The Fire This Time-In Honor Of James Baldwin Whose Time Has Come Again-From The Archives- Books To While Away The Class Struggle By- James Baldwin's "If Beale Street Could Talk"

The Fire This Time-In Honor Of James Baldwin Whose Time Has Come Again-From The Archives-   Books To While Away The Class Struggle By- James Baldwin's "If Beale Street Could Talk"

Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for James Baldwin's 'If Beale Street Could Talk".


Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By” and "Films To While Away The Class Struggle By"-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs and films that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some books that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. Markin

Book Review

If Beale Street Could Talk, James Baldwin, The Dial Press, New York, 1974

Recently I started a review of a film documentary, “Lenny Bruce: Without Tears”, using the following lines that I find appropriate to use to set the same kind of tone in reviewing James Baldwin’s 1974 novel, “If Beale Street Could Talk”:

“Okay, the average black male kid on the average ghetto city block today knows, and knows without blinking, and knows from some seemingly unspoken source deep within his genetic structure that the cards are stacked against him. That the cops, the courts, or some other part of the “justice” system will, eventually, come knocking at the door or grab him off the street for something, usually dope. The average Latino male kid on the average barrio city block pretty much now knows that same thing, again usually on some bogus drug charge. And nowadays even young black and Latina women are getting that same message coded into their psyches.”

And that sums up the message behind Baldwin’s’ work, at least the message that will last and that should be etched in the memory of every fighter for social justice.

Now I have been, as is my wont when I get “hooked” on some writer, on something of a James Baldwin tear of late, reading or re-reading everything I can get my hands on. At the time of this review I have already looked at “Go Tell It On The Mountain” and the play “Blues For Mr. Charlie”. Frankly those works, while well written and powerful did not remind me why I was crazy to read everything that Baldwin wrote when I was a kid.

The theme of the first work mentioned, a story of a fourteen year black boy coming to terms with the power of religion over his life did not today “speak” to a man who at fourteen was running as far away from religion as he could get. The second, based on the 1950s Emmett Till murder, again is well written but the facts of that case are enough in themselves to drive the action. And drive us, once again, to say Mississippi goddam. This book under review, “If Beale Street Could Talk”, although, perhaps not as well-written does “speak” to me these forty years later.

And why? Well, as the female narrator of this tale, "Tish”, notes being black while breathing, being black while being male, being black while breathing in the “projects”, being black while breathing and at the tender mercies of the white-run “justice system from the cop on the beat to the judge on high is enough to give one pause. And that sums up the story line, except this. Baldwin has gotten to some core truths about being on the “outs” and left to one’s own resources when the cards are stacked, no, double- stacked, against you. Now for those who may read this book, and you should, in so-called “post-racial” Obama America doesn’t it read like it could have been written today? I mean the today of the real mean streets of black existence in America. Think about just that statistic on the very high probability that a young black male will be in jail, on the way to jail, just out of jail or on parole before he gets very old and that “speaks” to a very different reality. Nice work, James.

The Fire This Time-In Honor Of James Baldwin Whose Time Has Come Again-From The Archives- ***Books To While Away The Class Struggle By- The Works Of James Baldwin-"Go Tell It On The Mountain"

The Fire This Time-In Honor Of James Baldwin Whose Time Has Come Again-From The Archives-   ***Books To While Away The Class Struggle By- The Works Of James Baldwin-"Go Tell It On The Mountain"

Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for James Baldwin's novel, "Go Tell It On The Mountain".

Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By” and "Films To While Away The Class Struggle By"-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs and films that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some books that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. Markin

Book Review

Go Tell It On The Mountain, James Baldwin, Dell Publishing Co., New York, 1952

One of the side events of the 2008 American presidential elections, the one that resulted in the election of the first black president, was the widespread exposure of the role of the black church as a central social, political and religious institution in the black community, for good or evil. That centrality, the subject matter of black writer James Baldwin’s first novel back in the early 1950s and from there carried back by him to his youth in the 1930s, is longstanding. Moreover, the black church and its activist clergy, despite it long role as adhesive, healer, protector and face of the black community is not an unambiguous legacy as Baldwin, very wickedly, and profoundly demonstrates here.

