In Honor Of Russian Revolutionary Vladimir Lenin’s Birthday (April 1870-January 1924)-The Struggle Continues-Ivan Smilga’s Political Journey-Take Three

In Honor Of Russian Revolutionary Vladimir Lenin’s Birthday (April 1870-January 1924)-The Struggle Continues-Ivan Smilga’s Political Journey-Take Three      

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman 



For a number of years I have been honoring various revolutionary forbears, including the subject of this birthday tribute, the Russian Bolshevik leader Vladimir Lenin architect (along with fellow revolutionary Leon Trotsky) of the October Revolution in Russia in 1917 in each January under the headline-Honor The Three L’s –Lenin, Luxemburg , Liebknecht. My purpose then was (and still is) to continue the traditions established by the Communist International in the early post-World War I period in honoring revolutionary forbears. That month has special significance since every January  

Leftists honor those three leading revolutionaries who died in that month, V.I. Lenin of Russia in his sleep after a long illness in 1924, and Karl Liebknecht of Germany and Rosa Luxemburg of Poland in 1919 murdered in separate incidents after leading the defeated Spartacist uprising in Berlin.



I have made my political points about the heroic Karl Liebknecht and his parliamentary fight against the German war budget in World War I in which he eventually wound up in prison only to be released when the Kaiser abdicated (correctly went to jail when it came down to it once the government pulled the hammer down on his opposition), on some previous occasions. The key point to be taken away today, still applicable today as in America we are in the age of endless war, endless war appropriations and seemingly endless desires to racket up another war out of whole cloth every change some ill-begotten administration decides it needs to “show the colors”, one hundred years later in that still lonely and frustrating struggle to get politicians to oppose war budgets, to risk prison to choke off the flow of war materials.  



I have also made some special point in previous years about the life of Rosa Luxemburg, the “rose of the revolution.” About her always opposing the tendencies in her adopted party, the German Social-Democracy, toward reform and accommodation, her struggle to make her Polish party ready for revolutionary opportunities, her important contributions to Marxist theory and her willing to face and go to jail when she opposed the first World War.



This month, the month of his birth, it is appropriate, at a time when the young needs to find, and are in desperate need of a few good heroes, a few revolutionaries who contributed to both our theoretical understandings about the tasks of the international working class in the age of imperialism (the age, unfortunately, that we are still mired in) and to the importance of the organization question in the struggle for revolutionary power, to highlight the  struggles of Vladimir Lenin, the third L, in order to define himself politically.

Below is a third sketch written as part of a series posted over several days before Lenin’s birthday on the American Left History blog starting on April 16^th of a young fictional labor militant, although not so fictional in the scheme of the revolutionary developments in the Russia of the Tsar toward the end of the 19^th century and early 20^th century which will help define the problems facing the working-class there then, and the ones that Lenin had to get a handle on.

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

Ivan Smilga was persona non grata in Moscow after his sojourn to bloody Siberia and that was the one and only reason he had crossed the country to Saint Petersburg. That and the feeling that he needed a new start, a fresh start. That bloody Siberia sojourn was the result of an unwise decision to right the wrongs of this world, or at least of his world, by conspiring with known radical students and worker militants in Moscow to kidnap various high officials for ransom in order to gain some small rights in return. The whole thing exploded in his face (in their faces) when one of the workmen “snitched” to save his own neck and Ivan got a two year sentence for his mistake (since he was late in on the conspiracy and the idea had come from that workman snitch he was given a lenient sentence. They others received ten to twenty years at hard labor, including ten to Suslov who had expected only two like Ivan. Perfidious Okhrana). After that Ivan swore, swore off of politics as a way to change the world, to change his world. Now that he had applied for and had been taken on as a blacksmith apprentice in the Putilov Ironworks he vowed to keep his hands busy and his head away from the world’s woes. Again Ivan got the job due to his size and strength which the head blacksmith noticed right away when he saw in him in the superintendent’s office and told the metal work foreman to grab him with both hands. Fortunately, fortunately for Ivan (and the revolution) he was able to cover up his two years in Siberia by saying he had gone back to the farm after being dismissed by Smythe and Son and unlike later under Stalin the legal “paper trail” behind him never caught up in sprawling Saint Petersburg where the foreign concessions were not as concerns about paperwork as by ability to adjust to the factory system.

Then Elena Kassova entered, or rather re-entered, his life. He had known her as a fellow-worker, a machine-tender, in the John Smythe and Son textile factory in Moscow where he worked taking the rolls of fabric off the machines, her machine, before he became a gang boss. Since in those days before he was finally laid off as “redundant” by the company he was well respected as a worker and had not taken to drink he was eyed by many young women as a possible “catch.” He had caught Elena’s eye as well although as a pious country girl she had refrained from flirting with Ivan like some of the other girl machine-tenders who practically threw themselves at the giant of a man. Through the vagaries of commerce Smythe and Son had closed their Moscow plant and relocated to Saint Petersburg. Elena had followed having no other recourse or resources in Moscow. While in Saint Petersburg she had applied to the Putilov works in order to better herself. After some time she was employed in the foundry doing small piecework. Ivan and Elena met one evening coming out of the plant, had greeted each other, and Ivan had walked her home.

That story about Elena moving on to the Putilov Works to better herself was just that though, a story. While in Moscow, Elena had joined a readers’ circle not just any readers’ circle, but a Workers Benefit Circle. These circles met ostensibly to read, but were actually organizing committees for establishing Tsarist-banned trade unions. Some had imbibed the new socialist ideas coming from Europe, especially Germany and especially the Marxist wing of that movement. (Other trends the Bakunin and Kropotkin tendencies in anarchism, workers co-operatives, social reformism, Christian socialism translated through the Orthodox religion held by most Russians got some play as well.) Elena had been drawn into the work by some students at Moscow University and had shown so much promise that she was “ordered” to go to Saint Petersburg in order to establish circles in that metropolis where there were many plants, including the expanding Putilov, that needed to be organized.  Her task at the time that she met Ivan was thus to help organize a strike at the Works for higher pay and only half a day’s work on Saturday. After several weeks she tried to recruit Ivan to the work knowing that he was well respected among the apprentice blacksmiths, knowing that he had been the organizer of the “Luddite” operation one Saturday night which wreaked hauling machinery at the Smythe factory in Moscow (it had become common knowledge among the tight-knit working class neighborhoods), and knew he had served “time” (that knowledge coming one night after Ivan had had too much vodka and was trying to impress Elena with his manly prowess).

