Click On Title To Link To Tom Ashbrook's "On Point" Interview With Professor Douglas Brinkley (Known Previously In This Space For His Friendship With The Late "Gonzo" Journalist Doctor Hunter S. Thompson) About His 2009 Bob Dylan "Rolling Stone" Magazine Interview.
Showing posts with label folk revival. Show all posts
Showing posts with label folk revival. Show all posts
Saturday, October 05, 2019
Friday, September 13, 2019
The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *Poet's Corner- Bob Dylan's "Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie"
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Bob Dylan Doing His Tribute To Woody Guthrie-"Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie"
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 AINÕT 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
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 AINÕT 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
Sunday, August 25, 2019
Happy Birthday Jim Kweskin-The Max Daddy Of Jug- *A “Blues Mama” For Our Times- The Blues Of Maria Muldaur
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Maria Muldaur Performing "Handy Man".
CD Review
Naughty Bawdy &Blue, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2007
This CD review was originally posted in 2007 elsewhere hence the now dated reference to ex-president Clinton…
If you ever wondered who, if anyone, was going to carry on the tradition of great female blues singers now that the likes of Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, Sippy Wallace and Memphis Minnie have long been gone from the scene look no further. As I pointed out in a review of her last album, "Sweet Lovin' Ol' Soul",. Maria Muldaur has paid her dues and here she is doing it all over again. This is the third album in series that she started in 2002 to cover the old great blues singers. In the present album she covers the above-mentioned singers and others in a style in which they would surely recognize as their own. These are the classic female blues singers of the 1920's and 30's. Maria is in fast company but she does not miss a beat.
Pay particular attention to her rendition of Victoria Spivey's "Handy Man" (Spivey"s "TB Blues" is nicely done, as well). Check out what the divine Ms. Spivey had to say about Maria on the liner notes. And do check out the covers of Sippy Wallace songs, "Up Country Blues" and "Separation Blues". Damn if Maria does not sound like that unfortunately not well known singer (Maria also covered a Wallace classic "Don't Advertise Your Man" on her last album). Update: I just found out recently (2009) that Sippy Wallace appeared with the Jim Kweskin Jug Band (Maria's old group) in the 1960's. Now it all makes sense, right?
I would also add that I had the pleasure of hearing some of the cuts on this album live in concert by Maria in Cambridge (one of her old stomping grounds in her youthful days with the Kweskin Jug Band back in the sixties) and she can still belt them out. If there is any truth in the assumption that former President Clinton was our first `black' president no one can deny that Maria is our first `black' classic blues singer. And has the stage presence, to boot. The tradition lives. Listen on.
"Don’t Advertise Your Man"
This Tom-Swifter,
A blab-mouth sister,
Had herself a lovin' sheik!
She had a way of braggin'
Kept her tongue a-waggin',
With every woman she'd meet;
So her bosom friend
Vamped her lovin' man,
He quit her cold as ice;
Now she never had
So much to say,
But gives very woman this advice:
Open your eyes,
Woman, be wise!
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to have a little bird in a bush,
But it ain't like the one you've got in your hand.
Your head will hang low,
Your heart will ache,
Your threatenin' frog's
Gonna vamp and snake,
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!
What a blunder
To blow like thunder,
When you love you love your daddy so!
You better keep him hidin',
Don't you be confidin'
To every woman you know!
If you do, you'll find,
Some gal will sure be tryin'
Her best to take him 'way from you!
So you'd better heed my good advice,
And do like a woman ought to do.
Don't be a nut,
Keep your mouth shut,
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to brag about your hat or your dress,
But don't go blowin' 'bout the man you love best!
Just rave about the things your man can do,
And some woman will sure take him away from you!
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!
And don't you advertise your man!
CD Review
Naughty Bawdy &Blue, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2007
This CD review was originally posted in 2007 elsewhere hence the now dated reference to ex-president Clinton…
If you ever wondered who, if anyone, was going to carry on the tradition of great female blues singers now that the likes of Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, Sippy Wallace and Memphis Minnie have long been gone from the scene look no further. As I pointed out in a review of her last album, "Sweet Lovin' Ol' Soul",. Maria Muldaur has paid her dues and here she is doing it all over again. This is the third album in series that she started in 2002 to cover the old great blues singers. In the present album she covers the above-mentioned singers and others in a style in which they would surely recognize as their own. These are the classic female blues singers of the 1920's and 30's. Maria is in fast company but she does not miss a beat.
Pay particular attention to her rendition of Victoria Spivey's "Handy Man" (Spivey"s "TB Blues" is nicely done, as well). Check out what the divine Ms. Spivey had to say about Maria on the liner notes. And do check out the covers of Sippy Wallace songs, "Up Country Blues" and "Separation Blues". Damn if Maria does not sound like that unfortunately not well known singer (Maria also covered a Wallace classic "Don't Advertise Your Man" on her last album). Update: I just found out recently (2009) that Sippy Wallace appeared with the Jim Kweskin Jug Band (Maria's old group) in the 1960's. Now it all makes sense, right?
I would also add that I had the pleasure of hearing some of the cuts on this album live in concert by Maria in Cambridge (one of her old stomping grounds in her youthful days with the Kweskin Jug Band back in the sixties) and she can still belt them out. If there is any truth in the assumption that former President Clinton was our first `black' president no one can deny that Maria is our first `black' classic blues singer. And has the stage presence, to boot. The tradition lives. Listen on.
"Don’t Advertise Your Man"
This Tom-Swifter,
A blab-mouth sister,
Had herself a lovin' sheik!
She had a way of braggin'
Kept her tongue a-waggin',
With every woman she'd meet;
So her bosom friend
Vamped her lovin' man,
He quit her cold as ice;
Now she never had
So much to say,
But gives very woman this advice:
Open your eyes,
Woman, be wise!
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to have a little bird in a bush,
But it ain't like the one you've got in your hand.
Your head will hang low,
Your heart will ache,
Your threatenin' frog's
Gonna vamp and snake,
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!
What a blunder
To blow like thunder,
When you love you love your daddy so!
You better keep him hidin',
Don't you be confidin'
To every woman you know!
If you do, you'll find,
Some gal will sure be tryin'
Her best to take him 'way from you!
So you'd better heed my good advice,
And do like a woman ought to do.
Don't be a nut,
Keep your mouth shut,
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to brag about your hat or your dress,
But don't go blowin' 'bout the man you love best!
Just rave about the things your man can do,
And some woman will sure take him away from you!
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!
And don't you advertise your man!
Saturday, August 24, 2019
Happy Birthday Jim Kweskin-The Max Daddy Of Jug- *A “Blues Mama” For Our Times Encore- The Blues Of Maria Muldaur
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Maria Muldaur Performing " Richland Woman Blues".
CD Review
Sweet Lovin’ Ol’ Soul, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2005
I have often noted that when white women cover blues songs done by the old classic black singers like Memphis Minnie, Bessie Smith, Big Mama Thornton and the like some undefined ingredient is missing. Call it "soul" or the "miseries" or whatever you like but somehow the depths of a song are generally not reached. Not so here, as Maria Muldaur presents the second of an anticipated three albums covering some great classics of old time barrel house blues. (The first album was "Richland Woman's Blues", taking the title from a song by Mississippi John Hurt so you know Maria is reaching for the blues roots, no question).