Baldwin uses the old tried and true novelistic devise of using a two-tier plot structure to delve into the lives, the loves, the likes and lies of two generations of a black family, a family that although it found itself in the North, in the black metropolis of Harlem, had deep and continuing roots in the old worn-out land of the South that most of the characters fled, willingly or unwillingly, at some point. The first tier discusses the present status of most of the main figures, including the transparently autobiographical John and his “father”, Gabriel, a born-again Christian preacher, a character not unknown in the black community. The second takes place through personal recollections in a store front, primitive Christian church, also not an unknown phenomenon in the black community, or the white one for that matter.

The details of the various relationships of the very mixed clan can best be appreciated by the reader. What I would note here, as I have noted elsewhere when discussing James Baldwin’s work, is his ear for the various voices of the black community even though he himself seemed, by the facts of his biography to have been fairly removed from the mainstream of the black community. He clearly knows “religion” and the role it plays in the community. Also of the teutonic struggle between the old ways of the de jure segregated South and the de facto segregated North. While I am more devoted to the works of Langston Hughes as an exemplar of black literary blues, James too knows that condition. James can sing those chords. And the late Norman Mailer was not wrong when he noted that his contemporary, Baldwin, in 1950s America was “one of our few writers”. I will say amen to that.

*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

***Films To While Away The Class Struggle By-The Other (Non-"Beat") New York Writers’ World Of The 1950s- "New York In The 1950s"

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of a movie trailer for "Pluck" that is about New York in the 1950s and serves as background for the review below.

DVD Review

New York In The 1950s, Dan Wakefield, Gay and Nan Talese, Norman Mailer, James Baldwin, and many other authors who came of age in the 1950s, 1999

I have prattled on endlessly about the role of the beat writers and poets and their hangers-on, led by the trio of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, in leading the breakout from mainstream American society, literary society at least, in forming my own cultural tastes and that of many of my generation, the Generation of ’68. That "beat" cultural movement, in my mind rightly or wrongly, is forever associated with New York City, and particularly Greenwich Village. And that is where the question of taste comes in for, except for short periods, the beat movement was as much a part of the San Francisco scene of the 1950s as that of New York. Moreover, there is another group of writers, as portrayed in this interesting, short film documentary that can claim, and do claim, for themselves the role of avant guarde anti-establishment New York writers. The names James Baldwin, Dan Wakefield, Norman Mailer, come quickly to mind, as do the “Village Voice” and Irving Howe's social democratic journal “Dissent”.

I have detailed elsewhere my own feeling of suffocation with the cultural morass of the 1950’s, although I was too young to articulate that angst even in a caricature James Dean-like “Rebel Without A Cause” way. That period was exemplified by the stolidity of the Eisenhower administration. Nevertheless other little clots of people, who had come of age in the 1940s and who were molded by the Great Depression of the 1930s and the sacrifices of World War II, were interested in breaking out of the cultural straight jacket but also interested in making a name for themselves in the serious literary world. Those who succeeded are the writers who for the most part make up this film, led by those named authors above. I might add as this is a somewhat older film that since its production a number of those writers, and they were mainly writers here, the poets tended to go with the beats, have passed on, including recently, J.D Salinger, who I was surprised to note influenced and was a model for many of those who spoke in the film.

I mentioned the “Village Voice” and “Dissent” above, and it was those small relatively small publications that sustained these writers who came from all over America, even from the wilds of Indiana (Wakefield), to make their mark in the American cultural capital. Their reasons were as varied as any other group but to parody an answer that bank robber, Willie Sutton, gave when asked why he did robberies- that’s where the publishing houses are (or were). Surprisingly many of these writers, unlike the beats, went to work writing copy, or what not, in the medium somewhere in order to make the connections. So that is one thing that separates this group from the beats.