Ivan turned Elena down cold, told her whatever she thought, that he had learned the error of his youthful ways and was looking to make no waves so that he could concentrate his energies on his dream of becoming a master blacksmith and eventually opening his own shop. Elena, wise to the ways of the world and trained to keep her full motives in check, continued to work on Ivan. Of course unknown to Ivan who thought it was just a matter of gaining higher wages and more time off that drove Elena was the hard fact that she had become a revolutionary, had come to see the trade union struggle as just an organizing tool to a grander scheme.

Then one day the workers on the night shift at the Putilov factory called a strike over the firing of several workers, including a couple of apprentice blacksmiths. The next morning Elena called out the workers in her section on the day shift, mainly women. She then cornered Ivan as he was about to walk into his work shed and told him to join the strike. She said it in such a way that Ivan knew that if he crossed the line that would be the last that he saw of Elena. And he was not finished with Elena, not by a long shot. And so he said this to her, “I will fight to get more money, I will fight for a shorter day and I will fight to get my brothers rehired but that is it. No more politics for me, no more.” Now due to some weaknesses of organization, and some crossing of the lines and increasing police menacing they did not get any more money or less time after that strike but after three days they were able to get those fired brothers back. And Ivan had thought they had done a fine thing. Elena had just scowled.                   

In Honor Of The Late Rocker Chuck Berry Who Helped Make It All Possible-Coming Of Age, Period-The Rock Music Of The 1950s

In Honor Of The Late Rocker Chuck Berry Who Helped Make It All Possible-Coming Of Age, Period-The Rock Music Of The 1950s

CD Review

Oldies But Goodies, Volume One, Original Sound Record Co., 1987


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.

Now, not all of the material was good, nor was all of it destined to be playable fifty or sixty years later on some “greatest hits” compilation but some of them 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 had two left feet on the dance floor. You didn’t need to dance toe to toe with that certain she (or he for shes). Ah, to be 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. “Earth Angel”, no question. Also, of course, Chuck Berry’s “Maybellene” but other things of his like “Roll Over Beethoven” and “Back In The U.S.A. are more rock anthem-worthy. Etta James still rocks. And the under-appreciated Lloyd Price on his version of the old standard, “Stagger Lee”. But for my money the best here musically are the great harmonics on “Eddy My Love” by the Teen Queens and the smooth sound of Sonny Knight on “Confidential”. Yes, I know, these are slow ones that you had to dance close on. And just hope, hope to high heaven that you didn’t destroy your partner's shoes and feet. But there you are.

Sonny Knight
Confidential lyrics

Confidential as a church at twilight
Sentimental as a rose in the moonlight
My love for you will always be
Confidential to me

Confidential as a mothers prayer
Too beautiful for other hearts to share
My love for you will always be
Confidential to me

CHORUS
Our loves our precious secret
A beautiful thing apart
There's no need for prying eyes
To look into my heart

Confidential as a babys cry
Sacred and holy as a lovers sigh
My love for you will always be
Confidential to me

Confidential as a babys cry
Sacred and holy as a lovers sigh
My love for you will always be
Confidential to me

Before The Fall- The Film Adaptation Of Graham Greene’s “The Quiet American” (2002)- A Film Review

Before The Fall- The Film Adaptation Of Graham Greene’s “The Quiet American” (2002)- A Film Review   

DVD Review

By Sandy Salmon

The Quiet American, starring Michael Caine, Brendan Fraser, Do Thi Hai Yen, 2002,  based on the novel by Graham Greene , 2002   

Before the fall of Saigon in Vietnam (now Ho Chi Minh City) in 1975 graphically and forever etched in the historical mind by the famous photograph of a helicopter trying to evacuate fleeing Americans and their Vietnamese cronies from atop the American Embassy and before the first inklings in the Western mind that something big was happening after the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu Indo-China (the generic name for the whole are controlled by the French) there was an unquiet little civil war, a guerrilla insurgency playing out in that benighted region. Enter the quiet American, the CIA operative, here the fictional Alden Pyle, who represented American interests even at that early date to attempt to stem the tide. That is the central theme of the film under review, The Quiet American. (This film is the second coming of the adaptation of Graham Greene’s insightful book. The other version in 1958 during high tide Cold War red scare times played down the anti-war aspects of his piece and the futility of the third force strategy which reportedly, and rightly, enraged Greene.)           

Of course with any political thriller there has to be a romantic piece to keep the plot moving between action scenes and in this case it is the “competition” between an English newspaperman, Thomas Fowler, a very married English newspaperman, played by Michael Caine and that quiet American, Alden Pyle, played by Brendon Fraser, for the hand of that Englishman’s beautiful Vietnamese mistress Phuong , played by Do Thi Hai Yen once he lands on the ground. But the central plot is about the doing of the CIA operative in trying to create a “third force,” a strategy which in every subsequent manifestation was doomed to failure since there in the end, the fall of Saigon end, there was no such force that could do anything against the two major forces contending for control of Indo-China, of Vietnam.

It is the intrigue involved in that futile action which eventually does our quiet American in. Finds him face down in the Pearl River with a couple of deep fatal knife wounds in him for his ill-disposed efforts. Alden posing as an aid worker (as in AID a known CIA conduit for all kinds of nefarious activities and still is) gets friendly with Fowler and even friendlier with his mistress and until his unquiet death and river dump was her lover. Along the way Alden tried to under cover of that aid worker ruse get a militia leader to be that “third force” leader to step in between the French colonials and the Communists. Of course that tin pot general was as corrupt as any subsequent “third force” general the Americans were able to rustle up and moreover had his own agenda of grabbing every dollar and every weapon old Uncle Sam would throw his way.       

Sound familiar?

The really beautiful part, the part that seems prescient, this Alden and his kept general decided to stir things up a little, create a little more chaos, by trying to discredit the commies. So they plant bombs in the marketplace in Saigon and let the commies take the blame for the atrocities committed by the action. Fowler though gets a chance to kill two birds with one stone by letting his pro-Communist assistant know what was what about Alden’s involvement in the action. Alden gone to the shades Phuong comes back to Fowler. Was Fowler an accessory in the Pyle murder? I’ll never tell but a friend of mine who served in Vietnam told me the intrigue level at every level except covering for the guys in your squad was so fierce that anything could happen, happen to make ordinarily rational people snap.  Watch this one if you want to get a flavor of up close and personal about why Vietnam was a quagmire the memory of which is still with us today.    