Bessie Smith's "Empty Bed Blues" sticks out as do her duos with the legendary Taj Mahal. Blind Willie Johnson’s classic religiously-tinged “Take A Stand” and Bessie Smith's (with Clara Smith) “I’m Going Back” get their proper workout. The big highlight though (and a very necessary “re-discovery”) is the tribute to Memphis Minnie, “She Put Me Outdoors”. And a very necessary “discovery” of the very hard times, hard hustle and hard knocks of the female blues singer, “Tricks Ain’t Walkin”. More needs to be said on that question. As Maria points out in her liner notes some of these songs here are ones that she wanted to do earlier in her career but was either talked out or could not do justice to then. But now Maria knows she has paid her dues, I know she has paid her dues, and you will too. Listen.
Blues Lyrics - Mississippi John Hurt
Richland's Woman Blues
All rights to lyrics included on these pages belong to the artists and authors of the works.
All lyrics, photographs, soundclips and other material on this website may only be used for private study, scholarship or research.
Gimme red lipstick and a bright purple rouge
A shingle bob haircut
and a shot of good boo'
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' your horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Come along young man, everything settin' right
My husbands goin' away till next Saturday night
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Now, I'm raring to go, got red shoes on my feet
My mind is sittin' right for a Tin Lizzie
seat
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
The red rooster said, "Cockle-doodle-do-do"
The Richard's' woman said, "Any dude will do"
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
With rosy red garters, pink hose on my feet
Turkey red bloomer, with a rumble seat
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Every Sunday mornin', church people watch me go
My wings sprouted out, and the preacher told me so
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Dress skirt cut high, then they cut low
Don't think I'm a sport, keep on watchin' me go
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
CD Review
Sweet Lovin’ Ol’ Soul, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2005
I have often noted that when white women cover blues songs done by the old classic black singers like Memphis Minnie, Bessie Smith, Big Mama Thornton and the like some undefined ingredient is missing. Call it "soul" or the "miseries" or whatever you like but somehow the depths of a song are generally not reached. Not so here, as Maria Muldaur presents the second of an anticipated three albums covering some great classics of old time barrel house blues. (The first album was "Richland Woman's Blues", taking the title from a song by Mississippi John Hurt so you know Maria is reaching for the blues roots, no question).
Bessie Smith's "Empty Bed Blues" sticks out as do her duos with the legendary Taj Mahal. Blind Willie Johnson’s classic religiously-tinged “Take A Stand” and Bessie Smith's (with Clara Smith) “I’m Going Back” get their proper workout. The big highlight though (and a very necessary “re-discovery”) is the tribute to Memphis Minnie, “She Put Me Outdoors”. And a very necessary “discovery” of the very hard times, hard hustle and hard knocks of the female blues singer, “Tricks Ain’t Walkin”. More needs to be said on that question. As Maria points out in her liner notes some of these songs here are ones that she wanted to do earlier in her career but was either talked out or could not do justice to then. But now Maria knows she has paid her dues, I know she has paid her dues, and you will too. Listen.
Blues Lyrics - Mississippi John Hurt
Richland's Woman Blues
All rights to lyrics included on these pages belong to the artists and authors of the works.
All lyrics, photographs, soundclips and other material on this website may only be used for private study, scholarship or research.
Gimme red lipstick and a bright purple rouge
A shingle bob haircut
and a shot of good boo'
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' your horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Come along young man, everything settin' right
My husbands goin' away till next Saturday night
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Now, I'm raring to go, got red shoes on my feet
My mind is sittin' right for a Tin Lizzie
seat
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
The red rooster said, "Cockle-doodle-do-do"
The Richard's' woman said, "Any dude will do"
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
With rosy red garters, pink hose on my feet
Turkey red bloomer, with a rumble seat
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Every Sunday mornin', church people watch me go
My wings sprouted out, and the preacher told me so
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Dress skirt cut high, then they cut low
Don't think I'm a sport, keep on watchin' me go
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Sunday, August 11, 2019
The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- From "The Rag Blog"-Harry Targ : Sometimes We Have to Sing - The Weavers' "The Banks Of Marble"
Click on the headline to line to The Rag Blog entry listed in the headline.
Markin comment:
The song speaks for itself. Listen up!
Markin comment:
The song speaks for itself. Listen up!
Saturday, August 10, 2019
Happy Birthday Jim Kweskin-The Max Daddy Of Jug- On Memphis Minnie's Birthday-*Once Again A “Blues Mama” For Our Times- The Blues Of Maria Muldaur
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Maria Muldaur Perfoming "One Hour Mama".
CD Review
Richland Woman, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2001
This review was originally posted as a review for Maria Muldaur’s “Sweet Lovin' Ol’ Soul”. The main points made there apply here as well.
I have often noted that when white women cover blues songs done by the old classic black singers like Memphis Minnie, Bessie Smith, Big Mama Thornton and the like some undefined ingredient is missing. Call it "soul" or the "miseries" or whatever you like but somehow the depths of a song are generally not reached. Not so here, as Maria Muldaur presents the second of an anticipated three albums covering some great classics of old time barrel house blues. (The first album was "Richland Woman's Blues", taking the title from a song by Mississippi John Hurt so you know Maria is reaching for the blues roots, no question).
Bessie Smith's "Put It Right Here" sticks out here. Blind Willie Johnson’s classic religiously-tinged “Soul Of A Man” and Mississippi Fred McDowell’s "I’ve Got To Move” get their proper workout. The big highlight though (and a very necessary “re-discovery”) is the tribute to Memphis Minnie, “In My Girlish Days” (I wish Maria would cover “Bumble Bee”. Whoa). As Maria points out in her liner notes (to “Sweet Lovin’ Ol’ Soul”) some of these songs here are ones that she wanted to do earlier in her career but was either talked out or could not do justice to then. But now Maria knows she has paid her dues, I know she has paid her dues, and you will too. Listen.
"IN MY GIRLISH DAYS"
Late hours at night, trying to play my hand
Through my window, out stepped a man
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
My mama cried, papa did, too
Oh, daughter, look what a shame on you
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
I flagged a train, didn't have a dime
Trying to run away from that home of mine
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
I hit the highway, caught me a truck
Nineteen and seventeen, when the winter was tough
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
(spoken: Lord, play it for me now)
All of my playmates is not surprised,
I had to travel 'fore I got wise
I found out better
And I still got my girlish ways
CD Review
Richland Woman, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2001
This review was originally posted as a review for Maria Muldaur’s “Sweet Lovin' Ol’ Soul”. The main points made there apply here as well.
I have often noted that when white women cover blues songs done by the old classic black singers like Memphis Minnie, Bessie Smith, Big Mama Thornton and the like some undefined ingredient is missing. Call it "soul" or the "miseries" or whatever you like but somehow the depths of a song are generally not reached. Not so here, as Maria Muldaur presents the second of an anticipated three albums covering some great classics of old time barrel house blues. (The first album was "Richland Woman's Blues", taking the title from a song by Mississippi John Hurt so you know Maria is reaching for the blues roots, no question).
Bessie Smith's "Put It Right Here" sticks out here. Blind Willie Johnson’s classic religiously-tinged “Soul Of A Man” and Mississippi Fred McDowell’s "I’ve Got To Move” get their proper workout. The big highlight though (and a very necessary “re-discovery”) is the tribute to Memphis Minnie, “In My Girlish Days” (I wish Maria would cover “Bumble Bee”. Whoa). As Maria points out in her liner notes (to “Sweet Lovin’ Ol’ Soul”) some of these songs here are ones that she wanted to do earlier in her career but was either talked out or could not do justice to then. But now Maria knows she has paid her dues, I know she has paid her dues, and you will too. Listen.