More than one writer interviewed here did, as Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne did, make there mark in New York and then moved on. For, as all interviewees seemingly agreed upon, the cultural oasis of New York of the 1950’s had a defining, and finite, moment. Later other cultural movements, movements that I am more familiar with, and not necessarily driven by writers took center stage. Still this film, and the archival footage that made up most of the backdrop, did its job in evoking a certain ‘feel’ for the period. Moreover, some of the negative issues involved with a movement based in the “corrupt” city in the 1950s: the excessive alcohol consumption and partying that formed part of the writerly ethos; the definite second- class citizenship of women; and the high burn-out rate, are addressed here. All in all this is a good presentation centered on the writers themselves. Still, I always think of that famous photograph of a cigarette-smoking Jack Kerouac, a heaven-bent, dream-like Allen Ginsberg and a blasé-posing William Burroughs when I think of New York. The “beat” habit is hard to break.

Note: Much of this film is driven by the anecdotes and storytelling of author Dan Wakefield, who is the central speaker here, and who helps to fill in the “back office” details of this period. I never would have known about his personal and professional (as a writer) connection to Dorothy Day’s Catholic Worker movement that formed the backdrop for one of his early book without his mentioning it as well as a host of other little arcane facts like that. Good job.

*A Fragment Of A Fragment Of A Teenage Dream-In Honor Of "The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flaked Streamline Baby” World

Click on the headline to link to a " YouTube" film clip of "American Grafitti" to set the mood for the piece below.

Markin comment:

This is a little break from the overtly political wars, for a minute.


A Fragment Of A Fragment Of A Teenage Dream-In Honor Of Tom Wolfe's “The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flaked Streamline Baby.”

There was a madness in this country in the 1950s. No, not the hoary Cold War the- atomic-bomb-is-going-to-get-us-and-we-are-all-going-to-be-dead-next-week or “better dead than red” kind of madness although there was plenty of that around. Some people, mostly older, whom I knew along the way in my life, while I was doing one thing or another, got caught up in that dragnet, that “red scare” dragnet, and took a beating over it, sometimes a physically beating but definitely a beating of their psyche, with or without the physical part. All for the simple proposition, when you think about it, that working people, and the people I am talking about to a person were working people not the high-flown intellectuals who abandoned ship when things got too hot, that those who make the goods of this sad old world, I mean really make the stuff, should make the rules. I’ll tell you more on that some other time but today I want to about cars, just about cars, about guys crazy about them and the girls crazy about the guys crazy about them, and about what they meant, no, what they really meant back then.

Like I say there was a madness for the automobile, the sleeker, the more aerodynamically-refined, more powerfully-engined, especially the powerfully-engined part but also with a classy chassis, the better. Some people who ought to know, like wannabe “gonzo” journalist Tom Wolfe who got me started on this screed from an old article that I have used as part of the title here that he wrote in “Esquire” magazine in 1963 or a real “gonzo” journalist like Hunter Thompson, except it was motorcycles too, or maybe James Dean himself who knows, say the madness started even before then, the fifties that is, back at the tail end of the Second World War. Their idea is that there was so much money around, war boom production government dough, especially so much dough around for Depression-raised “no dough” kids that the kids, if you can believe this, started going after cars and, as kids will, taking the old-fashioned ones like Hudsons, Studebakers and old time Fords and “souping” them up. That is once cars started being produced again, instead of tanks, lots of tanks, in Detroit.

Not only that, according to the stories, the kids started to get a little whacky about it. Like spending all their time hammering down heavy chrome fender and bopping to get it just right, eternally , oil-drenched, grease-monkeyed engine-tweaking, forever high-end rear axle-lifting, and, don’t forget, applying rainbow color-coded flash-painting (and, maybe, decaling). And trying to look cool while doing it and…well, and trying to impress the be-bop, short shorts wearing, slinky, saucy, sultry (did I leave anything out) tweeny-teeny girls who just happened to be walking by.

