Saturday, March 07, 2009

*The First Folk Wave- Woody Guthrie and Lead Belly

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Lead Belly performing "Bourgeois Blues".

CD REVIEW

Folkways: The Original Vision-Songs Of Woody Guthrie and Lead Belly, Woody Guthrie, Lead Belly, Smithsonian/Folkways, 2005


If any of the older generation, the “Generation of ‘68” needs an introduction to Woody Guthrie or Lead Belly then I ask what planet have you been on. Woody’s “This Land Is Your Land” is practically a national anthem (and in some quarters is just that). And Leadbelly’s “Goodnight, Irene” is in that same category. So to have the two highlighted on one program, as they had been in life on a number of occasions is a treat. This tribute has the further virtue of highlighting original performances by them unlike a DVD documentary and and accompanying CD “A Shared Vision” reviewed earlier in this space that was composed of tribute performances by some of those who, like John Mellencamp, have been influenced by their work, individually or collectively.

As always with a Smithsonian/Folkways production the CD includes a booklet of copious liner notes that detail, for the folk historian or the novice alike, the history of each song and its genesis. I am always surprised by the insightful detail provided and as much as I know about this milieu always find something new in them. Moreover, the information here provided inevitably details the rather mundane genesis of some very famous songs. Here, for example, “Bring Me Little Water, Sylvie” is just what it says back in Lead Belly’s old family farm hand days.

I do not believe that I need to detail the work of these two artists but will finish with a note of what you should make sure to hear. “Goodnight, Irene” and “This Land Is Your Land”, of course. “Rock Island Line” has aged well, as has “Do-Re-Mi”. A Woody ‘talking blues’, “Talking Hard Work”, will strike your funny bone. Lead Belly’s “Midnight Special” is fine. All of this is rounded out by a Woody/Lead Belly duet on “We Shall Be Free” that has subsequently been covered by many folkies, young and old.


Lead Belly - The Bourgeois Blues Lyrics

Lord, in a bourgeois town
It's a bourgeois town
I got the bourgeois blues
Gonna spread the news all around

Home of the brave, land of the free
I don't wanna be mistreated by no bourgeoisie
Lord, in a bourgeois town
Uhm, the bourgeois town
I got the bourgeois blues
Gonna spread the news all around

Well, me and my wife we were standing upstairs
We heard the white man say "I don't want no n----rs up there"
Lord, in a bourgeois town
Uhm, bourgeois town
I got the bourgeois blues
Gonna spread the news all around

Well, them white folks in Washington they know how
To call a colored man a n----r just to see him bow
Lord, it's a bourgeois town
Uhm, the bourgeois town
I got the bourgeois blues
Gonna spread the news all around

I tell all the colored folks to listen to me
Don't try to find you no home in Washington, DC
`Cause it's a bourgeois town
Uhm, the bourgeois town
I got the bourgeois blues
Gonna spread the news all around

"This Land Is Your Land"-Woody Guthrie

This land is your land This land is my land
From California to the New York island;
From the red wood forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and Me.

As I was walking that ribbon of highway,
I saw above me that endless skyway:
I saw below me that golden valley:
This land was made for you and me.

I've roamed and rambled and I followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts;
And all around me a voice was sounding:
This land was made for you and me.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said "No Trespassing."
But on the other side it didn't say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.

Deportee (Plane Wreck At Los Gatos)

The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning,
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;
They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
To pay all their money to wade back again

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees"

My father's own father, he waded that river,
They took all the money he made in his life;
My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees,
And they rode the truck till they took down and died.

Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted,
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.

We died in your hills, we died in your deserts,
We died in your valleys and died on your plains.
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes,
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.

The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills,
Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just deportees"

Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"?

Words by Woody Guthrie and Music by Martin Hoffman
© 1961 (renewed) by TRO-Ludlow Music, Inc.

