate speech toward gays and lesbians there are other more robust forms of expression that I will not bother to repeat here. Moreover, in the present case the school’s hypocrisy trumps its supposed virtue. The local school officials passed on taking action on the really hateful expression in the exchange-the other students’ taut about Rebeka’s religion which is clear and unmistakable. In my teenage days, back in the days when the world was ‘young and gay’, that kind of statement would have been the equivalent of ‘your mama’ or ‘your mother’ and would have been fighting words, with fists flying. But, dear readers, we live in a kinder, gentler more civilized age with the requisite peer counseling, arbitration and, of course, the ubiquitous liberal ‘thought’ police to smooth things over.

Okay, okay. Yes, we live in an age of victimhood. And damn there is more discrimination against gays, lesbians, transsexuals, women, the aged, blacks, Hispanics, the mentally-challenged, immigrants, teenagers and X oppressed groups that we can shake a stick at. But, something is desperately wrong when the everyday language of teens (or any other sub-culture) is subject to official governmental inspection and sanction allegedly in the interest of making bourgeois society ‘nice’. Where did we go off the rails on this part of the ‘culture’ wars? Well, one place to look is the 1960’s. I have written elsewhere about the fun, even for teenagers, of being alive at that time and imbibing in the whirlwind of the changing cultural currents.

But, my friends, we were politically, socially and, in the case of some groups like the Black Panthers and Weatherpeople, militarily defeated by the forces of reaction in this country. A response by some of my generation was either to deny that reality and drop out of the political struggle or turn into ‘cultural guerillas’ and head for the jungles, oops I mean, universities and try to create some kind of politically and morally correct ‘small’ universe there. That is at least part of the genesis of this ‘correctness’ mania.

Unfortunately, moral gestures will not change this sad old world but only by changing the material base of society so that NO ONE has a vested interest in hating anyone. But that requires political struggle against the current forces that want to keep each oppressed group separated in a 'divide and conquer' strategy that works so well for them. If you want to really fight against gay discrimination (and all the other discriminations) then you had better be prepared to do a lot more than play ‘cop’, even if for ‘do-gooder’ motives. In any case, I hope even in a communist future where no one will have a vested interest in ‘razzing’ anyone that the teens then will still have their own ‘tribal’ language as they try to figure out there place in the world. In the meantime-VICTORY TO REBEKA RICE!

Shut Down Creech! Apr 23-29, 2017 - Stop the Drone Wars

 

Shut Down Creech! Apr 23-29, 2017

Mass mobilization to stop the Drone Warsshutdowncreech.blogspot.com
Join us April 23 – April 29, 2017 at Creech Air Force Base, Indian Springs, Nevada for a 3rd national mobilization of nonviolent resistance to shut down killer drone operations in Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Pakistan,Yemen, Somalia and everywhere.  Includes weeklong Camp Justice peace encampment. Sponsored by: CODEPINK: Women For Peace, Nevada Desert Experience, Voices for Creative Nonviolence, Veterans For Peace & Courage to Resist
drones

Empire War Status

Op-ed by Bob Meola, Courage to Resist. April 3, 2017
A lot of people miss Barack Obama because he smiled nicely while he dropped over 26,000 bombs on seven nations, last year. He was a much more pleasant personality.…
Now, the McResistance, of the Democratic Party and the corporate media have their propagandists reviving the cold war and dangerously flirting with hot war with Russia. Americans are eating Russia Did It propaganda on a daily basis. It is the United States that has interfered with foreign elections and foreign governments everywhere and overthrown approximately five dozen of them since World War ll.… Read More

Support War Resister Pvt. Ryan Johnson

Imprisoned a decade after refusing crimes of his country

Please support US military war resister Army Private Ryan Johnson by making a tax-deductible donation to his support fund, hosted by Courage to Resist. Doing so will help Ryan through the remainder of his prison sentence, and help Ryan and his wife Jenna relocate after his release. Donate today:
https://couragetoresist.org/support-ryan
ryan and jennifer johnsonCourage to Resist. March 23, 2017
We at Courage to Resist are reaching out to you to help imprisoned Army soldier Ryan Johnson and his wife Jenna. We’re helping them get on their feet upon Ryan’s expected May release from Miramar Brig in Southern California. Your support is critical to help them begin their next chapter.
Ryan Johnson hasn’t gotten many easy breaks. He lost his father at the age of three. Growing up he would face years of abuse at the hands of a new stepfather. As a teen Ryan escaped into patterns of drug abuse, self-harm, and finally dropped out of high school. Now he endures insult of military imprisonment after literal injury serving the US armed forces. This pall of unfortunate circumstances doesn’t mean there isn’t light in Ryan’s life. He has persevered, with his compassion, kindness, and conscience intact.