The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-Billy’s, Billy From The Old Neighborhood, View-Jody Reynolds’ Endless Sleep

The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-Billy’s, Billy From The Old Neighborhood, View-Jody Reynolds’ Endless Sleep

 JODY REYNOLDS
"Endless Sleep"
(Jody Reynolds and Dolores Nance)

The night was black, rain fallin' down

Looked for my baby, she's nowhere around

Traced her footsteps down to the shore

‘fraid she's gone forever more

I looked at the sea and it seemed to say

“I took your baby from you away.

I heard a voice cryin' in the deep

“Come join me, baby, in my endless sleep.

Why did we quarrel, why did we fight?

Why did I leave her alone tonight?

That's why her footsteps ran into the sea

That's why my baby has gone from me.

I looked at the sea and it seemed to say

“I took your baby from you away.

I heard a voice cryin' in the deep

“Come join me, baby, in my endless sleep.

Ran in the water, heart full of fear

There in the breakers I saw her near

Reached for my darlin', held her to me

Stole her away from the angry sea

I looked at the sea and it seemed to say

“You took your baby from me away.

My heart cried out “she's mine to keep

I saved my baby from an endless sleep.

[Fade]

Endless sleep, endless sleep

This is another of my tongue-in-cheek commentaries, the back story if you like, in the occasional sketches going back to the primordial youth time of the 1950s with its bags full of classic rock songs for the ages. Of course, any such efforts have to include the views of one Billy, William James Bradley, the mad-hatter of the 1950s rock jailbreak out in our “the projects” neighborhood down in Adamsville not far outside of Boston. The “projects” for those not in the know, those of you who came of age in the leafy suburbs that we “projects” boys fiercely dreamed about once we saw what they looked like on television (and the girls, “projects” girls too dreamed our dreams too although there wasn’t so much mixing of the two until later, until we, meaning we corner boys figured out that those sticks that used to annoy us as they got some shape seemed a lot more interesting that we had previously recognized)were usually poorly constructed multi-unit complexes (ours were four-unit complexes, with many, many such complexes) originally built to house house-hungry returning World War II G.I.s who needed a place to stay while they were waiting on the golden age of the American dream to hit them.

But enough of that for this sketch is not about growing up poor in the land of plenty but growing up in the golden age of rock and roll that we hungry kids and kids from the leafy suburbs could both relate to. In those days, unlike during his later fateful wrong turn trajectory days when he lost his moorings, went off to a hard scrabble life of crime, every kid, including one of his best friends, Markin, Peter Markin, me, lived to hear what he had to say about any song that came trumpeting over the radio, at least every song that we would recognize as our own. This song, Endless Sleep, came out at a time when my family had been at the beginning of the process of moving out of the projects, and, more importantly, I had begun to move away from Billy orbit, his new found orbit as king hell gangster wannabe. I was then in my 24/7 reading at the local public library branch phase unlike previously being Billy’s accomplice on various, well, let’s call them capers just in case the statute of limitations has not run out. Still Billy, king hell rock and roll king of the old neighborhood, knew how to call a lyric, and make us laugh to boot. Wherever you are Billy I’m still pulling for you. Got it.

*****

Billy back again, William James Bradley, if you didn’t know. Markin’s pal, Peter Paul Markin’s pal, from over at Snug Harbor Elementary School and the pope of rock lyrics down here in “the projects.” The Adamsville projects, if you don’t know. Markin, who I hadn’t seen for a while since he told me his family was going to move out of the projects and who has developed this big thing for the local library and books lately, came by the other day to breathe in the fresh air of my rock universe-adorned bedroom when we got to talking about this latest record, Endless Sleep, by Jody Reynolds. You can usually depend on Markin to show up when there is some song he is not sure about blasts over the radio, or maybe when he wants to go mano y mano with me on those ill-advised times when he thinks he has an edge on me.

All the parents around here, at least the parents that care anyway, or those who have heard the lyrics screaming from their kid’s electricity plug-in blaring living room radio (that’s why they invented transistor radios-so parents wouldn’t, or couldn’t, catch on to what we are listening to- smarten up is what I say to those kids still listening on the family radio, for Christ’s sake) about the not so subtle suicide pact theme. [See lyrics above.] Yah, like that silly pact to jump in the ocean is what every kid is going to do when the going gets a little tough in the love department. Take a jump in the ocean, and call one and all to join them. Come on, will you. It's only a song. Besides what is really good about this one is that great back beat on the guitar and Jody Reynolds’ cool clothes and sideburns. I wish to high heaven I had both.

But see the pope of rock lyrics, me, can’t just leave this song like that. I have to decode it for the teeny-boppers around here or they will be clueless, including big-time book guy Markin. And that is really what is going to make the difference between us here. We had a battle royal over this one. See, Markin always wants to give big play to the “social” meaning of a song, whatever that is, you know where the thing sticks in society, where it speaks to some teen concern, at least in teeny-bopper society. Or maybe he has read some newspaper article where some highly-paid guy, a professor usually has spotted a trend and wants to warn every parent, cop and rat teacher of the consequences. Jesus. Yeah, and Markin is also the “sensitive” guy, usually. Like, for example, one time when he was pulling for the girl to get her guy back, or at least go back to her old boyfriend who was waiting by the midnight phone after Eddie split for parts unknown for some back-up love, in Eddie My Love. Or Markin had a kind thing to say about the dumb cluck of a bimbo who went back to the railroad track-stuck car to get some cheapjack class ring that the boyfriend probably grabbed from a cracker-jacks box in Teen Angel (although he agreed, agreed fully, that the dame was a dumb cluck on other grounds, on the grounds that she should have dumped a guy long before if his foolish junk-box of a car got stuck on a forlorn railroad track).

Here though I am the sensitive guy, if you can believe that. Here’s why. It seems that Markin has some kind of exception to the “social” rule when it comes to the ocean, to the sea, christ, probably to some scum pond for all I know as the scene for suicide attempts. Apparently he is in the throes of some King Neptune frenzy and took umbrage (his word, not mind, I don’t go to the library much) at the idea that someone would desecrate the sea that way, our homeland the sea the way he put it. Like old Neptune hasn’t brought seventy-three types of hell on us with his hurricane tidal waves, his overflowing the seawalls across the channel from us, his flooding everything within three miles of the coast, or when he just throws his flotsam and jetsam (my words, from school, I like them) on the “projects” beaches whenever he gets fed up. So I have to defend this frail’s action, and gladly.