Hard Travelin'

I've been havin' some hard travelin', I thought you knowed
I've been havin' some hard travelin', way down the road
I've been havin' some hard travelin', hard ramblin', hard gamblin'
I've been havin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been ridin' them fast rattlers, I thought you knowed
I've been ridin' them flat wheelers, way down the road
I've been ridin' them blind passengers, dead-enders, kickin' up cinders
I've been havin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been hittin' some hard-rock minin', I thought you knowed
I've been leanin' on a pressure drill, way down the road
Hammer flyin', air-hose suckin', six foot of mud and I shore been a muckin'
And I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been hittin' some hard harvestin', I thought you knowed
North Dakota to Kansas City, way down the road
Cuttin' that wheat, stackin' that hay, and I'm tryin' make about a dollar a day
And I've been havin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been working that Pittsburgh steel, I thought you knowed
I've been a dumpin' that red-hot slag, way down the road
I've been a blasting, I've been a firin', I've been a pourin' red-hot iron
I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been layin' in a hard-rock jail, I thought you knowed
I've been a laying out 90 days, way down the road
Damned old judge, he said to me, "It's 90 days for vagrancy."
And I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord

I've been walking that Lincoln highway, I thought you knowed,
I've been hittin' that 66, way down the road
Heavy load and a worried mind, lookin' for a woman that's hard to find,
I've been hittin' some hard travelin', lord



Ludlow Massacre

It was early springtime when the strike was on,
They drove us miners out of doors,
Out from the houses that the Company owned,
We moved into tents up at old Ludlow.

I was worried bad about my children,
Soldiers guarding the railroad bridge,
Every once in a while a bullet would fly,
Kick up gravel under my feet.

We were so afraid you would kill our children,
We dug us a cave that was seven foot deep,
Carried our young ones and pregnant women
Down inside the cave to sleep.

That very night your soldiers waited,
Until all us miners were asleep,
You snuck around our little tent town,
Soaked our tents with your kerosene.

You struck a match and in the blaze that started,
You pulled the triggers of your gatling guns,
I made a run for the children but the fire wall stopped me.
Thirteen children died from your guns.

I carried my blanket to a wire fence corner,
Watched the fire till the blaze died down,
I helped some people drag their belongings,
While your bullets killed us all around.

I never will forget the look on the faces
Of the men and women that awful day,
When we stood around to preach their funerals,
And lay the corpses of the dead away.

We told the Colorado Governor to call the President,
Tell him to call off his National Guard,
But the National Guard belonged to the Governor,
So he didn't try so very hard.

Our women from Trinidad they hauled some potatoes,
Up to Walsenburg in a little cart,
They sold their potatoes and brought some guns back,
And they put a gun in every hand.

The state soldiers jumped us in a wire fence corners,
They did not know we had these guns,
And the Red-neck Miners mowed down these troopers,
You should have seen those poor boys run.

We took some cement and walled that cave up,
Where you killed these thirteen children inside,
I said, "God bless the Mine Workers' Union,"
And then I hung my head and cried.

1913 Massacre

Take a trip with me in 1913,
To Calumet, Michigan, in the copper country.
I will take you to a place called Italian Hall,
Where the miners are having their big Christmas ball.

I will take you in a door and up a high stairs,
Singing and dancing is heard everywhere,
I will let you shake hands with the people you see,
And watch the kids dance around the big Christmas tree.

You ask about work and you ask about pay,
They'll tell you they make less than a dollar a day,
Working the copper claims, risking their lives,
So it's fun to spend Christmas with children and wives.

There's talking and laughing and songs in the air,
And the spirit of Christmas is there everywhere,
Before you know it you're friends with us all,
And you're dancing around and around in the hall.

Well a little girl sits down by the Christmas tree lights,
To play the piano so you gotta keep quiet,
To hear all this fun you would not realize,
That the copper boss' thug men are milling outside.

The copper boss' thugs stuck their heads in the door,
One of them yelled and he screamed, "there's a fire,"
A lady she hollered, "there's no such a thing.
Keep on with your party, there's no such thing."