*******The Struggle Continues...Supporter The Military Resisters-Support The G.I. Project

The Struggle Continues...Supporter The Military Resisters-Support The G.I. Project   

By Frank Jackman



The late Peter Paul Markin had gotten “religion” on the questions of war and peace the hard way. Had before that baptism accepted half-knowingly (his term) against his better judgment induction into the Army when his “friends and neighbors” at his local draft board in North Adamsville called him up for military service back in hard-shell hell-hole Vietnam War days when the country was coming asunder, was bleeding from all pores around 1968. Markin had had some qualms about going into the service not only because the reasoning given by the government and its civilian hangers-on for the tremendous waste of human and material resources had long seemed preposterous but because he had an abstract idea that war was bad, bad for individuals, bad for countries, bad for civilization in the late 20th century. Was a half-assed pacifist if he had though deeply about the question, which he had not.


But everything in his blessed forsaken scatter-shot life pushed and pushed hard against his joining the ranks of the draft resisters whom he would hear about and see every day then as he passed on his truck route which allowed him to pay his way through college the Boston sanctuary for that cohort, the Arlington Street Church. Markin had assumed that since he was not a Quaker, Shaker, Mennonite, Brethren of the Common Life adherent but rather a bloody high-nosed Roman Catholic with their slimy “just war” theory that seemed to justify every American war courtesy of their leading American Cardinal, France Spellman, that he could not qualify for conscientious objector status on that basis. And at the time that he entered the Army that was probably true even if he had attempted to do so. Later, as happened with his friend, Jack Callahan, he could at least made the case based on the common Catholic upbringing.  Right then though he was not a total objector to war but only of what he saw in front of him, the unjustness of the Vietnam War.


That was not the least of his situation though. That half-knowingly mentioned above had been overridden by his whole college Joe lifestyle where he was more interested in sex, drink, and rock and roll (the drugs would not come until later), more interested in bedding women than thinking through what he half-knew would be his fate once he graduated from college as the war slowly dragged on and his number was coming up. Moreover there was not one damn thing in his background that would have given pause about his future course. A son of the working-class, really even lower than that the working poor a notch below, there was nobody if he had bothered to seek some support for resistance who would have done so. Certainly not his quiet but proud ex-World War II Marine father, not his mother whose brother was a rising career Army senior NCO, not his older brothers who had signed up as a way to get out of hell-hole North Adamsville, and certainly not his friends from high school half of whom had enlisted and a couple from his street who had been killed in action over there. So no way was an Acre boy with the years of Acre mentality cast like iron in his head about servicing if called going to tip the cart that way toward straight out resistance.         


Maybe he should have, at least according to guys he met in college like Brad Fox and Fritz Tylor, or guys who he met on the hitchhike road going west like Josh Breslin and Captain Crunch (his moniker not real name which Josh could not remember). The way they heard the story from Markin after he got out of the Army, after he had done his hell-hole thirteen months in Vietnam as an infantryman, twice wounded, and after he had come back to the “real” world was that on about the third day in basis training down in Fort Jackson in South Carolina he knew that he had made a mistake by accepting induction. But maybe there was some fate-driven reason, maybe as he received training as an infantryman and he and a group of other trainees talked about but did not refuse to take machine-gun training, maybe once he received orders for Vietnam and maybe once he got “in-country” he sensed that something had gone wrong in his short, sweet life but he never attempted to get any help, put in any applications, sought any relief from what was to finally crack him. That, despite tons of barracks anti-war blather on his part from Fort Jackson to Danang.     