"IN MY GIRLISH DAYS"
Late hours at night, trying to play my hand
Through my window, out stepped a man
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
My mama cried, papa did, too
Oh, daughter, look what a shame on you
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
I flagged a train, didn't have a dime
Trying to run away from that home of mine
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
I hit the highway, caught me a truck
Nineteen and seventeen, when the winter was tough
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days
(spoken: Lord, play it for me now)
All of my playmates is not surprised,
I had to travel 'fore I got wise
I found out better
And I still got my girlish ways
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- In Honor Of Newport 1965-Folk Music- The Graduate Course
Click on the headline to link to a "YouTube" film clip of Woody Guthrie performing "Pastures Of Plenty".
CD REVIEW
Classic Folk Music, Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and various other artists, Smithsonian FolkWays, 2004
Recently, in a review of a three volume set of CDs entitled “Troubadours of The Folk Era” containing songs done by many of the folk singers then coming in prominent in the 1960’s, I headlined the entry “Folk Music 101-There Are Many Rooms In That Mansion” . That entry however, in a way, begged the question of how those singers (or listeners like me) traced their ways back to the roots of folk.
Well, my friends, I have the answer, or at least part of it, here in this little gem of a CD. Sure we all, later when we understood things better, appreciated that John and Allan Lomax did yeomen’s service to roots music by their travels into the hinterlands in the 1930’s and 1940’s (and had Pete Seeger tag along for a year and thus serve as a little transmission belt to the latter generation) to find blues, mountain and other types of American traditional music. However, most of us got our folk infusion second-hand through our addiction to local coffeehouses and the fledgling performers who provided us entertainment there. They, in turn, learned their material from the masters who populate this CD.
You doubt the truth of that statement? Well, let’s go through the litany. On one CD we have Woody Guthrie doing “Pastures of Plenty”; Pete leading “We Shall Overcome; Lead Belly on “Rock Island Line”; Doc Watson on “John Henry”; Elizabeth Cotton on the super-classic “Freight Train" (a right of passage for virtually every 1960’s performer); Paul Robeson on “No More Auction Block” (it will give you goose bumps to hear that voice); Big Bill Broonzy on “This Train” (fighting Jim Crow version) and on and on. This is the core of folk, take my word for it. No don’t. Get this CD and get ‘religion’ on your own.
A word is also in order about the role of Moses Asch, his Asch recording studio in New York City and his role as the producer of many of the classic folk songs in the 1940’s and 1950’s gleaned from the always excellent liner notes provided by Smithsonian Folkway. As I have noted previously in this space the folk revival of the 1960’s did not form tabula rasa. Asch’s commitment is a testament to that proposition. It therefore is no accident that the early flowering of the folk revival was in New York City as that is where one could find the ‘refugees’ from elsewhere during the "red scare" during the hard political winter of the 1950’s.
Nor is it accidental that left-wingers blacklisted, like Pete Seeger, Woody and Paul Robeson, by the government are liberally represented in this collection. When one is searching for some kind of critique of society there is bound to be a folk song by some damn radical that reflects that outrage. Or gets prominence due to that struggle. Witness in that regard the history of the song “We Shall Overcome” and its relationship to the black civil rights movement. I should also point out that the liner notes provide an interesting fact about the older generation of folk performers like Woody Guthrie and the young revivalists of the 1960’s. The notes point out that a fair proportion of the folk revivalists came to love the music from songs they learned as children at summer camp. Woody and Pete Seeger are well-known for their children’s songs. So, maybe the government was right to see “reds” under every bunk bed corrupting the morals of the youth. Oh, well.
As a general observation the producers of this CD, Smithsonian Folkway (the name itself should be a give away about the quality of this production) went out of their way, way out of their way to get the best renditions available of the songs by the individual artists represented and to provide the best range of what folk meant to those who wrote the songs, sang them and listened in. As I mentioned above in that earlier review of the 1960’s folk scene for those too young to have heard the music then you have been given a reprieve- take advantage of it.
CD REVIEW
Classic Folk Music, Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and various other artists, Smithsonian FolkWays, 2004
Recently, in a review of a three volume set of CDs entitled “Troubadours of The Folk Era” containing songs done by many of the folk singers then coming in prominent in the 1960’s, I headlined the entry “Folk Music 101-There Are Many Rooms In That Mansion” . That entry however, in a way, begged the question of how those singers (or listeners like me) traced their ways back to the roots of folk.
Well, my friends, I have the answer, or at least part of it, here in this little gem of a CD. Sure we all, later when we understood things better, appreciated that John and Allan Lomax did yeomen’s service to roots music by their travels into the hinterlands in the 1930’s and 1940’s (and had Pete Seeger tag along for a year and thus serve as a little transmission belt to the latter generation) to find blues, mountain and other types of American traditional music. However, most of us got our folk infusion second-hand through our addiction to local coffeehouses and the fledgling performers who provided us entertainment there. They, in turn, learned their material from the masters who populate this CD.
You doubt the truth of that statement? Well, let’s go through the litany. On one CD we have Woody Guthrie doing “Pastures of Plenty”; Pete leading “We Shall Overcome; Lead Belly on “Rock Island Line”; Doc Watson on “John Henry”; Elizabeth Cotton on the super-classic “Freight Train" (a right of passage for virtually every 1960’s performer); Paul Robeson on “No More Auction Block” (it will give you goose bumps to hear that voice); Big Bill Broonzy on “This Train” (fighting Jim Crow version) and on and on. This is the core of folk, take my word for it. No don’t. Get this CD and get ‘religion’ on your own.
A word is also in order about the role of Moses Asch, his Asch recording studio in New York City and his role as the producer of many of the classic folk songs in the 1940’s and 1950’s gleaned from the always excellent liner notes provided by Smithsonian Folkway. As I have noted previously in this space the folk revival of the 1960’s did not form tabula rasa. Asch’s commitment is a testament to that proposition. It therefore is no accident that the early flowering of the folk revival was in New York City as that is where one could find the ‘refugees’ from elsewhere during the "red scare" during the hard political winter of the 1950’s.
Nor is it accidental that left-wingers blacklisted, like Pete Seeger, Woody and Paul Robeson, by the government are liberally represented in this collection. When one is searching for some kind of critique of society there is bound to be a folk song by some damn radical that reflects that outrage. Or gets prominence due to that struggle. Witness in that regard the history of the song “We Shall Overcome” and its relationship to the black civil rights movement. I should also point out that the liner notes provide an interesting fact about the older generation of folk performers like Woody Guthrie and the young revivalists of the 1960’s. The notes point out that a fair proportion of the folk revivalists came to love the music from songs they learned as children at summer camp. Woody and Pete Seeger are well-known for their children’s songs. So, maybe the government was right to see “reds” under every bunk bed corrupting the morals of the youth. Oh, well.
As a general observation the producers of this CD, Smithsonian Folkway (the name itself should be a give away about the quality of this production) went out of their way, way out of their way to get the best renditions available of the songs by the individual artists represented and to provide the best range of what folk meant to those who wrote the songs, sang them and listened in. As I mentioned above in that earlier review of the 1960’s folk scene for those too young to have heard the music then you have been given a reprieve- take advantage of it.