And once you start trying to impress girls, or once you actually did impress them, then the only thing left was how you were going to feed them. I mean the girls not the cars, although come to think of it maybe I am thinking of the cars. Nah. Well, sure what else is a guy to do but run down to the ubiquitous now slice-of-nostalgic- Americana, save it for “American Graffiti” drive-in food shack, complete with short-skirted bunny hoppers waiting on you and your cravings natch. And then you were up against how you were going to excite them with all that power, car power that is, natch again, on those barely asphalt ,one lane, lonesome road Saturday night “chicken” runs out on the edge of the universe, at least it seemed like that on star-studded nights. So, the long and short of it is that a little cult kind of thing got going, or maybe it was just teenagers being teenagers. I don’t know but it sounds real good, doesn’t it.

Still I don’t really know about that story, good as it sounds, because it was suppose to be kind of a West Coast kid thing. Figures, right? You know, all those guys who couldn’t get close enough, or want to get close enough, to the water to be surfer guys, or just didn’t know what the heck “hanging ten” was all about, or didn’t care. Or, maybe, from another angle, because I have heard these kinds of stories too, just Southern good old boys running white liquor through the hollows and back roads of some woe begotten mountain valley beating hell out of the revenue agents. The easy part is beating those revenue guys but you need serious wheels to beat through muddy-encrusted back roads and hollows down Appalachia way and you had better have that big old V-8 “souped-up”, I don’t think a Super 6 would do it, to beat the band if you did not want to spent your sweet roll, high-kicking young life in some old jail, state or federal, take your pick. I am closer to the nut on that story seeing as my father came from there, down in those hollows and those winding roads and those mountain mists and breezes, but still it just ain’t my madness story.


Really, I want to tell you about what I know about the madness and so I have to go from the 1950s. Like I say I don’t know, first hand anyway, about those other locales, their ethos, their humors or their quirks. I just don’t. See I think, for one thing, that those guys telling those earlier stories are just piecing us off by making it a cult thing or a small sub-set of a subset of a cult, or maybe just trying to tell colorful stories to make up for that “red scare” stuff that doesn’t sound right about America. You know democracy and all that stuff while you are running people out of town on a rail for just talking “red talk”, or trying to.

Besides, this story wasn’t just about, deafeningly mad as they were, those guys in the now almost sepia-faded photographic images of tight T-shirt wearing, rolled sleeve cigarette-packed, greased Pompadour-haired, long side-burned, dangling-combed , engineer-booted, chain-wielding, side of the mouth butt-puffing , didn’t care if school kept or not types bent over the hood of some souped-up ’57 Chevy working, no sweating pools of sweat, sweating to get even more power out of that ferocious V-8 engine for the Saturday night “ chicken" run. No way, it wasn’t.

And it wasn’t even just those mad faux James Dean-sneered, "rebel without a cause"-posed, cooled-out, maybe hop-headed guys either. And it was always guys, who you swore you would beat down if they ever even looked at your sister, if you had a sister, and if you liked her enough to beat a guy down to defend her honor, or whatever drove your sense of right. And, of course she, your sister no less, is looking for all she is worth at this “James Dean” soda jerk (hey, what else could he be) because this guy is “cute”. Go figure, right? , Aw, maybe I don’t like her all that much anyway, and we all have to fend for ourselves when the deal goes down. Jesus, a monosyllabic (uh) soda jerk. Come on, sis.


No, and, by the way, forget all those stereotypes that they, the writers and film guys, like to roll out when they want to bring a little “color”, or tap into “baby-boomer” nostalgia, to the desperately color-craving 1950s. With their monotonous line-up of blond, slick-haired, California sun-drenched, devil may care, second generation “Okie” car jockeys. This car madness really was driven, driven hard, driven white-knuckled hard right to the edge, by East Coast non-blond, non-slick, non-“Okie” guys like Stu who lived down the end of my growing up street. Down the car-wreck-filled, oil-slick splashed, gas-fume-smelling dead-end of my run down old working class, edge of the working class getting poorer not richer, neighborhood ready for the bulldozer anytime street.