Here’s the reason though why the late Peter Paul Markin’s story accompanies this information about G.I. rights even for those who nowadays enter the military voluntarily, as voluntarily as any such decision can be without direct governmental coercion. Markin, and this part is from Josh Breslin the guy he was closest to toward the end, the guy who had last seen him in the States before that fateful trip to Mexico, to Sonora when it all fell apart one day, had a very difficult time coming back to what all the returnees called the “real” world after Vietnam service. Had drifted to drug, sex and rock and roll out on the West Coast where Josh had first met him in San Francisco until he tired of that, had started to have some bad nights.


Despite the bad nights though he did have a real talent for writing, for journalism. Got caught up in writing a series about what would be later called the “brothers under the bridge” about guys like him down in Southern California who could not adjust to the real world after ‘Nam and had tried to keep body and soul together by banding together in the arroyos, along the railroad tracks and under the bridges and creating what would today be called a “safe space.”


Markin’s demons though were never far from the surface. Got worse when he sensed that the great wash that had come over the land during the counter-cultural 1960s that he had just caught the tail-end had run its course, had hit ebb tide. Then in the mid-1970s to relieve whatever inner pains were disturbing him he immersed himself in the cocaine culture that was just rearing its head in the States. That addiction would lead him into the drug trade, would eventually lead him as if by the fateful numbers to sunny Mexico, to lovely Sonora way where he met his end. Josh never found out all the details about Markin’s end although a few friends had raised money to send a detective down to investigate. Apparently Markin got mixed up with some local bad boys in the drug trade. Tried to cut corners, or cut into their market. One day he was found in a dusty back street with two slugs in his head. He lies down there in some unknown potter’s field mourned, moaned and missed until this very day.  








From Veterans For Peace Stop Endless War • Build for Peace! Washington DC May 29-30

From Veterans For Peace  

Stop Endless War • Build for Peace!

Washington DC May 29-30 
“War is a racket: A few profit, the many pay!” – Maj. General Smedley D. Butler, USMC
May 29 and 30, 2017  Washington DC
May 29, 2017:  Letters to the Vietnam Memorial Wall • Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial
May30, 2017: Lafayette Park • White House

In response to President Trump’s outrageous budget proposal, including a $54 Billion increase for the Pentagon, VFP and other veterans groups will not be silent. Planning for this was started in response to VFP’s great statement about Trump’s Military Budget and our desire and responsibility as veterans, citizens and human beings to express our strong resistance to his policies and our commitment to find a better way to peace. 
The following activist VFP members have been involved in the planning: Matt Hoh, Mike Marceau, Mike Tork, Nate Goldshlag, Nick Mottern, Paul Appell, Ray McGovern, Roger Ehrlich, Sam Adams, Will Thomas, Bill Perry, Doug Rawlings, Ellen Barfield, Ellen Davidson, Gene Marx, Ken Ashe, Mark Foreman, Mike Ferner, Mike Hearington, Gerry Condon, Barry Riesch, Ann Wright, Barry Ladendorf, Bill Creighton, Brian Trautman, Dan Shea, Doug RyderElliott Adams, Ken Mayers, Monique Salhab, Patrick McCann, Paul Appell, Vicki Ryder, Ward Riley and Tarak Kauff.

Here’s the basic schedule:
Monday, May 29Meeting at 9 AM at the Bell Tower, adjacent to the Wall for a briefing by Doug Rawlings and an opportunity to read some of this year’s letters; 10:30 AM, we deliver letters to The Wall; from 11:30-12 we proceed ½ mile to MLK Memorial; at 12:30 we begin a public reading of MLK’s Riverside Church address, his Beyond Vietnam speech. After the MLK event we gather back at the Bell Tower to engage with the public. At 6:30 PM we meet for a social gathering at Busboys & Poets.
TuesdayMay 3010 AM rally at Lafayette Park w/hour of short, uplifting speeches, then around 11 AM going to the White House fence to demand our meeting with the president. We will read the letter from Barry Ladendorf, President of VFP, who will have sent previously to the White House asking for a public meeting. We do not expect a response.  The letter is very good.
 We will have legal support and musical accompaniment. 
For more information contact Tarak Kauff, VFP National Board Member takauff@gmail.com 845 679-6189 or 845 706-0187
For more information on the Letters to the Wall project contact Doug Rawlings  rawlings@maine.edu 207 500-0193

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When Rockabilly Rocked The Be-Bop 1950s Night- “Rock This Town”- A CD Review

When Rockabilly Rocked The Be-Bop 1950s Night- “Rock This Town”- A CD Review


Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Buddy Knox performing his classic Party Doll.