Friday, July 19, 2019
The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- Happy Birthday Woody Guthrie The Father We Never Knew-For Rosalie Sorrels- Those Oldies But Goodies- Folk Branch- Tell Me Utah Phillips Have You Seen “Starlight On The Rails?”
If I Could Be The Rain I
Would Be Rosalie Sorrels-The Legendary Folksinger-Songwriter Has Her Last Go-Round
At 83
By Music Critic Bart
Webber
Back the day, back in
the emerging folk minute of the 1960s that guys like Sam Lowell, Si Lannon,
Josh Breslin, the late Peter Paul Markin and others were deeply immersed in all
roads seemed to lead to Harvard Square with the big names, some small too which
one time I made the subject of a series, or rather two series entitled
respectively Not Bob Dylan and Not Joan Baez about
those who for whatever reason did not make the show over the long haul, passing
through the Club 47 Mecca and later the Café Nana and Club Blue, the Village
down in NYC, North Beach out in San Francisco, and maybe Old Town in Chicago.
Those are the places where names like Baez, Dylan, Paxton, Ochs, Collins and a
whole crew of younger folksingers, some who made it like Tom Rush and Joni
Mitchell and others like Eric Saint Jean and Minnie Murphy who didn’t,
like who all sat at the feet of guys like Woody Guthrie and Pete
Seeger got their first taste of the fresh breeze of the folk minute, that
expression courtesy of the late Markin, who was among the first around to
sample the breeze.
(I should tell you here
in parentheses so you will keep it to yourselves that the former three
mentioned above never got over that folk minute since they will still tell a
tale or two about the times, about how Dave Van Ronk came in all drunk one
night at the Café Nana and still blew everybody away, about catching Paxton
changing out of his Army uniform when he was stationed down at Fort
Dix right before a performance at the Gaslight, about walking down
the street Cambridge with Tom Rush just after he put out No
Regrets/Rockport Sunday, and about affairs
with certain up and coming female folkies like the previously mentioned Minnie
Murphy at the Club Nana when that was the spot of spots. Strictly aficionado
stuff if you dare go anywhere within ten miles of the subject with any of them
-I will take my chances here because this notice, this passing of legendary
Rosalie Sorrels a decade after her dear friend Utah Phillips is important.)
Those urban locales were
certainly the high white note spots but there was another important strand that
hovered around Saratoga Springs in upstate New York, up around Skidmore and
some of the other upstate colleges. That was Caffe Lena’s, run by the late Lena
Spenser, a true folk legend and a folkie character in her own right, where some
of those names played previously mentioned but also where some upstarts from
the West got a chance to play the small crowds who gathered at that famed (and
still existing) coffeehouse. Upstarts like the late Bruce “Utah” Phillips
(although he could call several places home Utah was key to what he would sing
about and rounded out his personality). And out of Idaho one Rosalie Sorrels
who just joined her long-time friend Utah in that last go-round at the age of
83.
Yeah, came barreling
like seven demons out there in the West, not the West Coast west that is a
different proposition. The West I am talking about is where what the novelist
Thomas Wolfe called the place where the states were square and you had better
be as well if you didn’t want to starve or be found in some empty arroyo
un-mourned and unloved. A tough life when the original pioneers drifted
westward from Eastern nowhere looking for that pot of gold or at least some
fresh air and a new start away from crowded cities and sweet breathe vices. A
tough life worthy of song and homage. Tough going too for guys like Joe
Hill who tried to organize the working people against the sweated robber barons
of his day (they are still with us as we are all now very painfully and
maybe more vicious than their in your face forbear). Struggles, fierce
down at the bone struggles also worthy of song and homage. Tough too when
your people landed in rugged beautiful two-hearted river Idaho, tried to make a
go of it in Boise, maybe stopped short in Helena but you get the drift. A
different place and a different type of subject matter for your themes than
lost loves and longings.
Rosalie Sorrels could
write those songs as well, as well as anybody but she was as interested in the
social struggles of her time (one of the links that united her with Utah) and
gave no quarter when she turned the screw on a lyric. The last time I saw
Rosalie perform in person was back in 2002 when she performed at the majestic
Saunders Theater at Harvard University out in Cambridge America at what was
billed as her last go-round, her hanging up her shoes from the dusty travel
road. (That theater complex contained within the Memorial Hall dedicated to the
memory of the gallants from the college who laid down their heads in that great
civil war that sundered the country. The Harvards did themselves proud at
collectively laying down their heads at seemingly every key battle that I am
aware of when I look up at the names and places. A deep pride runs through me
at those moments)
Rosalie Sorrels as one
would expect on such an occasion was on fire that night except the then recent
death of another folk legend, Dave Von Ronk, who was supposed to be on the bill
(and who was replaced by David Bromberg who did a great job banging out the
blues unto the heavens) cast a pall over the proceedings. I will always
remember the crystal clarity and irony of her cover of her classic Old
Devil Time that night -yeah, give me one more chance, one
more breathe. But I will always think of If I Could Be The Rain and
thoughts of washing herself down to the sea whenever I hear her name. RIP
Rosalie Sorrels
STARLIGHT ON THE RAILS
(Bruce Phillips)
I can hear the whistle blowing
High and lonesome as can be
Outside the rain is softly falling
Tonight its falling just for me
Looking back along the road I've traveled
The miles can tell a million tales
Each year is like some rolling freight train
And cold as starlight on the rails
I think about a wife and family
My home and all the things it means
The black smoke trailing out behind me
Is like a string of broken dreams
A man who lives out on the highway
Is like a clock that can't tell time
A man who spends his life just rambling
Is like a song without a rhyme
Copyright Strike Music
@train @lonesome
**********
“Hey, Boston Blarney, lend me a dollar so I can go into Gallup and get some Bull Durham and, and, a little something for the head,” yelled out San Antonio Slim over the din of the seemingly endless line of Southern Pacific freight trains running by just then, no more than a hundred yards from the arroyo “jungle” camp that Boston Blarney had stumbled into coming off the hitchhike highway, the Interstate 40 hitchhike highway, a few days before. Pretending that he could no hear over the din Boston Blarney feigned ignorance of the request and went about washing up the last of the dishes, really just tin pans to pile the food on, metal soup cans for washing it down, and “stolen” plastic utensils to put that food to mouth, stolen for those enthralled by the lore of the road, from the local McDonald’s hamburger joint. Like that corporation was going to put out an all points bulletin for the thieves, although maybe they would if they knew it was headed to the confines of the local hobo (bum, tramp, someone told him once of the hierarchical distinctions but they seemed to be distinctions without a difference when he heard them) jungle.
That washing up chore fell to Boston Blarney as the “new boy” in camp and before he had even gotten his bedroll off his sorely-tried back coming off that hard dust Interstate 40 hitchhike road, it was made abundantly clear by the lord of the manor, the mayor of the jungle, Juke Duke, that he was more than welcome to stay for a while, more than welcome to share a portion of the unnameable stew (unnameable, if for no other reason than there were so many unknown ingredients in the mix that to name it would require an act of congress, a regular hobo confab, to do so, so nameless it is), and more than welcome to spread his bedroll under the conforms of the jungle night sky but that he was now, officially, to hold the honorific; chief bottle washer.