A few people rushed and it was only a few,
"It's just the thugs and the scabs fooling you,"
A man grabbed his daughter and carried her down,
But the thugs held the door and he could not get out.

And then others followed, a hundred or more,
But most everybody remained on the floor,
The gun thugs they laughed at their murderous joke,
While the children were smothered on the stairs by the door.

Such a terrible sight I never did see,
We carried our children back up to their tree,
The scabs outside still laughed at their spree,
And the children that died there were seventy-three.

The piano played a slow funeral tune,
And the town was lit up by a cold Christmas moon,
The parents they cried and the miners they moaned,
"See what your greed for money has done."

Oklahoma Hills

Many a month has come and gone
Since I wandered from my home
In those Oklahoma hills where I was born.
Many a page of life has turned,
Many a lesson I have learned;
Well, I feel like in those hills I still belong.

'Way down yonder in the Indian Nation
Ridin' my pony on the reservation,
In those Oklahoma hills where I was born.
Now, 'way down yonder in the Indian Nation,
A cowboy's life is my occupation,
In those Oklahoma hills where I was born.

But as I sit here today,
Many miles I am away
From a place I rode my pony through the draw,
While the oak and blackjack trees
Kiss the playful prairie breeze,
In those Oklahoma hills where I was born.

Now as I turn life a page
To the land of the great Osage
In those Oklahoma hills where I was born,
While the black oil it rolls and flows
And the snow-white cotton grows
In those Oklahoma hills where I was born.



Words and Music by Woody Guthrie and Jack Guthrie
© Copyright 1945 (renewed) by Woody Guthrie Publications , Inc.
and Michael Goldsen Music Inc / Warner-Chappell Music


Pastures Of Plenty

It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed
My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled
And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold

I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on the ground in the light of the moon
On the edge of the city you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind

California, Arizona, I harvest your crops
Well its North up to Oregon to gather your hops
Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine
To set on your table your light sparkling wine

Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down
Every state in the Union us migrants have been
We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win

It's always we rambled, that river and I
All along your green valley, I will work till I die
My land I'll defend with my life if it be
Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free

Pretty Boy Floyd

If you'll gather 'round me, children,
A story I will tell
'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw,
Oklahoma knew him well.

It was in the town of Shawnee,
A Saturday afternoon,
His wife beside him in his wagon
As into town they rode.

There a deputy sheriff approached him
In a manner rather rude,
Vulgar words of anger,
An' his wife she overheard.

Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain,
And the deputy grabbed his gun;
In the fight that followed
He laid that deputy down.

Then he took to the trees and timber
To live a life of shame;
Every crime in Oklahoma
Was added to his name.

But a many a starving farmer
The same old story told
How the outlaw paid their mortgage
And saved their little homes.

Others tell you 'bout a stranger
That come to beg a meal,
Underneath his napkin
Left a thousand dollar bill.

It was in Oklahoma City,
It was on a Christmas Day,
There was a whole car load of groceries
Come with a note to say:

Well, you say that I'm an outlaw,
You say that I'm a thief.
Here's a Christmas dinner
For the families on relief.

Yes, as through this world I've wandered
I've seen lots of funny men;
Some will rob you with a six-gun,
And some with a fountain pen.

And as through your life you travel,
Yes, as through your life you roam,
You won't never see an outlaw
Drive a family from their home.

Union Maid

There once was a union maid, she never was afraid
Of goons and ginks and company finks and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid.
She went to the union hall when a meeting it was called,
And when the Legion boys come 'round
She always stood her ground.

Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the union,
I'm sticking to the union, I'm sticking to the union.
Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the union,
I'm sticking to the union 'til the day I die.

This union maid was wise to the tricks of company spies,
She couldn't be fooled by a company stool, she'd always organize the guys.
She always got her way when she struck for better pay.
She'd show her card to the National Guard
And this is what she'd say

You gals who want to be free, just take a tip from me;
Get you a man who's a union man and join the ladies' auxiliary.
Married life ain't hard when you got a union card,
A union man has a happy life when he's got a union wife.