CD Review

Rock This Town, Volume 1, various artists, Rhino Records, 1991



The last time that I discussed rockabilly music in this space was a couple of years ago when I was featuring the work of artists like Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis who got their start at Sam Phillips’ famed Sun Records studio in Memphis. Part of the reason for those reviews was my effort to trace the roots of rock and roll, the music of my coming of age, and that of my generation, the generation of ’68. Clearly rockabilly was, along with country and city blues from the likes of Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and Ike Turner and rhythm and blues from the likes of Big Joe Turner, a part of that formative process. The question then, and the question once again today, is which strand dominated the push to rock and roll, if one strand in fact did dominate.

I have gone back and forth on that question over the years. That couple of years ago mentioned above I was clearly under the influence of Big Joe Turner and Howlin’ Wolf and so I took every opportunity to stress the bluesy nature of rock. Recently though I have been listening, and listening very intently, to early Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis and I am hearing more of that be-bop rockabilly rhythm flowing into the rock night. Let me give a comparison. A ton of people have done Big Joe Turner’s classic rhythm and bluish Shake, Rattle, and Roll, including Bill Haley, Elvis, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee. When I listen to that song as performed in their more rockabilly style those versions seem closer to what evolved into rock. So for today, and today only, yes Big Joe is the big daddy, max daddy father of rock but Elvis, Jerry Lee, and Carl are the very pushy sons.

And that brings us to this treasure trove of rockabilly music presented in two volumes of which this is the first. I have already done enough writing in praise of the work of Sam Phillips and Sun Records to bring that good old boy rockabilly sound out of the white southern countryside. There I noted that for the most part those who succeeded in rockabilly had to move on to rock to stay current with the youth wave (the disposable income/allowance post World War II youth wave) and so the rockabilly sound was somewhat transient except for those who consciously decided to stay with that sound. Here the best example of that is Red Hot by Bill Riley and His Little Green Men, an extremely hot example by the way. If you listen to his other later material it stays very much in that rockabilly vein. In contrast, take High School Confidential by Jerry Lee Lewis. Jerry Lee might have started out in rockabilly but this number (and others) is nothing but the heart and soul of rock (and a song, by the way, we all prayed would be played at our middle school dances to get thing, you know what things going). Case closed.

Other stick-outs here include Ooby Dooby, Roy Orbison (although he has a ton of better songs); Blue Suede Shoes (the teeth-cutting, max daddy of rockabilly songs), Carl Perkins; Susie-Q (right at that place where rockabilly and blues meet to form rock and a classic come hither song), Dale Hawkins; Party Doll (another great middle school dance song), Buddy Knox;and, Come On, Let’s Go (bringing just a touch of Tex-Mex into the rockabilly mix), Ritchie Valens.

Monday, April 17, 2017

Lost In The Rain On Desolation Row -With Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited In Mind

Lost In The Rain On Desolation Row -With Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited In Mind





By Jack Callahan

“I’ve met Einstein disguised as Robin Hood, I’ve been in the tower with Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, “ declared Robert South to no one in particular although Jake Devine was the only one in the room at the time. With those words Jake, Jake known as Jake since childhood to distinguish him from John Devine, Senior although his father a genial Irishman addicted to sports betting and drinking whiskey not always in that order was more the “slap on the back Jake type” while Jake in the throes of his high hippie moments was trying to shed that moniker for the cooler one of Be-Bop Benny but old habits die hard and his old high school friends called him Jake when he went on the hitchhike road west with them in 1965,1966 the name stuck whether he liked it or not knew a couple of things about Robert’s condition with that outburst. [This whole moniker business, Robert’s was Prince Love for a while before he settled on Hash Man,  awaits its sociological doctoral thesis since almost everybody had a sea-change name change moniker as if that mere fact would wash away a whole childhood of learned behaviors far removed from the idea of seeking a newer world away.]