So Boston Blarney washes away, and stacks, haphazardly stacks as befits the ramshackle nature of the place, the makeshift dinnerware in a cardboard box to await the next meal as a now slightly perturbed Slim comes closer, along with his bindle buddy, Bender Ben, to repeat the request in that same loud voice, although the last Southern Pacific train is a mere echo in the distance darkening Western night and a regular voiced-request would have been enough, enough for Boston Blarney. This though is the minute that Boston Blarney has been dreading ever since he got into camp, the touch for dough minute. Now see Boston Blarney, hell, William Bradley, Billy Bradley to his friends, on the road, and off. That Boston Blarney thing was put on him by Joe-Boy Jim the first night in camp when Joe-Boy, who was from Maine, from Maine about a million years ago from the look of him, noticed Billy’s Boston accent and his map of Ireland looks and, as is the simple course of things in the jungle that name is now Billy’s forever moniker to the moniker-obsessed residents of the Gallup, New Mexico, ya, that's one of those square states out in the West, jungle, although don’t go looking for a postal code for it, the camp may not be there by the time you figure that out.
Now here are the Boston Blarney facts of life, jungled-up facts of life is that no way is he going to be able to beg off that requested dollar with some lame excuse about being broke, broke broke.(I will use this moniker throughout just in case anybody, anybody Billy does not want to have know his whereabouts, is looking for him. In any case that moniker is better, much better, than the Silly Willy nickname that he carried with him through most of his public school career put on his by some now nameless girl when rhyming simon nicknames where all the rage back in seventh grade.) See everybody knows that San Antonio Slim, who belies his moniker by being about five feet, six inches tall and by weighing in at about two hundred and sixty, maybe, two-seventy so he either must have gotten that name a long time ago, or there is some other story behind its origins, has no dough, no way to get dough, and no way to be holding out on anyone for dough for the simple reason that he has not left the camp in a month so he is a brother in need. Boston Blarney is another case though, even if he is just off the hitchhike highway road, his clothes still look kind of fresh, his looks look kind of fresh (being young and not having dipped deeply in the alcohol bins, for one thing) and so no one, not Slim anyway, is going to buy a broke, broke story.
The problem, the problem Boston Blarney already knows is going to be a problem is that if he gives Slim the dollar straight up every other ‘bo, bum, tramp, and maybe even some self-respecting citizens are going to put the touch on him. He learned, learned the hard way that it does not take long to be broke, broke on the road by freely giving dough to every roadster Tom, Dick, and Harry you run into. “Here, all I have is fifty cents, until my ship comes in,” says Boston Blarney and Slim, along with his “enforcer”, Bender Ben, seem pleased to get that, like that is how much they probably figured they could get anyway. Blarney also knows that he was not the first stop in the touch game otherwise old hard-hand veteran Slim would have bitten harder.
Well, that’s over, for now Blarney says to himself softly out loud, a habit of the single file hitchhike road time when one begins to talk, softly or loudly, to oneself to while away the long side of the road hours when you are stuck between exits in places like Omaha or Davenport on the long trek west. And just as softly to himself he starts to recount where his has been, where he hasn’t been, and the whys of each situation as he unrolls his bedroll to face another night out in the brisk, brisk even for a New England hearty and hale regular brisk boy, great west star-less October night. First things first though, no way would he have hit the road this time, this time after a couple of years off the road, if THAT man, that evil man, that devil deal-making man, one Richard Milhous Nixon, common criminal, had not just vacated, a couple of months back, the Presidency of the United States and had still been in office. After that event, after that hell-raising many months of hubris though, it seemed safe, safe as anything could be in these weird times, to get on with your life. Still, every once in a while, when he was in a city or town, big or small, large enough to have sidewalk newspaper vending machines he would check, no, double check to see if the monster had, perhaps, “risen” again. But Blarney’ luck had held since he took off from Boston in late August on his latest trip west in search of ...
Suddenly, he yelled out, no cried out, “Joyel.” Who was he kidding. Sure getting rid of “Tricky Dick” was part of it, but the pure truth was woman trouble like he didn’t know that from the minute he stepped on to the truck depot at the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike at Cambridge and hailed down his first truck. And you knew it too, if you knew Billy Bradley. And if it wasn’t woman trouble, it could have been, would have been, should have been, use the imperative is always woman trouble, unless it was just Billy hubris. Nah, it was woman trouble, chapter and verse. Chapter twenty-seven, verse one, always verse one. And that verse one for Joyel, lately, had been when are we going to settle down from this nomadic existence. And that Joyel drumbeat was getting more insistent since things like the end of the intense American involvement in Vietnam, the demise of one common criminal Richard Milhous Nixon, and the ebbing, yes, face it, the ebbing of the energy for that newer world everybody around them was starting to feel and had decided to scurry back to graduate school, to parents’ home, or to marriage just like in the old days, parent old days.
Blarney needed to think it through, or if not think it through then to at least see if he still had the hitchhike road in him. The plan was to get west (always west, always west, America west) to the Pacific Ocean and see if that old magic wanderlust still held him in its thrall. So with old time hitchhike bedroll washed, basics wrapped within, some dollars (fewer that old Slim would have suspected, if he had suspected much) in his pocket, some longing for Joyel in his heart, honestly, and some longing that he could no speak of, not right that minute anyway, he wandered to that Cambridge destiny point. His plan with the late start, late hitchhike start anyway, was to head to Chicago (a many times run, almost a no thought post-rookie run at one point) then head south fast from there to avoid the erratic rockymountainhigh early winter blast and white-out blocked-in problems. Once south he wanted to pick up Interstate 40 somewhere in Texas or New Mexico and then, basically because it mostly parallels that route “ride the rails,” the Southern Pacific rails into Los Angeles from wherever he could pick up a freight. Although he never previously had much luck with this blessed, folkloric, mystical, old-timey, Wobblie (Industrial Workers of the World, IWW) method of travel a couple of guys, gypsy davey kind of guys, not Wobblie guys, told him about it and that drove part of his manic west desire this time.
As he eased himself down inside his homemade bedroll ready for the night, ready in case tomorrow is the day west, the day west that every jungle camp grapevine keeps yakking about until you get tired of hearing about it and are just happy to wait in non-knowledge, but ready, he started thinking things out like he always did before the sleep of the just knocked him out. Yes sir, chuckling, just waiting for the ride the rails west day that he had been waiting the past several days and which the jungle denizens, with their years of arcane intricate knowledge, useful travel knowledge said “could be any day now,” caught him reminiscing about the past few weeks and, truth to tell, started to see, see a little where Joyel was coming from, the point that she was incessantly trying to make about there now being a sea-change in the way they (meaning him and her, as well as humanity in general) had to look at things if they were to survive. But, see if she had only, only not screamed about it in those twenty-seven different ways she had of analyzing everything, he might have listened, listened a little. Because whatever else she might have, or have not been, sweet old Joyel, was a lightening rod for every trend, every social and political trend that had come down the left-wing path over the past decade or so.
Having grown up in New York City she had imbibed the folk protest music movement early in the Village, had been out front in the civil rights and anti-war struggle early, very early (long before Billy had). She had gone “street” left when others were still willing to half-way (or more) with LBJ, or later, all the way with Bobby Kennedy (as Billy had). So if she was sounding some kind of retreat then it was not just that she was tired (although that might be part of it) but that she “sensed” an “evil” wind of hard times and apathy were ahead. She was signaling, and this is where they had their screaming matches, that the retreat was the prelude to recognition that we had been defeated, no mauled, as she put in one such match.