And Stu was the “king” there. If such a place could have a king he was it, no question, and nobody, not us kids anyway, questioned his lordship. Stu, kind of non-descript, pimply-faced, deceptively Saturday afternoon television wrestler overweight although we swore, or we would swear, that he was just big. Hands so permanently oil-stained, so deeply gritted, that no Borax could ever penetrate. Wearing some kind of grease-ladened denims to accompany those hands too, when denim meant Farmer Brown more than fashionista. Mussed–up hair unfurled at odd angles like maybe he had just enough time for a “bowl cut” from some younger brother or maybe his mother before he got back under the hood or under the body where he “breathed’ the rarefied air that kept him going. And always, always a “what the hell” smirk like he knew, and knew for certain, about the nature of the universe, as the smoke from his ever-present cigarette wrapped around in rings his (and your) head, and seemed to tell of new techniques learned and just a little more power gotten out of that old ’57 Chevy primo boss wagon that had all us neighborhood kids on the prowl for a ride (that we never ever got, but that’s a different story and you can figure out why after what I tell you next).

Ya, but that is not all, no, not by a long shot. Here is where you got to figure something is awry in the universe, or at least you’ve got to think of that possibility. “Stew-ball” Stu (that’s what we called him, although not to his face, for there was always the faint smell, and sometimes not so faint, of liquor, hard liquor like whiskey or scotch or who knows, maybe, Southern Comfort, it was cheap enough then, coming out of that tobacco-infested mouth of his) always had “babes” around. Hell, there were always a ton of them fussing over him and I swear I am not exaggerating because I would have been happy, very happy, to have one of his cast-offs, if I had been just a little older, and a lot wiser. And these were not just some old mirror-image Stu babes. These girls were “hot”, 1950s “hot”, ya, but still hot. A more mysterious, secretive, selective, “I wonder what she really looks like underneath” hot than today when you know, and know for certain, who is hot without having to ask that question.

I can still picture those oceans of flowing hair, that sea of tight jeans and stretch pants and those cashmere sweaters and who knows what else underneath, and what do I know what else, or care, because all I know is that to a supposedly oblivious young buck that I still was back then they smelled nice and a boy/man can dream, can’t he? And high school dropout, couldn’t care if school kept or not, getting grease all over him, and maybe all over them Stu just kind of ignoring them. Ignoring them! Can you beat that?

Ya, but see here is what I didn’t know. I didn’t know about the late night beach Stu. The Stu watching the “submarine” races down by the now tepid ocean shore, with the waves apologizing to the beach sand for splashing it, with some quick choice girl. And they, the girls that is, were standing to line, just to get in line. And who is to say, and at least who am I too say, that they were wrong. It was a ’57 Chevy, after all. Did you hear me? I said it was a ’57 Chevy that had all the girls trembling like Stu was Elvis or something. But here is what burns me up even today. Those girls weren’t interested, weren’t interested in the least, in what old Stu had read lately, or whether he even read anything at all, like I tried to use as my calling card back then to wow the girls, unsuccessfully. Hell, and you wonder why I speak of madness. Let me out of this place.

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

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of The Temptations performing "My Girl".

CD Review

Oldies But Goodies, Volume Nine, Original Sound Record Co., 1993

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, perhaps, some of his fellows who comprise the demographic that such a 1950s compilation “speaks” to. Of course, The Temptations, “My Girl”, always played at those dreamy, dreaded school dances. Yes, I know, this is one of the slow ones that you have to dance close on. And just hope, hope to high heaven that you didn’t destroy your partner's shoes and feet. The mournful “Hurt” still sends a chill up my spine. As does the school dance closer- “Please Love Me Forever". There you have it.


The Temptations - My Girl lyrics

I've got sunshine
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.

Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)

I've got so much honey
The bees envy me.
I've got a sweeter song
Than the birds in the trees.

Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)

Ooooh, Hoooo.

Hey, hey, hey.
Hey, hey, hey.

I don't need no money,
Fortune or fame.
I've got all the riches, baby,
One man can claim.

Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)

Talkin' bout my girl.
I've got sushine on cloudy day
With my girl.
I've even got the month of May
With my girl.

Films To While Away The Class Struggle By- In The Halls Of Justice The Only Justice Is In The Halls- "Lenny"

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of a Lenny Bruce stand- up routine.

Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some films that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. In the future I expect to do the same for books under a similar heading.-Markin

DVD Review

Lenny, starring Dustin Hoffman and Valerie Perrine, directed by Bob Fosse, MGM, 1974

Except for the last paragraph the rest of this review was used to review the documentary "Lenny Bruce: Without Tears". The points made there apply here, for the most part, as well.


Okay, the average black male kid on the average ghetto city block knows, and knows without blinking, and knows from some seemingly unspoken source deep within his genetic structure that the cards are stacked against him. That the cops, the courts, or some other part of the “justice” system will, eventually, come knocking at the door or grab him off the street for something, usually dope. The average Latino male kid on the average barrio city now knows pretty much knows that same thing, again usually on some bogus drug charge. And nowadays even young black and Latina women are getting that same message coded into their psyches. What is not encoded is for a white, Jewish comic guy who has an off-beat sense of humor and has something to say, sometimes something profound to say, to face that same music, anytime. That, my friends, is the Lenny Bruce story in a nutshell and forms the theme for this commentary.

Really, I could leave the headline, taken from something Lenny Bruce said when he was in deep and surreal legal trouble back in the 1960s, and that would tell the tale here. Nevertheless the case of one off –beat comic who tried to “go outside the envelope” of the confines of safe, secure, no waves, post-World World II cultural expression is an object lesson for the rest of us. Being a little bit uppity, being a little too black or brown, or being a little too red could get you in more trouble than you can shake a stick at then, and now.

On viewing this documentary my first impression was “what is all the fuss about?” At the vantage point, forty or fifty years after the events, it is hard to see what the so-called moral police of the day got in a dither over in Bruce’s work. On any given day you can hear more lewdness, lunacy, and sheer vulgarity on “talk” radio or television than Lenny ever uttered. That, however, is the point. Lenny was the point man, the trenchant social critic cum comedian who is honored now after the fact, but was not while the heat was on.

One of the highlights of this documentary is Lenny Bruce performing in various venues interspersed with “talking head” commentary by those who knew or interviewed him. The most interesting one is with jazz critic and social activist, Nat Hentoff, when Lenny is deep in trouble and has physically been ravished by his struggle. Kenneth Tynan, of 1950s San Francisco poetic fame, and Malcolm Muggeridge add their somewhat bizarre two cents worth. As does Bruce fellow social critic, Mort Sahl.

Throwing out the above names and discussing the time frame of Bruce’s troubles brings one final point. Was Lenny, like Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs and Tynan, part of the 1950s “beat” generation? Certainly he was part of the avant guarde back door jazz scene and miles in front of any one else in the Milton Berle/Sid Caesar 1950s comedy world. One of the commentators noted that Bruce was primarily an entertainer, a man trying to make a living at what he did best. That seems right. But whether he was “beat” or not, he certainly pushed the envelop. And that is part of his legacy, and worthy of honor by us.

*****

The commercial movie "Lenny", starring Dustin Hoffman as Lenny, delves more into the personal side of Lenny's life, including his various affairs with women, especially the one leading up to his marriage(his wife here played by Valerie Perrine who seems perfect in this languid, strangely alluring stripper role), his jones, and his sinking down as a person under the weight of all those things and the long arm of the law. Hoffman is strongest when he digs deep into the legal imbroglio of Bruce's life and when he does some of his stand-up routines although anyone who has watched the Bruce documentary will note that it is almost impossible to mimic Bruce's mannerisms successfully. But a well done job, nevertheless.

*Films To While Away The Class Struggle By- The Halls Of Justice The Only Justice Is In The Halls- The Life and Hard Times Of Lenny Bruce

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of "Lenny Bruce On The Irish". Ouch!