Jake knew that Robert was two things-one, high as a kite on either speed or LSD the latter just then the drug of choice among the “hip” (not always the same as “hippie” but Jake did not want to argue the fine points on that one just then since he himself had been on a two day speed high-low) on the mind-expanding conscious West Coast cohort of the brethren and two, Robert had been listening to the whole, all eleven plus minutes including harmonica breaks,  of Bob Dylan’s Desolation Row at least once, probably more than once if he was high since he would not have had the stamina to switch the sound system that Captain Crunch had installed in their “digs” now that they were off the road for the winter and settled into Pablo ’s mansion. This Pablo was a friend of the Captain’s (not his real name obviously but a moniker like everybody then trying to reinvent themselves that he picked up along the way on the Pacific Coast Highway from some stoned chic when he picked up all and sundry in his yellow brick road bus and did his version of Ken Kesey’s merry prankster gig. Kesey a guy whom the Captain also knew and whom Jake and Robert had met when the bus swung through Kesey’s La Honda encampment on the way south). His mansion was purchased courtesy of many profitable drug deals in the south some of which the Captain had underwritten and hence the use of the mansion for the winter.     

By the way in compensation  for being called Jake by one and all on the bus, of which more in a minute, Jake had gathered some sense of respect because his latest flame, a serious “hippie chick” met on the road at Big Sur as they were heading south, Frilly Jilly, called him Be-Bop Benny,  called him a few other things once they high on grass, you know marijuana,  got down to the “do the do,” a term the guys still carried with them from the corner boy days in Riverdale after they had heard the bluesman Howlin’ Wolf do a song with those words in it, those words meaning hitting the sheets, having sex. What Frilly called him in her high hormonal moments under the sheets is best left to them.              

Yeah, Jake, Robert, Jimmy Jenkins, Frank Riley, and a guy whom they had met and taken as kindred from a mill town in Maine, Josh Breslin (who wound up taking the Prince Love moniker when Robert abandoned the title and it fit him better since he was the best-looking guy on the bus and a magnet for young women who wanted to “do the do” on that assumption),  on Russian Hill in San Francisco where they were camped out in a small park when he stopped by the bus and asked for a joint had been on quite a ride since coming West to see what it was all about and were learning quickly it was all about “drugs, sex and rock and roll” at its core but also about getting out from under the old ways of thinking and living. So when they hit Frisco they headed like lemmings to the sea to Golden Gate Park where all the hell was breaking loose met a few guys who “turned them on,” got them invited to a few parties, including one Captain Crunch was throwing around the new yellow brick road bus that he had just purchased (allegedly in a trade for a big sack of dope but all the time they were on the bus they never had that rumor confirmed by the Captain or anybody else and mainly it didn’t matter by then).

This bus was nothing but an old school bus that had been turned into a moving commune after the seats had been torn out, mattresses thrown down, a storage area for family living material like utensils, dishes, and pots and pans, the thing had been repainted in every Day-Glo psychedelic color under the sun and best of all hooked up with a great sound system Dippy Mike, the guy who did the sound system for Fillmore West and the Dead, put together for any trips they would take.

And almost from the start at Golden Gate Park the trips began once Captain had selected the Riverdale boys as part of his crew to head south with him. The reason for that heading south, the reason Robert was holding forth those lines from Desolation Row was to “house-sit” there in La Jolla at this mansion that belonged to Pablo Rios, a friend of the Captain’s and a serious south of the border drug dealer who was in Mexico for the winter and the Captain had agreed to doing the sitting as we got into “winter quarters.” Now that the bus was not being used, was being refitted with a new engine and so not useable, the sound system had been transferred to the house for the weekly parties the Captain threw for his friends (and whoever happened to hear about the event and knew where to find the place, not as easy as it sounds when stoned as it was located in a hideaway between the cliffs in La Jolla.                     