So, as Billy steadily got drowsier from having taken too many rays in the long hard sun day and was now fading nicely under the cooling western night he started connecting the dots, or at least some dots, as he thought about the hitchhike road of the past several weeks. He, worst, started to see omens where before he just took them as the luck of the road, the tough hitchhike roads. Like how hard it was to get that first ride out of Boston, Cambridge really, at the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike down by the Charles River where many trucks, many cross-country traveling trucks begin their journey from a huge depot after being loaded up from some railroad siding and a couple of years ago all you had to do was ask where the trucker was heading, whether he wanted company, and if yes you were off. Otherwise on to the next truck, and success. Now, on his very first speak to, the trucker told him, told him in no uncertain terms, that while he could sure use the “hippie” boy‘s company (made him think of his own son) on the road to Chicago the company (and, as Billy found out later, really the insurance company) had made it plain, adamantly plain that no “passengers” were allowed in the vehicle under penalty of immediate firing. And with that hefty mortgage, two kids in college, and a wife who liked to spent money that settled the issue. But good luck hippie boy, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
He finally got his ride, to Cleveland, but from there to Chicago it was nothing but short, suspicious rides by odd-ball guys, including one whose intent was sexual and who when rebuffed left Billy off in Podunk, Indiana, late at night and with no prospects of being seen by truck or car traffic until daybreak. Oh ya, and one guy, one serious guy, wanted to know if anybody had told him, told sweet-souled Billy Bradley, that he looked a lot like Charles Manson (and in fact there was a little resemblance as he himself noticed later after taking a well-deserved, and needed, bath, although about half the guys in America, and who knows maybe the world in those days, looked a little like Charles Manson, except for those eyes, those evil eyes that spoke of some singularity of purpose, not good).
And thinking about that guy’s comment, a good guy actually, who knew a lot about the old time “beats” (Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs, and had met mad man saint Gregory Corso in New York City), and for old times sake had picked Billy up got Billy thinking about a strange event back in Cambridge about a year before. Although he and Joyel had lived together, off and on, for several years there were periods, one of those chapter twenty-seven, verse one periods when they needed to get away from each other for one reason or another. That had been one of those times. So, as was the usual routine, he looked in the Real Paper for some kind of opening in a communal setting (in short, cheap rent, divided chores, and plenty of partying, or whatever, especially that whatever part). One ad he noticed, one Cambridge-based ad looked very interesting. He called the number, spoke to one person who handed him off to the woman who was handling the roommate situation and after a description of the situation, of the house, and of the people then residing there was told, told nonchalantly, to send his resume for their inspection. Resume, Cambridge, a commune, a resume. Christ! He went crazy at first, but then realized that it was after all Cambridge and you never know about some of those types. He quickly found a very convivial communal situation, a non-resume-seeking communal situation thank you, in down and out Brighton just across the river from hallowed Cambridge but at more than one of those whatever parties that came with this commune he never failed to tell this story, and get gales of laughter in response.
But that was then. And here is where connecting the dots and omens came together. On the road, as in politics, you make a lot of quick friends who give you numbers, telephones numbers, address numbers, whatever numbers, in case you are stuck, or need something, etc. A smart hitchhiker will keep those numbers safely and securely on him for an emergency, or just for a lark. One night Billy got stuck, stuck bad in Moline and called up a number, a number for a commune, he had been given, given just a few weeks before by a road friend, a young guy who gave his name as Injun Joe whom he had traveled with for a couple of days. He called the number, told of his plight and received the following answer- “What’s Injun Joe’s last name, where did you meet him, where do know him from?” Not thinking anything of it Billy said he didn’t know Injun Joe’s last name and described the circumstances that he met Injun Joe under. No sale, no soap, no-go came the reply. Apparently, according to the voice over the telephone, they knew Injun Joe, liked him, but the commune had been “ripped” off recently by “guests” and so unless you had been vetted by the FBI, or some other governmental agency, no dice. That voice did tell Billy to try the Salvation Army or Traveler’s Aid. Thanks, brother. Ya, so Joyel was not totally off the wall, not totally at all.
And then in that micro-second before sound sleep set in Billy went on the counter-offensive. What about those few good days in Austin when a girl he met, an ordinary cheer-leader, two fingers raised Longhorn Texas girl, who was looking to break-out of that debutante Texas thing, let him crash on her floor (that is the way Billy wants that little story told anyway). Or when that Volkswagen bus, that blessed Volkswagen bus stopped for him just outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico, in, as Thomas Wolfe called them, one of the square western states that he now still finds himself imprisoned in, and it was like old times until they got to Red Rock where they wanted to camp for a while (hell, they were probably still there but he needed to move on, move on ocean west).
But Red Rock was more than old time hippie community, including passing the dope freely. Red Rock was where he met Running Bear Smith, who claimed to be a full Apache but who knows(and where did the Smith part come in). Now Running Bear was full of mystery, full of old-time stories about the pride of the dog soldiers, about his ancestors, about the fight against the ravages and greed of the white man. And about the shamanic ceremonial that he learned from his grandfather (his father had been killed, killed in some undisclosed manner when he was very young, about three), about dancing with the spirits of by-gone days, and dancing he added, or Billy added, under the influence of communion wafer peyote buttons. Several days ago, or rather nights, just a few days before he encamped in this broken down jungle Running Bear and he had “walked with the ‘Thunder Gods,’” as Running Bear described it. Billy described it somewhat differently, after the buttons took effect and Running Bear stoked the camp fire with additional wood to make a great blazing flame that jumped off the wall of the cavern adjacent to where they were camping out. The shadows of the flames made “pictures” on the cavern walls, pictures that told a story, told Billy a story that one man could fight off many demons, could count later on many friends coming to his aid, and that the demons could be vanquished. Was that the flame story or the buttons, or Billy’s retort to Joyel? All he knew was that Running Bear’s “magic” was too strong for him and he began “smelling” the ocean some several hundred miles away. Time to leave, time to get to Gallup down the road, and the hobo jungle wait for the ride on the rails.
Just then, just as he was closing accounts on the past several weeks by remembering his reactions on entering this ill-disposed jungle that was in no way like the friendly, brotherly, sisterly Volkswagen encampment at Red Rock old-time stew ball “Wyoming Coyote” yelled, yelled almost in his ear, although Billy knew that he was not yelling at him personally, but that the Southern Pacific was coming through at 4:00AM. The Southern Pacific going clear through to Los Angeles. Billy’s heart pounded. Here he was on the last leg of his journey west, he would be in L.A. by tomorrow night, or early the next morning at the latest. But the heart-pounding was also caused by fear, fear of that run to catch that moving freight train boxcar just right or else maybe fall by the wayside.
This was no abstract fear, some childhood mother-said-no fear, but real enough. On the way down from Chicago, after being enthralled by the gypsy davies talk of “riding the rails” he had decide that he needed to try it out first in order to make sure that he could do it, do it right when a train was moving. Sure he had caught a few trains before but that was always in the yards, with the trains stationary, and anyway as a child of the automobile age, unlike most of the denizens of the jungle he was more comfortable on the hitchhike road than the railroad. So, as practice, he had tried to catch an Illinois Central out of Decatur about a half-mile out just as the train started to pick up steam but before it got under full steam and was not catchable. He ran for it, almost didn’t make it, and cursed, cursed like hell those coffin nails that he smoked, and swore to give them up. So he was afraid, righteously afraid, as he fell asleep.