You know it really is unbelievable once you start to think about it how many of these songs don’t have people in them with names, real names, nicknames, anything to tag on them. Here it’s the same old thing. Markin would just blithely go on and makes up names but I’ll just give you the “skinny” without the Markin literary touches, okay. Rather than calling the girl every name in the book for disturbing the fishes or the plankton like Markin I am trying to see what happened here to drive her to such a rash action. Obviously they, the unnamed boy and girl, had an argument, alright a big argument if that satisfies you. What could it have been about? Markin, wise guy Markin, wants to make it some little thing like a missed date, or the guy didn't call or something. Maybe it was, but I think the poor girl was heartbroken about something bigger. Maybe boyfriend didn’t want to “go steady” or maybe he wasn’t ready to be her ever lovin’ one and only. Or maybe he didn’t was to satisfy her hormonal problem if you can believe that. Some guys are like that although I don’t know any, any that would pass that kind of thing up. Let me put it this way it was big, not Markin’s b.s. stuff.

Okay she went over the edge, no question, running down to the sea and jumping in. On a rainy night to boot. Hey she had it bad, whatever it was. But see old Neptune, Markin’s friend, maybe father for all I know, was taunting said boyfriend, saying he was going to take boyfriend’s baby away. Well, frankly, and old wimpy Markin dismissed this out of hand, those are fighting words in the projects, and not just the projects either, when one guy tries to horn in on another guy’s baby when he is not done with her, maybe even after too. Like I say those are fighting words around here.

And the girl, given the cold and what that does to you when you have been in the ocean too long was forced to taunt her lover boy, trying to bring him down too so no other frail could be with him. Just like a girl. This is the part I like though, although Markin would probably take umbrage (again), the boyfriend was ready to reclaim his honey, come hell or high water. He wasn’t done with her and so old man Neptune took a beating that night. Yah, he’s taking his baby, and taking her no questions asked, back from that nasty relentless sea. A little justice in this wicked old world. Chalk one up for our side. Yes, Billy, William James Bradley, is happy, pleased, delighted and any other words you can find in the library that this story has a happy ending. Markin’s homeland sea mush be damned.

Rock And Roll Will Never Die, Part Two- Jack Black’s “School Of Rock” (2003)-A Film Review

Rock And Roll Will Never Die, Part Two- Jack Black’s “School Of Rock” (2003)-A Film Review

DVD Review    

By Film Critic Emeritus Sam Lowell

[Recently in reviewing another rock and tribute film, Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s Pirate Radio I mentioned that I would be reviewing the film discussed below. I had noted in that previous review that although I am now retired I had done so with the caveat that I would on occasion dredge up my tired brain and write a little something if it interested me. I also noted that I had been compelled to review that film and now this one because the current film critic in this space, my old friend and adversary from American Film Gazette days, Sandy Salmon, has mentioned to me on many occasions that he had not been washed clean (my expression not his) by the high tide of rock and roll that was the common lynchpin of our generation. Moreover, if you can believe this about anybody who was young and breathing in the early 1960s, Sandy did not “give a damn” (his expression) about rock and roll reflecting in my view that stiff upper lip upbringing that he went through in New York City which included huge doses of classic music. You know Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart and the crew. The guys that the late rock and roll legend Chuck Berry gave notice to in his classic statement of the case for rock-Roll Over Beethoven- giving noteice that some new sheriffs were in town.

The long and short of it had been that I noticed one of the films up for review was Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s Pirate Radio which is nothing but a rather recent slice of life homage to the genre. Sandy was not going to review the film and so I entered the lists to save this beauty of a tribute from statutory neglect. Here is the other one I am trying to save from oblivion. Sam Lowell] 

School of Rock, starring Jack Black, Joan Cusack, 2003   

No question artists, poets, writers and musicians in order to follow their bitch muses who are hard taskmasters have to be willing to give up a lot, have to spend some sleepless nights worrying about what they can create-and worry, deep worry about where the rent and food dough will come from. That premise, that last part-the food and rent part, goes double for guys and gals who only have so-so talents but who struggle nevertheless with that damn taskmaster muse. All of this angst drives the film under review Jack Black’s School Of Rock as it pays homage to the third wave of the rock revolution (first classic 1950s with Elvis, Jerry Lee, Chuck and the like, second stepchildren in the 1960s British invasion led by the Beatles and the Stones, and the third led by, well, Led Zeppelin, AC/CD, Lou Reed, the Ramones, etc.)       

Here’s the way to the stairway to heaven. Average rocker Dewey Finn, Jack Black’s role, was in a bad slump. He had been dumped by his band for being a goof just before the big day Battle of the Bands was to take place, was being dunned by his roommate, a former rocker Ned, for the rent money when he had no dough, and nowhere to get any and worse, absolutely worse of all had to listen to nine to five, white picket fence, get a job Ned’s girlfriend who even I wanted to straggle if I could get my hands on her. Despite all this Dewey had the big dream wanting habits that drive every wannabe rock and roll star.   

But Dewey had a plan to get well on all fronts or rather he dropped into a few things that helped get him on his feet by a little, okay, okay, a lot of deception. See Ned was trying to break into bourgeois society as a teacher but just then like a lot of wannabe teachers he was “subbing” to make ends meet. One day he got a call from a high end private prep school. Except the guy who answered the phone call was our boy Dewey. Bingo, go sub and get the rent money-that was the hook-that was his short term way to get well. Now given the best of it to him Dewey was strictly grunge band and his style and affect reflected the culture. He showed up for his new class assignment looking like hell.

Worse for a high-toned (and expensive prep school) Dewey figured to slum his way through the assignment. Let the kids, fourth graders if you can believe this strategy if you know anything about nine and ten year olds, just hang out while he collected his dough and maybe worked on some new lyrics since he still had it bad to get that gig at the Battle of the Bands. Then he had an epiphany after hearing the kids go through their paces in music class. Here is the beautiful conversion that made every kid like me who grew up clutching every straw rock and roll had to offer beam with pride as he tells Mister Beethoven and his classical music brethren to move on over just like the late Chuck Berry prophesied. Dewey figured to take these “square” musical talents and create his own rock band of this clay. Nice touch, nice idea.