Robert, once settled in, once he got his own room with his lady-friend, Lavender Minnie, got heavily into the dope, got heavily into listening to the amped up music and Jake thought he had begun, like they had all heard about with kids who did too much dope, to go over the edge.      
Just as Jake thought that thought Robert ragged out again with “they’re selling postcards of the hanging, they’re painting the passports brown,” and Jake knew that Robert had gone for the next eleven plus minutes to his own world. Eleven plus minutes if he was lucky, since more than once Robert had decided that he needed to give his own take on what the whole thing meant, what the various references meant to him. For example that business with Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, the two self-imposed exile poets who almost single-handedly broke from the old forms and created modern poetry and were treated like gods among the hip at one point was Dylan throwing out the gauntlet, telling those guys a new sheriff was in town. Well, maybe, if you think Dylan was a lyric poet rather than a song-writer, or maybe put the two together.

For example Robert explained that postcards of the hanging stuff was his, Dylan’s political moment like Billie Holiday had had with Strange Fruit about the scandalous open lynching of black men in the South put together with a new sense of masculinity turned in on itself with sailor boys caught out on the seven seas who transformed themselves into boy-girls with those all male crews. Once they hit port they hit the beauty parlors to freshen up their looks for the boys, the tough Jean Genet our Lady of the Flowers rough trade boys now that they had the taste for the seamy side, for the anal treats (truth be known not all the seven sea boy-girls once they hit the docks looked for rough trade or even ordinary faggots, a term of the time among Riverdale corner boys and not only corner boys, just like guys getting out of prison went back to their hetero dreams and left the permanents to the truly deprived girly boys, this in a time when all homosexual behavior was below the radar so who knows all Jake knew when Robert laid out his thoughts such talk about homos, faggots, guys light on their feet by old corner boys was usually derogatory and faggot was one of the kinder terms back then).       
Jake had made his fatal mistake by reminding Robert of the old days and of taking what Robert had to say as good coin rather than the ravings of a drug-addled junkie and so he now knew he would have to listen as Robert went through the whole litany. (Oh, don’t forget that Jake, pretty boy Jake now being called more frequently Be-Bop Benny and whatever Frilly Jilly called him behind closed doors when they made loud love was also high on some mescaline so fair game). Robert continued with his “deconstruction” before deconstruction was in fashion, literary or literal, about that blind commissioner who somebody had put LSD, acid in his whiskey glass and were leading him by the nose while he was playing with himself in public. Robert truly believed that this was the ultimate political strategy to bring in the new society that they all thought they were creating on the road in places like the Pacific Coast Highway.

What Dylan was saying was an early version of “drop out and drop acid,” get away from the nine to five life but do it quietly, don’t confront the bastards directly because they have all the guns and they will, they absolutely will, unleash those weapons once the gentle folk get righteously angry. So Robert was living that life, was a fugitive from bourgeois society which they more and more called the square life they had run away from and sit back and watch the action with his Lavender Minnie (and would do so for a while although not with Lavender Minnie who went back to Vassar to be Sarah Stein, graduate student in sociology, but with Red Rose, a girl who had dropped out of college to seek a newer world, she was under the influence of Robert Kennedy via Alfred Lord Tennyson just then).               
Robert, hell, Jake and all the other corner boys, maybe everybody except Captain Crunch and Ken Kesey were knee deep in the myths of their incomplete childhoods. Dylan probably too and so it was necessary to break with the illusions, forget Prince Charming, forget looking for midnight fled slippers, forget sleeping beauties live for black beauties, fuck little bitch red riding hood, kiss off Hansel and Gretel, blow off most of Western literature starting with the cause of more baloney and bullshit than one could reasonably understand, yeah, blow off Shakespeare and his rusty dime store nostrums and two bit philosophy, dig Buddha or Hari Krishna or Saint William Blake but lay off those heavy subtle literature messages. Let the bears eat their fucking porridge, let Cinderella end up an old charwoman, let snow white land inside her dreams with some sweet sister rolling a dollar bill off some mirrored image up her nose. Let the dead bury the dead. For a change.              