Recently I have begun to post entries under the headline- “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”-that will include progressive and labor-oriented songs that might be of general interest to the radical public. I have decided to do the same for some films that may perk that same interest under the title in this entry’s headline. In the future I expect to do the same for books under a similar heading.-Markin

DVD Review

Lenny Bruce: Without Tears, Lenny Bruce and various commentators, directed by Fred Baker, New Titles Productions, 1972

Okay, the average black male kid on the average ghetto city block knows, and knows without blinking, and knows from some seemingly unspoken source deep within his genetic structure that the cards are stacked against. That the cops, the courts, or some other part of the “justice” system will, eventually, come knocking at the door or grab him off the street for something, usually dope. The average Latino male kid on the average barrio city now knows pretty much knows that same thing, again usually on some bogus drug charge. And nowadays even young black and Latina women are getting that same message coded into their psyches. What is not encoded is for a white, Jewish comic guy who has an off-beat sense of humor and has something to say, sometimes something profound to say to face that same music, anytime. That, my friends, is the Lenny Bruce story in a nutshell and forms the theme for this commentary.

Really, I could leave the headline, taken from something Lenny Bruce said when he was in deep and surreal legal trouble back in the 1960s, and that would tell the tale here. Nevertheless the case of one off –beat comic who tried to “go outside the envelope” of confines of safe, secure, no waves, post-World World II cultural expression is an object lesson for the rest of us. Being a little bit uppity, being a little too black or brown, or being a little too red will get you in more trouble than you can shake a stick at then, and now.

On viewing this documentary my first impression was “what is all the fuss about?” At the vantage point, forty or fifty years after the events, it is hard to see what the so-called moral police of the day got in a dither over in Bruce’s work. On any given day you can hear more lewdness, lunacy, and sheer vulgarity on “talk” radio or television than Lenny ever uttered. That, however, is the point. Lenny was the point man, the trenchant social critic cum comedian who was honored after the fact, but not while the heat was on.

One of the highlights of this documentary is Lenny Bruce performing in various venues interspersed with “talking head” commentary by those who knew or interviewed him. The most interesting one is with jazz critic and social activist, Nat Hentoff, when Lenny is deep in trouble and has physically been ravished by his struggle. Kenneth Tynan, of 1950s San Francisco poetic fame, and Malcolm Muggeridge add their somewhat bizarre two cents worth. As does Bruce fellow social critic, Mort Sahl.

Throwing out the above names and discussing the time frame of Bruce’s troubles brings one final point. Was Lenny, like Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs and Tynan, part of the 1950s “beat” generation? Certainly he was part of the avant guarde back door jazz scene and miles in front of any one else in the Milton Berle/Sid Caesar 1950s comedy world. One of the commentators noted that Bruce was primarily an entertainer, a man trying to make a living at what he did best. That seems right. But whether he was “beat” or not, he certainly pushed the envelop. And that is part of his legacy, and worthy of honor by us.

*When Doo Wop Bopped-The Music Of The 1950s

Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of the Fiestas performing their Doo Wop classic, "So Fine".

CD Review

Old Town Doo Wop, Volume Two, Ace Records, 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.

Now strictly speaking “Doo Wop” is not really rock and roll, but rather a second cousin to it coming out of the black-dominated rhythm and blues tradition. The fantastic harmonics, precise rhythmic patterns, and smooth lyrics reflect that tradition more than the over-heated, guitar-driven, solo-singer rock performances that drove most of us to the dance floor back in the day. The kind of rock and roll that most of us children of the genre listened to, went wild over and spent that precious disposable income on was the rockabilly, hillbilly, black country blues variation that Sam Phillips and Sun Records first produced in the early 1950s and that Elvis, Carl Perkins, Chuck Berry, and Jerry Lee Lewis came to be exemplars of. But some of us, when we had a little extra cash, definitely bopped “doo wop” as part of our coming of age, especially if some dreamy girl (or guy for shes) was falling all over herself to listen to. Remember to be young was to be ready.

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. No one came out of the 1950s without having at least listened to “So Fine” by the Fiestas, or maybe less possible their “Our Anniversary. And with Ruth McFadden on “School Boy” Or the very edgy fine “Life Is But A Dream” by the Harptones. Or The Chimes classic, “My Broken Heart”. Now this sub-genre is a very acquired taste, to be sure, but if you need a "doo wop” primer here is a place to start.