Naturally there have to be a bazillion roadblocks in the way from the totally justifiable skepticism of the kids who after all are straight-shooters to an uptight headmistress, played by Joan Cusack, to irate and upset parents. Naturally as well there have to be many snafus, many examples of the kids overcoming various adversities from poor self-esteem to being overweight to be left out by the other kids whose capacity for cruelty among their peers is well known and hardly a secret these days. Despite all the pitfalls they eventually get to the Battle of the Band auditions. They wow the audience but guess what.  Dewey’s old band wins the competition leaving the kids behind a little older but wiser. Get this though Dewey and Ned (after dumping his bitch nine to five world girlfriend) opened up a school of rock after school. And guess who some of the students were? Yeah, rock and roll will never die as the soundtrack filled with third wave rockers testifies to. Jack Black by the way is a true mad man in this one.         

The Set-Up-With Crime Novel Writer Dashiell Hammett In Mind

The Set-Up-With Crime Novel Writer Dashiell Hammett In Mind

By Zack James

Alexander Slater had always been ever since he was a kid, maybe ten or eleven if not before, a big fan of hard-boiled detective novels and films based on those novels by guys like Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Rich O’Connor, Sid Stein, and Lanny Drew. Had spent many a Riverdale hometown Saturday afternoon in the late 1950s in the faded run-down, gum-strewn on the floor, cobwebs in the balcony seats, toilet in the men’s room a relic of plumbing around the time of the original Cranes who made their fortunes providing such hard-wear to the growing population in need of indoor plumbing and whose castle overlooked Crane’s Beach up north of Riverdale about seventy-five miles away, old-fashioned popcorn cooker which always, always provided burnt kernels at the bottom of the box Majestic Theater on Mooney Street just off of the downtown shopping area watching re-runs  of the classics like The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, The Lady In The Lake, The whole Thin Man series, The Last Kiss, Girl Hunt, and The Lost Ones. That downtown area also beginning to fade as the stores, Doc’s Drugstore, the 5&10, Morley’s Clothing store, Sam’s Furniture store and the like    that used to cater to the town’s needs moved out to the strip malls or all-purpose malls out on Route One a few miles from downtown.

Of course as a kid all Alexander cared about, along with his regular crew of Saturday matinee double-feature companions, Skip James, Jack Callahan, Johnny Rizzo, Five-Fingers Murphy, Frank Jackman and sometimes before his family moved out of town so his father could take a job in the emerging computer industry at Honeywell about forty miles away along Route 128, was that they had enough money to cover the admission (trying as boys universally would then, probably still do, to get the under twelve reduced admission price long after they had entered their teens), were being “grounded” for some silly home or school infraction , and, maybe, just maybe, that for once the popcorn although always with burnt offerings was not stale. So Alexander had through the marvels of cinematic technology and the printed page been able to form a very distinct idea about what a private detective should be like, what he looked like and how he handled himself in the rough spots.       

That ideal was probably epitomized by Sam Slade in The Maltese Falcon on the screen (the 1940s one that made Humphrey Bogart, Bogie, famous not the two earlier ones which he had never seen until a few years ago via Netflix he had ordered the pair online and was seriously disappointed in those efforts, as was his wife Mary who while not nearly as much a fan of the private detective did love the Bogie version of the Falcon) and in some short stories done by Hammett by scrambling through a few libraries and second-hand bookstores looking for compilations. In a word a guy and it was always guys then still was a lot now although he had read a few interesting female detective stories, working class guys, tough, tough enough to by sheer will and pluck to outsmart his well-organized criminal opponents, hard-boiled no question, no sap for anybody even women which every guys knows is easy enough to become when the skirts going swishing by, with a code, a beautiful code of honor that he follows as best he can, maybe not to the letter but as best he can in the spirit, hard-drinking which somehow focused the senses whenever the bottle in the lower desk draw came out, and a rough and ready sense of justice, of tilting after windmills for the good of the cause.

And there that image stayed for a fairly long time until Alexander went out into the world of work after high school. He had taken shop classes in school, printing shop and so immediately after high school he had taken a full-time job with Mister Calder, the best commercial printer in town, whom he worked for after school and on weekends in high school. In due course after a few years in the dreaded Army in Vietnam which took a certain toll on him when he came back to the “real” world, a few years “finding himself” through dope, rock and roll, and following the hitchhike road that many guys of his generation took for a while when Mister Calder retired he took over the shop located in the first floor of the Tappan Building on Lancaster Street right off of downtown (in the opposite direction from the now long gone old Majestic if you were familiar with Riverdale back in the 1970s or earlier).   

At one time, back in the 1940s, early 1950s, the eight story Tappan Building was what they would call today the anchor of the downtown business section. Was the pride of Riverdale what with prosperous small law firms, a few doctors’ offices when doctors had their own private practices more, a couple of dentists, a few reputable insurance companies, nothing big, no Fortune 500 firms but substantial, solid professional. As those firms and professionals drifted out to the strip malls or were eaten up by larger firms elsewhere the once glorious Tappan Building began a long decline into “seen better days.” The owners kind of gave up on the place, not keeping it up with leaking faucets in the restrooms, un-waxed public area floors, unreliable elevators, and the sanctified smell of decay that follows such downward spiraling enterprises. Alexander had taken over for Mister Calder well into the decline of the building but since the leasing arrangements with the owners provided for cheap terms and the fact that his printing business was not one in need of a “good front” he never felt the need to move, probably a wise move once the high tech moguls made self-printing for most occasions a worthwhile effort.

Alexander thus observed the decline of the Tappan Building first-hand as the type of businesses switched from prosperous professionals to shady characters. A couple of “repo” men, a few failed dentists whom you would not want within fifty feet of your mouth, maybe farther away, a couple of chiropractors, some no-name insurance firms, a notary public, a least a few guys who were running some kinds of scams out of their offices, and a detective agency. Fred Sims’ Detective Agency although all the years that he knew Fred he was the sole detective.      

Fred had been in the building since the mid-1960s but between Alexander’s military service and his wanderlust he did not meet Fred until he took over for Mister Calder. Once they met, met in Dolly’s Diner across the street from the Tappan, a place that is still there although Dolly’s granddaughter runs the place now and has changed it from a smoked-filled ham and eggs, coffee and crullers place to more healthful food and clean atmosphere for those who own the condos that had been created as a result of converting many of the old buildings, schools and churches in the area, they hit it off from the beginning although Fred was a good decade older than Alexander.