All is illusion, all is gypsy ladies selling plastic encrusted roses on drought ridden streets to harmless schoolboys and their bitch goddess dates. Ride the Ferris wheel baby and take a chance that you won’t come down in one piece, walk the midway and seek the geeks of truth hiding out from the law in Madame LaRue’s all-comers tent once that trip, that one way trip out of the garden [here Robert was thinking of the Garden of Eden, about getting  kicked out for good all for some unknown, maybe unknowable, reason just because Ma had bitten the apple of freedom, had taken the serpent for a ride and lost-the first adultery and you wonder, remember Jake how we wondered in Sunday school class with Sister Mary Kenny about why they got thrown out for one simple transgression and how later when we knew more about sex and sexual relations that Ma was just taking seed nothing more nothing less in case Pa was sterile. Remember too we laughed when the sons, the first sons went at each other tooth and nail that was to end in gunplay, something like that, what got killed anyway, who killed which brother and why didn’t that old man God give a goddam and save the situation instead of letting things get out of hand. Ironic ain’t it.]        
Jake had to laugh at the next part since this required some minimal idea about English literature of which Robert was woefully and studiously ignorant since he had barely slipped by and only be the good graces of Frankie Riley who whatever his shortcomings as a stand-up guy when things got heated on the midnight creep had done Robert’s senior paper for him and squeezed him by tassel and all.

Think about that stuff we all were hoodwinked on about Ophelia, you know Hamlet’s chick and how she was giving up the ghost (committing suicide) not because of some lost love but because she was pregnant, even then they had ways of figuring that out hard fact by using some wild herb according to what Lavender Minnie said she had heard some professor postulate on in her Freshman English class in college, and was not sure who the father was.  She, Orphelia, had been, let’s face it, as young as she was Fontinblas’ whore and who knows who else and if you thing about how depressed that Hamlet dude was she was probably just puckering his seed anyway, wasting his manliness. You have to laugh about that iron vest, what did they call them chastity belts that all they did was make the locksmiths rich on both ends, locking them on some squire’s orders and unlocking them when milady was left alone for more than three days. Hell that little whore(Ophelia okay) had duplicates made and was giving them out like candy to every half-ass princeling in Denmark who had a codpiece that looked promising and maybe that was what it was like in that troubled tower. That Shakespeare was way too polite to tell the real story and let that asshole Hamlet grab the big lines and big story like we were supposed to bleed all over the place for a guy who couldn’t decide whether to have veal or chicken for supper. No wonder she gave up the ghost and every guy with a key to the kingdom was crying for weeks after she went to ground.        

I already told you about Einstein and his buddy Robin Hood splitting a tab of acid and creating atomic flowers out of rainbows made big bangs in the silent night and the heathens paid the price and thereafter bowed down so courteously every time some big bass drum went off in the Elysian Fields of dawn. What you didn’t know or I didn’t mention before is that Robin Hood was punking for the old man, was giving him his pleasure if that is what you want to call the madness. Learned the arts from a guy named Friar Tuck out in Hard Rock Candy Mountain along with some, servile sisters hiding in a convent which every Thursday night featured a bawdy strip show for the boys out in the woods adjoining the mountain. Yeah, that acid trip business would do old Albert in once Tim Leary got him over into that midnight Harvard University lab with the shrouded windows and the screams written off to the coyotes of the moon. And you laughed at me and Ophelia when we went our separate ways. The laugh was on you brother, the last laugh.

You ain’t heard nothing yet though because there was this dude that put Einstein, T.S. Eliot and that crypto-Nazi Pound into the deep shade, put them on cheap street remember we used to say that all the time when we were nothing but from cheap street ourselves with our Woolworth trinket dreams and our outsized appetites for everything that we could not have except maybe a trip around the world with Emma when she learned the fine arts although I don’t think she learned her trade from that Friar Tuck who hung tough around that candy cane mountain. What we didn’t know, couldn’t figure was why she was so passive when she showed her wares, didn’t know that she was seeping dope when that was nothing but a nasty habit and sent people to Lexington, places like that to dry out when all she wanted was to be able to feel, feel something, something beside her bread crumb sins. Still passive or not she gave a boost when it was needed and remember it was from her we learned what it was all about when somebody said she was going to play the flute, yeah, play the flute.      