At 3:30AM someone jolted Billy out of his sleep. He woke with a start fearing someone was trying to rob him, or worst, much worst in a grimy jungle camp trying to sexually assault him, some toothless, piss-panted old drunken geezer catch up in some memory fog. Damn, it was only San Antonio Slim shaking him to wake him up for the Southern Pacific coming, just in case it came a little early, although according to the jungle lore it came on time, with maybe a minute or so off either way. Billy asked for a cigarette and Slim rolled him a choice Bull Durham so smartly that Billy blinked before he realized what Slim had produced. He lit up, inhaled the harsh cigarette smoke deeply, and started to put his gear quickly in order, and give himself a little toilet as well. Suddenly Slim yelled out get ready, apparently he could hear the trains coming down the tracks from several miles away. Nice skill.
The few men (maybe seven or eight) who were heading west that night (not, by the way, Slim he was waiting on a Phoenix local, or something like that maybe, thought Billy, a Valhalla local) started jogging toward the tracks, the tracks no more than one hundred yards from the jungle. The moon, hidden for most of the night under cloud cover, made an appearance as the sound of the trains clicking on the steel track got louder. Billy stopped for a second, pulled something from his back pocket, a small weather-beaten picture of Joyel and him taken in Malibu a few years before in sunnier days, and pressed it into his left hand. He could now see the long-lined train silhouetted against the moonlit desert sands. He started running a little more quickly as the train approached and as he looked for an open boxcar. He found one, grabbed on to its side for all he was worth with one hand then the other and yanked himself onto the floor rolling over a couple of times as he did so. Once he settled in he again unclasped his left hand and looked, looked intensely and at length, at the now crumbled and weather-beaten picture focusing on Joyel’s image. And had Joyel thoughts, hard-headed Joyel thoughts in his head “riding the rails” on the way to the city of angels.
The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- On The Cententary Of His Birth-Remembering Woody Guthrie in the age of Obama By Lamar W. Hankins / The Rag Blog / July 19, 2011-This Land Is Your Land- If You Fight For It
Markin comment:
This Land Is Your Land- If You Fight For It- By Any Means Necessary
Remembering Woody Guthrie in the age of Obama By Lamar W. Hankins / The Rag Blog / July 19, 2011
Woody Guthrie, the song writer, musician, social philosopher, and populist extraordinaire, would have turned 99 this past week (July 14) had he lived. He died of Huntington's disease in 1967. He wrote perhaps thousands of songs, some of which continued to be sung after his death by popular performers, including Pete Seeger, Peter, Paul and Mary, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, his son Arlo Guthrie, and many others.
Guthrie was born in Okemah, Oklahoma, traveled to California with migrant workers during the dust bowl and then all over the country. He hosted a live radio program in California that was very popular for a few years, but Woody did not take kindly to being told what to do or whom to associate with or what he could say, so that job ended.
In 1941, he was hired by the Department of the Interior to write songs about the Columbia River and the dams being built there in connection with a documentary project. Producing electricity from the flowing waters of the Columbia caught his imagination.
When he saw an item in the newspaper that offended his sense of social justice, he was inclined to write a song about it. That's how "Plane Wreck at Los Gatos" came to be written. A group of Mexican migrant workers were killed as they were sent back to Mexico after harvesting crops in the western U.S. He lamented how these people were used to put food on the tables of Americans and their deaths weren't given a second thought. Their names weren't even reported in the news articles. "All they called them were just deportees."
You don't have to agree with everything Woody wrote to appreciate his contribution to American culture. After all, no two people agree on everything, but the strength of his feeling for the American people cannot be denied. That feeling is best found, perhaps, in what has become an anthem of populism -- "This Land is Your Land."
This Land is Your Land
(words and music by Woody Guthrie)
Chorus:
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me
As I was walking a ribbon of highway
I saw above me an endless skyway
I saw below me a golden valley
This land was made for you and me
(Chorus)
I've roamed and rambled and I've 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
(Chorus)
The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me
(Chorus)
As I was walkin' - I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress-passin'
But on the other side .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!
(Chorus)
In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.
(Chorus 2x)
In 2008, from everywhere in the country, the spirits of populists and caring people, and those who spent their lives working for social and economic justice for all, were lifted by the election of Barack Obama as president. At a special pre-inaugural gathering, Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie, Bruce Springsteen, and others joined in singing all those verses to Woody's anthem. That's how high expectations were for Obama among those who favor a more compassionate world.
Such enthusiasm does not exist today. Obama has thrown in with the wealthy, the corporatists, the bankers, the exploiters, the war profiteers, and he seems to have forgotten the millions of average Americans who are without jobs, without the money to pay their mortgages, without hope for a better future.
I know that Obama faces great opposition, assuming that he cares about Woody's people, but that is no excuse for not using every ounce of his energy and influence for average Americans, rather than the elite. If this land was made for us all, it seems that we should have a government at least as good as its people. I've come to wish that at least we had a president that good as well.
[Lamar W. Hankins, a former San Marcos, Texas, city attorney, is also a columnist for the San Marcos Mercury. This article © Freethought San Marcos, Lamar W. Hankins. Read more articles by Lamar W. Hankins on The Rag Blog.]
The Rag Blog
This Land Is Your Land- If You Fight For It- By Any Means Necessary
Remembering Woody Guthrie in the age of Obama By Lamar W. Hankins / The Rag Blog / July 19, 2011
Woody Guthrie, the song writer, musician, social philosopher, and populist extraordinaire, would have turned 99 this past week (July 14) had he lived. He died of Huntington's disease in 1967. He wrote perhaps thousands of songs, some of which continued to be sung after his death by popular performers, including Pete Seeger, Peter, Paul and Mary, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, his son Arlo Guthrie, and many others.
Guthrie was born in Okemah, Oklahoma, traveled to California with migrant workers during the dust bowl and then all over the country. He hosted a live radio program in California that was very popular for a few years, but Woody did not take kindly to being told what to do or whom to associate with or what he could say, so that job ended.
In 1941, he was hired by the Department of the Interior to write songs about the Columbia River and the dams being built there in connection with a documentary project. Producing electricity from the flowing waters of the Columbia caught his imagination.
When he saw an item in the newspaper that offended his sense of social justice, he was inclined to write a song about it. That's how "Plane Wreck at Los Gatos" came to be written. A group of Mexican migrant workers were killed as they were sent back to Mexico after harvesting crops in the western U.S. He lamented how these people were used to put food on the tables of Americans and their deaths weren't given a second thought. Their names weren't even reported in the news articles. "All they called them were just deportees."
You don't have to agree with everything Woody wrote to appreciate his contribution to American culture. After all, no two people agree on everything, but the strength of his feeling for the American people cannot be denied. That feeling is best found, perhaps, in what has become an anthem of populism -- "This Land is Your Land."
This Land is Your Land
(words and music by Woody Guthrie)
Chorus:
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me
As I was walking a ribbon of highway
I saw above me an endless skyway
I saw below me a golden valley
This land was made for you and me
(Chorus)
I've roamed and rambled and I've 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
(Chorus)
The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me
(Chorus)
As I was walkin' - I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress-passin'
But on the other side .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!
(Chorus)
In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.