Fred, let’s be clear, was not, hear this, was not, and probably never would be Alexander’s image of a private detective build up from childhood (although in fairness to Fred he was the very first real P.I. he had run into). Short, bald, with unkempt side hairs sticking out of the baseball cap that he wore indoors and out, and almost never took off, an old Robert Hall’s, if you remember that name in men’s clothing from another age, shaggy sport’s jacket, one of three he owned and alternated, threadbare socks, turned at the heel shoes, black, and many days, many no client days, a fair amount of stubble on his face. His office on the fifth floor reflected that persona, no real “front.”  A hand-printed cardboard sign advertising his name and business on the front door, a small waiting room (which made Alexander laugh for all the years that he knew Fred he never saw anybody in that room), dust in the corners, a well beyond its prime coatrack of uncertain steadiness, a couple of mismatched chairs, a small end table with magazines describing the first Apollo landing in 1969, an office area with a snarled desk, unmatched chair, and a few, too few file cabinets if Fred was prosperous which he was not. Later when they were easier to figure out he did purchase a computer but otherwise over the years the place had, and would continue to have, that beleaguered downward spiral look.    

Alexander one time early on remarked, no, made the mistake and remarked, that Fred was no Bogie while they were sitting at the counter of Dolly’s having their coffee and. Apparently this kind of remark was Fred’s pet peeve because he commenced to rail against the popular notion of what a private detective looks like, what his office looks like, and the real cases that he handles. They are not the murder cases of cinematic and book renown, the public cops, detectives handle that, well or poorly, but in some then twenty years in the business he had never seen any private detective brought in to solve a murder and only once had heard that a very rich guy who had the dough to do so and was frustrated with the public coppers and their inability to solve the kidnapping/murder of his young daughter actually had a private detective savvy enough to solve the crime, after two years on the trail.                   

No the real work was bullshit stuff. Some barber from Gloversville whose wife ran off with a salesman and he wanted her back her, fast, maybe three days, and not too many expenses. Some “repo” work the average repo guys wouldn’t handle or wouldn’t be allowed by the insurance companies to handle. Back in the day a few Peeping Tom snooping around motels cases looking for adultery when the grounds for a civil divorce were harder to find. A lost dog or other pet once in a while if somebody was attached to the animal, although they usually found their ways home on their own or were never seen again. Looking for long lost relatives, usually fruitless since those relatives wanted to be lost from view. Maybe checking out a scam or two, flimflam stuff.

Definitely not looking for lost falcon statutes filled with riches and history with dead bodies and greedy people hovering around. Definitely not taking on some high-powered criminal gang when an old general with wild daughters one of whose husband is missing. Definitely not being employed by some man-mountain to find his long lost and wants to stay lost Velma. Definitely not trying to find some eccentric rich inventor guy whose thin shadow had disappeared in the mist and somebody liked that idea.                                 

 So that day Alexander got his comeuppance, got a first-hand real world view of what private investigation was all about. Thereafter Fred, when the met for their coffee and at Dolly’s or sometimes when Alexander after work would go up to Fred’s office for a shot of whiskey from that bottle he kept in the bottom drawer of that snarled desk (and one of the few commonalities between real and film detectives) Fred would tell him stories about his previous cases, or cases that he had heard about from other P.I.s around the area when they ran into each other at some meeting or on a spree. Except the one time when Alexander became a moving part in a case that Fred would wind up getting involved in before the coppers stepped in. 

One day a guy, an ordinary looking guy, about thirty, fairly well-dressed, a sports coat and tie, trimmed hair and short beard, not from around Riverdale but with a New England accent, probably Maine, came into Alexander’s print shop looking for a customized job, a small job but in those days as people were self-printing more extensively the small jobs were drying up (fortunately the big commercial orders were still coming in at their normal pace). He wanted fifty copies of what he called a missing person’s poster, you know with photo of the person and description of last known place, who to contact and so on, done on the press and not the copy machine. No problem. Alexander handled the order while this young guy waited. 

A few weeks later the person who had come in with missing person photograph turned up dead, very dead along the bank of the Waban River. Not only very dead but very murdered from the bullet holes through his mangled soggy shirt. Chief Powers of the Riverdale Police came into Alexander’s print shop to find out what he knew about the situation since in the dead man’s back pocket there was a water-logged copy of the missing person poster that had a print shop mark on the right corner. Alexander told the Chief what he knew, said he wanted to help any way he could but the young guy was just a young guy and his description and demeanor would have fit a million young guys. As had the guy the sheriff was looking for. That pretty much ended Alexander’s involvement in the case, probably the case would go into those cold files that most murder cases go into if somebody doesn’t jump and confess with all hands open.

Or so he thought. A few weeks later a young woman, Lara Barstow was the name she gave him, came into Alexander’s printing shop with a shopworn copy of the poster he had created for the murdered young man, and asked to see the proprietor. Since he was that person he introduced himself and asked how he could help her (although he was a little suspicious that an average young good-looking woman like Lara would have any connection with the crime, or crimes associated with the young man for whom he had done the work or the young man on the poster). Lara soon cleared things up, “I have been to the police and they told me what happened to my brother Emmet, how he was found murdered out on the riverbank. They said that as far as they were concerned the case was still open but that they had no further leads to work on so that unless they got something that is probably where the case would stand.” [The police did not mention “cold case” file but Lara said she knew what they meant].

Lara then started to cry a bit and Alexander not knowing what to do offered his handkerchief and asked if he should call his wife to assist her in her time of troubles. Lara stiffened at that and told Alexander that she did not need that kind of help but that she was determined to find out who had killed her brother and asked if he had any ideas. Then Alexander, secretly thrilled as the prospect told her that on the fifth floor of the building that they were standing in his friend, Fred, a private detective, had his office and that maybe he could look into the matter. Lara said that she did not have any serious resources (her word), meaning money but that if Fred was able to do something to find the murderer and clear up a legal situation then she would be coming into some funds. Alexander thinking to himself that this was starting to be something out of the movies let that statement ride only saying, “Let’s see what Fred says,” and led her to the elevator and the fifth floor office. (On the way she did not comment on the urine smell in the foyer, the seedy dilapidated aspect of the elevator and its slowness, or the condition of the outside building windows, broken panes letting the weathers in, on the fifth floor as they left the elevator which made him a little wary since her whole demeanor was of some old-fashioned gentile upbringing but he figured she was desperate, concentrated on her task, or indifferent to such matters).

Fred, despite the seedy condition of his office, already commented on by Alexander and nothing had changed since the last time he had been up in the office for a few drinks so no further comment is necessary, was smooth affable charm itself when greeting and listening to Lara’s story. And listen he, they did for the story really did have a Hollywood feel to it.