Hell I am seeing ghosts, ghosts of Christmas pass if you let me focus on the scene with that little bastard, Tiny Tim, you know the crippled boy who broke everybody’s heart and got more graft than anybody living and he was a bastard make no mistake, since no way he looked like Bob Crackpot but more like Eddy Sneeze or whatever that hard-ass boss’s name was and he had been tipping the old lady, Bob’s old lady, all along and Tiny Tim’s older sister too just to get his way with skinny worn out factory girls who were looking to go off the clock. If that is what you like that is what you like, right Lavender Minnie. [Minnie nods her assent too fucking stoned to do more than lift her head just then.] Maybe they liked old geezers, maybe they liked the street outside their factory doors leading straight without detour to the desolate night, to the row if you really want to know what we really are looking for in those sunless nights when the stars seemed to have abandoned the heavens and words, man-invented silly words are not enough, don’t have enough energy to blow out a candle much less a starless night. If only they wouldn’t grab all the light, let the skinny girls fatten up on protein and sexual desire then we would not have to worry about strong-armed guys hitting on Lavender Minnie or Frilly Jilly and having to defend our turf when all we want to do is seek out some, what did that dandy Fitzgerald call it way back when-something like the fresh green breast of the new world an unspoiled world a world that had existed for eons without words or strong-armed guys hitting on taken womenfolk.

[Now Robert was definitely coming down from the high of his high as he attempts to wax poetic and philosophical and it will be easier to understand where he is going with all of this word play unless he takes another tab of benzene which is what we are reduced to until the Captain comes back with a fistful of drugs he has about six million connection to working the whole scene like some market owner.]     

Hey you know as well as I do that you, me, Frankie, Jack, Lavender, Frilly and a million other kids are trying to get out from under that nine to the five rattrap our parents were crazy to have us invest in, hustle us off to the white picket fence noise without a squawk, going like sheep to the slaughter. We put the brakes on that, everybody except old Bart Webber who just wanted to taste the fresh life for a couple of minutes before running as fast as he could to his Betsy Binstock and start paying life insurance, health insurance, mortgage insurance and whatever else the “man” had to entice him with a security blanket wrap. Funny those ten percent guys couldn’t light a candle to that brother who got me out a few scrapes when the deal when down or to Betsy either but played on that stuff, maybe genetic going back to the Stone Age when they first started hustling insurance against the dinosaurs and meteor showers. Yeah those guys, I guess women too, just can’t wait to have the big brother blanket put over the whole fucking world and make us like it too. Make us get down on our knees and thanks the mother-fuckers, make us like we don’t know from nothing just because our parents coming through the war got all ass-tight about having everybody do their vanilla routine. No thank you. [Apparently Robert got hold of some kind of interim dope because he was getting edgy, out on edge city a place he liked to be when he was in his Desolation Row high dungeon.]    

You know if I thought it would make a rat’s ass difference I would go on and on about how that pompous ass Eliot and that Nazi-boot licker Pound twisted up the language and good. Made us figure out that modern man, maybe women too, were spending their time counting coffee spoons when the ship was leaving the dock, turned what did we call it “stup” and “sim” when the deal went down and they had a chance to prison breakout except Eliot wanted to be the Queen and Pound wanted to do some shit with cantos and other Latin delights that we gave up on when we were altar boys and saw Father Lally sucking up the church wine before preaching to the brethren and before giving everybody some stale daily bread at the altar rail. Made us like it too according to my grandmother who wouldn’t brook anything said against the man, a man of the clothe like Eliot wanted to be if he could not be the stately queen of England and Pound trying on his very first pair of high heels Jesus this dope is getting to me and Lavender Minnie is starting to look at me like I just blew in from Frisco or outer space. Let’s never fight okay Min.
Hell I’m getting tired now, tired of the bullshit it took for me to get out here, tired unto death of the crap I took all those years from my mother who was always harping on something like I was some professor who was holed up with a book and could write letters to the four corners of the earth when all I wanted to do, all I ever wanted to do was blow some smoke, do dope until my brain got good and fried and figure out what my take was on Dylan’s lyrics and head out alone to the back alleys of Desolation Row, our home. Fuck it.