SO FINE
THE FIESTAS

So fine, so fine.
So fine, yeah.
My baby's so dog gone fine,
She loves me, come rain, come shine
Oh oh yeah so fine.
she thrills me, she thrills me
She thrills me, yeah.
My baby thrills me all the time.
she sends those chills up and down my spine,
Oh oh yeah so fine.
Well I know
she loves me so.
Well I know,
because my baby tells me so-oh oh so fine.
So fine
So fine, yeah, My baby's so dog gone fine
She sends those chills up and down my spine,
Oh oh yeah, so fine

*Rumblings From The 1960's Heartland- S.E. Hinton's "The Outsider"- A Film Review

Click on the title to link to YouTube's film clip of Francis Ford Coppola's screen adaption of S.E. Hinton's classic tale of teenage alienation, "The Outsiders".

DVD Review

The Outsiders, Rob Lowe, Tom Cruise and every other rising young male star of the 1980s worth his salt, Dian Lane, directed by Francis Ford Coppola, Paramount Pictures, 1983

Recently I reviewed another film adaptation by the director Francis Ford of one of S.E. Hinton’s classic tales of American teenage working class alienation during the 1950s-1960s, “Rumblefish”. There the plot centered on the seemingly inescapable nihilism following the footsteps of a leader, and his ex-leader brother, of a by then passé white teenage gang. That film presented the anguish of youthful working class alienation in a very different and much less glamorous light than the teenage angst films of my youth, like Marlon Brando’s “The Wild Ones” and James Dean’s “Rebel Without A Cause”. I also mentioned in that review that I had been momentarily attracted, very attracted, to that ‘lifestyle’, coming as I did from that stratum of the working class that lived with few hopes and fewer dreams. It was a very near thing that shifted me away from that life, mainly the allure of books and less dangerous exploits.

I did not feel that same kind of identification here in this otherwise outstanding tale of youthful working class alienation out in the heartland in the hill of Oklahoma, “The Outsiders”. That, notwithstanding the fact that the main character and narrator, “Pony Boy”, is also very attracted to books (although “Gone With The Wind” and the poetry of Robert Frost seem odd choices to go ga-ga over). The difference. In “Rumblefish”, seemingly a much more experimental film on Coppola’s part and a more searing look at working class youth on Hinton’s part, the plot is is filled with examples of that unspoken danger, that unspoken destructive pathology and dead end nihilism that meant doom for at least some of the characters, and not just the easy to foresee one of early and untimely death that stalks those down at the edges of society.

Superficially, the plot of “The Outsiders” would have assumed that same fate for its characters. A small town out in the hill of Oklahoma where the class divisions are obvious has the working class “Greasers” lined up in combat against the middle class “Socs” with every cliché of the class struggle, except the political, thrown in for good measure. (Obviously portrayed, as well, note the sideburns long hair on the Greaser side and the chino pants on the frat guys side. You don’t need a scorecard on this one.) In summary: the two sides clash over nothing in particular except “turf”: hold grudges; seek revenge taking causalities, one fatally; and ending with a rumble where the Greasers have their momentary Pyrrhic victory.

Along the way there is plenty of time for youthful reflection by the narrator and his fellows about the ways of the class-ridden world, a few bouts heroism and a little off-hand (very off-hand) romance. As much as we know about the nature of modern class society this thing rings false. The moral here-even the most alienated Greaser, played to a tee by Matt Dillon, is really only searching for meaning to his life and a little society, only to get waylaid by that life in the end. Thus, this thing turns into something more like a cautionary tale than a slice of live down at the bottom edges of society. The more circumspect and existential “Rumblefish” gets my vote any day.

Note: Part of the problem with this film cinematically is that the leading male actors here, the likes of Rob Lowe, the late Patrick Swayze, Tom Cruise and Matt Dillon are all too ‘pretty’ to be Greasers. Although one can appreciate the talent pool that came out of this film I know from real life that, while the "greasers" of this world may have some raw sexually attractions they would hardly grace the pages of “Gentleman’s Quarterly”, or some such magazine. These guys could. That is what rings false here, as well as the assurances, hammered home to us throughout the story, that in democratic America even the down-trodden can lift themselves up and succeed. If they wash up a little.