“Emmet Barstow is, ah, was, my older brother, who had gotten into a lot of trouble when he was in prep school at Exeter Academy several years ago. I don’t know if I should tell you the nature of the trouble since it was a rather delicate matter.” Fred stopped her right there and said he needed to know everything, everything in this weak fact case, or he would not be able to help her. She continued, “Well, ah, see there was this other boy, this Prescott Devine, a pervert, you know, a homosexual, who tricked Emmet into having sex with him, having sex and taking photographs as it turned out.” [Fred and Alexander gave each other knowing eyes about what was to follow.] You know what happened next, Prescott forced my brother to continue with his wicked designs while in school and later asked for money to avoid a public scandal in our household. So Emmett paid, or rather my father paid before he died and after that Mr. Sidney, the lawyer who has handled our estate until we come of age paid.

"Then Prescott faded from view for a couple of years until several months ago after my father died he showed up at our door looking for more money. Emmett gave him what he could but somehow he got wind of my father dying and remembered that Emmett was to inherit a large sum of money upon his death, something he had told Prescott when he was in the throes of love at the beginning [said bitterly]. The terms of the will were that Emmett would inherit almost everything when he turned twenty-five as long as he was alive, and if he were not then I would inherit. But only inherit if there was no cloud over his death. That part had been added only a few months before my father’s death so he must have had a premonition of something happening.” She paused, then continued, “Emmett had been trying to find Prescott for a while after he had come to our house in order to tell him that he was no longer afraid of any scandal, that he would take his chances with society, our society which might be able to overlook what could be a youthful indiscretion, and maybe just a bout of loneliness. Somebody whom they went to school with told Emmett that Prescott was in this area living in Gloversville and that was why he had the posters made. He was going to distribute them around and the thousand dollars for information figured to draw somebody out who might know his whereabouts. That’s all I know until the police called to have me come and identify Emmett’s body. The police have kind of let it go to hell and I need your help.

Fred wise to the ways of the world although not used to dealing with upper middle class young women, as clients anyway except once he had a girlfriend from the leafy suburbs but the parents practically imprisoned her when they found out he did not have three names in his moniker, you know Ward Stewart Lawrence, stuff like that the Brahmins go for, told Lara he needed a one hundred dollar cash retainer before he could represent her in her time of sorrows. She opened her pocketbook, pulled out five Jacksons and they were in business.   

Fred said later that he sensed something was wrong from that moment, the moment she gave him the cash like she expected him to ask for cash rather than haggle over a check or something but Alexander said that was just Fred’s wishful thinking after the fact when the whole thing blew up in his face and the cops had to pull him out of the line of fire. To leave the reader in no suspense at this point Fred went out and did several days of investigation trying to locate the guy who told her brother that Prescott was in the area. He did locate him finally but the lad, a young man whom Fred using the old time expression was “light on his feet,” and fearful to say anything at all. Fred pressed the issue though and the kid (Fred did not use that word) folded. It seems the kid, Fred said he would not use his name in order to get the information he wanted, also fell under the spell of Prescott, had his pants down more than once over the “crush” he called it, and had done Prescott’s bidding telling Emmett that Prescott was in Gloversville. A couple of days late Fred traced Prescott to a bed and breakfast place outside Gloversville.

He figured that he would just go in and talk to Prescott but before he could enter the door to Prescott’s room there was a volley of gunfire aimed his way through the door. He got on the ground first and worked his way back to the kitchen where he called the cops, called the sheriff’s office because he was not sure Gloversville had its own police department. The sheriff came with a few deputies, and a few sharpshooters from the State Police SWAT team. After a couple of futile attempts at coaxing Prescott out they went in full blazes (Alexander said if anybody wanted to know the details of the firefight check with the Norfolk County Sheriff’s Office they would have all the details. After a few minutes the firing from Prescott’s room stopped. The cops went into room and recovered the body, recovered two bodies really, for the other body belonged to one Lara Barstow.

The way things figured out later piecing together everything found in Prescott’s room and later at Lara’ house what happened is when Prescott came to confront Emmett for dough at his house he somehow caught Lara’s eyes, gave her a tumble or two, maybe more. Whether he was just working the scam of a lifetime for a lowlife like him or he had some affection for Lara who knows. What is known from some legal papers found at Lara’s house is they formed a scheme to kill Emmett and have her inherit the family money (when she turned twenty-five as well a lawyer handling the trust before that time). Prescott must have known from that Exeter kid that Emmett was on his trail. They probably met somewhere and Prescott put a couple of nasty slugs in him and shipped him off down the Waban River and easy street. What fouled the whole thing up was the part about having to know the cause of Emmett’s death before the trust could even be touched in the future. The whole Lara tall tale story in Fred’s office was to see if they could find a fall guy, maybe some hobo or something. Not every criminal, smart or stupid always figures things out right but that was what it looked like.

Maybe Lara thought just hiring Fred would satisfy the terms of the trust. Who knows. But when Fred was able to find Prescott he, they panicked. And that was that. So Alexander forever after will be able to say he was part of solving a private detective-type crime. He was just glad, glad as hell that he had not accompanied Fred when he had asked him to go to Prescott’s room. He thought save that part for the movies.                       

Rock and Roll Will Never Die, Part One-Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s “Pirate Radio” ( )- A Film Review

Rock and Roll Will Never Die, Part One-Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s   “Pirate Radio” (  )- A Film Review

DVD Review

By Film Critic Emeritus Sam Lowell

[Yes, I am now retired but I did so with the caveat that I would on occasion dredge up my tired brain and write a little something if it interested me. Current film critic in this space, my old friend and adversary from American Film Gazette days, Sandy Salmon has mentioned to me on many occasions that he had not been washed clean (my expression not his) by the high tide of rock and roll that was the common lynchpin of our generation. Moreover he did not “give a damn” (his expression) about rock and roll reflecting in my view that stiff upper lip upbringing that he went through in New York City which included huge doses of classic music. You know Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart and the crew. The guys that the late rock and roll legend Chuck Berry gave notice to in his classic statement of the case for rock-Roll Over Beethoven- that some new sheriffs were in town.