1 comment:

  1. Guest Commentary

    LAST THOUGHTS ON WOODY GUTHRIE

    Words and Music by Bob Dylan
    1973 Special Rider Music


    When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
    When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
    When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
    In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
    No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
    If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
    If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
    And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
    And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
    And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
    And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
    And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
    And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
    And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
    And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
    And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
    And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
    Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
    And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
    And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
    And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
    And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
    And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
    And to yourself you sometimes say
    "I never knew it was gonna be this way
    Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
    And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
    And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
    And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
    And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
    And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
    And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
    And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
    And you need it badly but it lays on the street
    And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
    And you think yer ears might a been hurt
    Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
    And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
    When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
    And all the time you were holdin' three queens
    And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
    Like in the middle of Life magazine

    Bouncin' around a pinball machine
    And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
    That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
    But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
    And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
    And no matter how you try you just can't say it
    And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
    And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
    And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
    And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
    And his jaws start closin with you underneath
    And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
    And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
    And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
    On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
    On this curve I'm hanging
    On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm talking
    In this air I'm inhaling
    Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
    Why am I walking, where am I running
    What am I saying, what am I knowing
    On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
    On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
    In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
    In the words that I'm thinkin'
    In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
    Who am I helping, what am I breaking
    What am I giving, what am I taking
    But you try with your whole soul best
    Never to think these thoughts and never to let
    Them kind of thoughts gain ground
    Or make yer heart pound
    But then again you know why they're around
    Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
    "Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
    And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
    And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
    And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
    If that was you in the dream that was screaming
    And you know that it's something special you're needin'
    And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
    And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding


    And you need something special
    Yeah, you need something special all right
    You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
    To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
    You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
    That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
    That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
    You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
    That won't laugh at yer looks
    Your voice or your face
    And by any number of bets in the book
    Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
    You need something to open up a new door
    To show you something you seen before
    But overlooked a hundred times or more
    You need something to open your eyes
    You need something to make it known
    That it's you and no one else that owns
    That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
    That the world ain't got you beat
    That it ain't got you licked
    It can't get you crazy no matter how many
    Times you might get kicked
    You need something special all right
    You need something special to give you hope
    But hope's just a word
    That maybe you said or maybe you heard
    On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

    But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
    And yer trouble is you know it too good
    "Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

    "Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
    And it ain't on Macy's window sill
    And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
    And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
    And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
    And it ain't on that dimlit stage
    With that half-wit comedian on it
    Ranting and raving and taking yer money
    And you thinks it's funny
    No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club

    And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
    And sure as hell you're bound to tell
    That no matter how hard you rub
    You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
    No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
    And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
    And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
    Or down any movie star's blouse
    And you can't find it on the golf course
    And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
    And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
    And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
    And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
    That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
    Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
    Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
    Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
    When you can't even sense if they got any insides
    These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
    No you'll not now or no other day
    Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache«
    And inside it the people made of molasses
    That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
    And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
    Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
    Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
    And before you can count from one to ten
    Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
    My friend
    The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
    And play games with each other in their sand-box world
    And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
    That run around gallant
    And make all rules for the ones that got talent
    And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
    And think they're foolin' you
    The ones who jump on the wagon
    Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
    To get their kicks, get out of it quick
    And make all kinds of rnoney and chicks
    And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
    Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that

    Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
    Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
    Good God Almighty
    THAT STUFF AINĂ•T REAL"

    No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
    You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
    You gotta look some other place
    And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
    Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
    Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
    Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
    Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
    And out there somewhere
    And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
    Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
    Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
    You can touch and twist
    And turn two kinds of doorknobs

    You can either go to the church of your choice
    Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
    You'll find God in the church of your choice
    You'll find Woody Guthrie in the Brooklyn State Hospital

    And though it's only my opinion
    I may be right or wrong
    You'll find them both
    In the Grand Canyon
    At sundown

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