The long and short of it was that I noticed that one of the films up for review was Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s Pirate Radio which is nothing but a rather recent slice of life homage to the genre. Sandy was not going to review the film and so I have entered the lists to save this beauty of a tribute from statutory neglect. I might point out that another such effort, Jack Black’s School Of Rock was also slated for extinction and so I will review that one shortly as well. Sam Lowell] 

Pirate Radio, starring Philipp Seymour Hoffman, 2009

Probably all films are directed to the largest audience possible although they may be particularly targeted to a certain segment like I believe that the film under review Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s Pirate Radio while entirely suitable for all audiences has special meaning for those of us who were washed clean by the that big wave of rock and roll that swept over us in our 1950s and early 1960 youths. I am not foolish enough at this late date in the 21^st century some sixty plus years after the genre first exploded onto the scene to tell anybody that rock and roll has had the staying power to ignite the two or so generations after the explosion but I will venture to say as I have in the headline to this review that one way or another rock and roll will never die. One hundred years from now, especially now that YouTube technology has insured preservation some shy, backward, alienated teenagers, tweens too, will be snapping their figured to Chuck Berry’s Roll Over Beethoven. And maybe watch this film to try and understand what it was like when men and women performed rock and roll for keeps. Will gravitate toward the film if for no other reason than the time capsule sound track will guide them to the source.

Here’s the play. If you can believe this back in the day, back in the early 1960s when rock had already passed its first bloom “the authorities” in this case the British authorities but it could have been any governmental agents, churchmen, school administrators, and above all parents in America (or any place on the planet where the category of “teenager” had currency) banned rock and roll from the state-run airwaves. Damn. Except some guys thought of an ingenious way to go around that prohibition by rigging up ships with radio studio equipment and related technologies and anchoring them out beyond the British legal jurisdiction, anchored them in international waters. The kids in the British Isles just like hear then could listen on their coveted transistor radios up in the privacy of their parents forbidden bedrooms. (Transistor radios by the way were the iPod /MP3s of their day.)           

      

One drawback was that the radio station crew had to stay on board and so the wacky crew and their antics and animosities headlined by Hoffman are given full play. That did not stop the furor to live and die by the motto “drugs, sex, and rock and roll (although the one female on board was a lesbian there was no shortage of mainland female listeners ready, willing and able to take the nearest boat out to join the crew. Various segments of the film deal with the sex lives, or non-sex lives of the larger than life looney tunes on board.   

Naturally this flaunting of the law, this thumb in the eye drove the governmental bureaucrats crazy, drove them to a white heat to get rid of the crew of crazies and degenerates who were corrupting the morals of the youth of the nation (this would be mild compared to what would go down later in that same decade). And in the end through treachery and convenient legislation they would prove victorious in their attempts to shut down the operations. Left the ship being highlighted out in the deep to flounder. But in the end the crew was saved by their audience, literally, coming out and rescuing them. Yeah, with an audience like that no wonder everybody believed, fervently believed that rock and roll would never die. Enough said.      

Rock and Roll Will Never Die, Part One-Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s “Pirate Radio” ( )- A Film Review

Rock and Roll Will Never Die, Part One-Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s   “Pirate Radio” (  )- A Film Review

DVD Review

By Film Critic Emeritus Sam Lowell

[Yes, I am now retired but I did so with the caveat that I would on occasion dredge up my tired brain and write a little something if it interested me. Current film critic in this space, my old friend and adversary from American Film Gazette days, Sandy Salmon has mentioned to me on many occasions that he had not been washed clean (my expression not his) by the high tide of rock and roll that was the common lynchpin of our generation. Moreover he did not “give a damn” (his expression) about rock and roll reflecting in my view that stiff upper lip upbringing that he went through in New York City which included huge doses of classic music. You know Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart and the crew. The guys that the late rock and roll legend Chuck Berry gave notice to in his classic statement of the case for rock-Roll Over Beethoven- that some new sheriffs were in town.

The long and short of it was that I noticed that one of the films up for review was Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s Pirate Radio which is nothing but a rather recent slice of life homage to the genre. Sandy was not going to review the film and so I have entered the lists to save this beauty of a tribute from statutory neglect. I might point out that another such effort, Jack Black’s School Of Rock was also slated for extinction and so I will review that one shortly as well. Sam Lowell] 

Pirate Radio, starring Philipp Seymour Hoffman, 2009

Probably all films are directed to the largest audience possible although they may be particularly targeted to a certain segment like I believe that the film under review Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s Pirate Radio while entirely suitable for all audiences has special meaning for those of us who were washed clean by the that big wave of rock and roll that swept over us in our 1950s and early 1960 youths. I am not foolish enough at this late date in the 21^st century some sixty plus years after the genre first exploded onto the scene to tell anybody that rock and roll has had the staying power to ignite the two or so generations after the explosion but I will venture to say as I have in the headline to this review that one way or another rock and roll will never die. One hundred years from now, especially now that YouTube technology has insured preservation some shy, backward, alienated teenagers, tweens too, will be snapping their figured to Chuck Berry’s Roll Over Beethoven. And maybe watch this film to try and understand what it was like when men and women performed rock and roll for keeps. Will gravitate toward the film if for no other reason than the time capsule sound track will guide them to the source.

Here’s the play. If you can believe this back in the day, back in the early 1960s when rock had already passed its first bloom “the authorities” in this case the British authorities but it could have been any governmental agents, churchmen, school administrators, and above all parents in America (or any place on the planet where the category of “teenager” had currency) banned rock and roll from the state-run airwaves. Damn. Except some guys thought of an ingenious way to go around that prohibition by rigging up ships with radio studio equipment and related technologies and anchoring them out beyond the British legal jurisdiction, anchored them in international waters. The kids in the British Isles just like hear then could listen on their coveted transistor radios up in the privacy of their parents forbidden bedrooms. (Transistor radios by the way were the iPod /MP3s of their day.)           

      

One drawback was that the radio station crew had to stay on board and so the wacky crew and their antics and animosities headlined by Hoffman are given full play. That did not stop the furor to live and die by the motto “drugs, sex, and rock and roll (although the one female on board was a lesbian there was no shortage of mainland female listeners ready, willing and able to take the nearest boat out to join the crew. Various segments of the film deal with the sex lives, or non-sex lives of the larger than life looney tunes on board.   

Naturally this flaunting of the law, this thumb in the eye drove the governmental bureaucrats crazy, drove them to a white heat to get rid of the crew of crazies and degenerates who were corrupting the morals of the youth of the nation (this would be mild compared to what would go down later in that same decade). And in the end through treachery and convenient legislation they would prove victorious in their attempts to shut down the operations. Left the ship being highlighted out in the deep to flounder. But in the end the crew was saved by their audience, literally, coming out and rescuing them. Yeah, with an audience like that no wonder everybody believed, fervently believed that rock and roll would never die. Enough said.