(Chorus 2x)
In 2008, from everywhere in the country, the spirits of populists and caring people, and those who spent their lives working for social and economic justice for all, were lifted by the election of Barack Obama as president. At a special pre-inaugural gathering, Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie, Bruce Springsteen, and others joined in singing all those verses to Woody's anthem. That's how high expectations were for Obama among those who favor a more compassionate world.
Such enthusiasm does not exist today. Obama has thrown in with the wealthy, the corporatists, the bankers, the exploiters, the war profiteers, and he seems to have forgotten the millions of average Americans who are without jobs, without the money to pay their mortgages, without hope for a better future.
I know that Obama faces great opposition, assuming that he cares about Woody's people, but that is no excuse for not using every ounce of his energy and influence for average Americans, rather than the elite. If this land was made for us all, it seems that we should have a government at least as good as its people. I've come to wish that at least we had a president that good as well.
[Lamar W. Hankins, a former San Marcos, Texas, city attorney, is also a columnist for the San Marcos Mercury. This article © Freethought San Marcos, Lamar W. Hankins. Read more articles by Lamar W. Hankins on The Rag Blog.]
The Rag Blog
Wednesday, July 17, 2019
The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *The Folk Troubadour Of Old- Pete Seeger
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Pete Seeger Doing "Which Side Are You On". Seems, appropriate, right?
That Old Devil Time- The Music Of Pete Seeger
Headlines&Footnotes: A Collection Of Topical Songs, Pete Seeger, Smithsonian/Folkways, 1999
The name Pete Seeger has come up repeatedly in this space over the past few years as the transmission belt from the old 1930’s and 1940’s Depression and World War II era folk revival to the that of the one in the early 1960’s. In other places in this space (check archives) I have mentioned my political differences, great and small, with Brother Seeger so there is no need to go into that here. I would note, however, that despite his folksy style he has always been driven by a political conception to his work. That is, that music, and in his case, folk music can be used to bring political “glad tidings” to the masses. One cannot fault that principle, although what effect music has in driving people to higher political consciousness is a very, very open question in my mind. Nevertheless putting topical subjects to music by the folk balladeer and troubadour alike has a long pedigree and needs no defense here. Moreover, in the capable hands of Pete Seeger, the compilation under review represents a very nice cross-section of that way of driving the political message home.
Everyone in the modern folk milieu owes a debt to Pete Seeger for playing “keeper of the flame” for the old time ‘talking blues’ format of spreading political and social messages (and Woody Guthrie as well, who perfected the art form). This volume is ample proof of that. Good examples here that provide such messages without the drumbeat of heavy political analysis are the pro-women’s liberation “There Once Was A Woman Who Swallowed A Lie” and, most dramatically (and relevantly, as President Obama right now works his way through the “Big Poppy Field” of Afghanistan) “Waist Deep In The Big Muddy” (ostensibly a tale about World War II but really about Lyndon Johnson’s Vietnam War policy). For social commentary one cannot beat Malvina Reynolds’ “Little Boxes” (almost self-explanatory about the deadening nature of upscale American suburban life) and The Claiborne’s “Listen Mr. Bilbo” (about the simple truths of immigration in America, virtually an immigrant-created country).
Of course, no collection of Seeger efforts is complete without the Spanish Civil War song, “Viva La Quince Brigada”, about the heroic Abraham Lincoln Battalion of the 15th International Brigade that fought valiantly there or to do a cover to commemorate an early heroic Cuban patriot, Jose Marti’s “Guantanamera”. For topical songs, a staple of the folk tradition since about the Middle Ages, try “The Titanic” (yes, that one that went down in 1912-and wasn’t suppose to) and “The Sinking Of The Reuben James” ( an ode to the merchant marines in the early days of World War II). For left wing political struggles under adverse conditions, “Hold The Line”, about a famous Paul Robeson concert at Peekskill, New York that was busted up by fascistic local red necks in the build-up to the ‘red scare of the 1940’s and 1950’s is a good exemplar. And so on. In short, for those who want to hear folk music with a historical sense as it was meant to be presented then here is your primer by one of your master singers of such works. Get to it, okay.
Here are some Pete Seeger-created songs (not all on this reviewed CD)
A LITTLE A' THIS 'N' THAT
My grandma, she can make a soup,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
She can feed the whole sloop group,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Stone soup! You know the story.
Stone soup! Who needs the glory?
But with grandma cooking, no need to worry.
Just a little a' this 'n' that.
Grandma likes to make a garden grow,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
But she likes to have the ground just so,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Not too loose and not too firm.
In the spring, the ground's all got to be turned.
In the fall, lots of compost, to feed the worms,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Grandma knows we can build a future,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
And a few arguments never ever hurt ya,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
True, this world's in a helluva fix,
And some say oil and water don't mix.
But they don't know a salad-maker's tricks,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
The world to come may be like a song,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
To make ev'rybody want to sing along,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
A little dissonance ain't no sin,
A little skylarking to give us all a grin.
Who knows but God's got a plan for the people to win,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Words and Music by Pete Seeger (1991)
(c) 1991, 1993 by Sanga Music Inc.
IF YOU LOVE YOUR UNCLE SAM) BRING THEM HOME
If you love your Uncle Sam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
It'll make our generals sad, I know,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to tangle with the foe,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to test their weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But here is their big fallacy,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But I got a right to sing this song,
Bring them home, bring them home.
There's one thing I must confess,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I'm not really a pacifist,
Bring them home, bring them home.
If an army invaded this land of mine,
Bring them home, bring them home.
You'd find me out on the firing line,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought their planes to bomb,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought helicopters and napalm,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Show those generals their fallacy:
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
For defense you need common sense,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right armaments,
Bring them home, bring them home.
The world needs teachers, books and schools,
Bring them home, bring them home.
And learning a few universal rules,
Bring them home, bring them home.
So if you love your Uncle Same,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Words and Music by Pete Seeger
© 1966 Storm King Music, Inc.
(From Broadside #71, June 1966: "A woman told me, 'I'm praying every night, please bring my son home safe.' I told her, 'Haven't you learned the lesson of the song WE SHALL OVERCOME? There's no solution for you or your son or me and my son unless it's a solution for all of us. It's got to be 'WE' or there's no solving the problem.' Now I don't claim this song is as good as it should be. But I was hoping for a song which would be good for a group of people to sing over and over again, and a frame in which new verses could be improvised, and the melody and harmony developed as the singers got with it.")
HOLD THE LINE
Let me tell you the story of a line that was held,
And many brave men and women whose courage we know well,
How we held the line at Peekskill on that long September day!
We will hold the line forever till the people have their way.
Chorus (after each verse):
Hold the line!
Hold the line!
As we held the line at Peekskill
We will hold it everywhere.
Hold the line!
Hold the line!
We will hold the line forever
Till there's freedom ev'rywhere.
There was music, there was singing, people listened everywhere;
The people they were smiling, so happy to be there -
While on the road behind us, the fascists waited there,
Their curses could not drown out the music in the air.
The grounds were all surrounded by a band of gallant men,
Shoulder to shoulder, no fascist could get in,
The music of the people was heard for miles around,
Well guarded by the workers, their courage made us proud.
When the music was all over, we started to go home,
We did not know the trouble and the pain that was to come,
We go into our buses and drove out through the gate,
And saw the gangster police, their faces filled with hate.
Then without any warning the rocks began to come,
The cops and troopers laughed to see the damage that was done,
They ran us through a gauntlet, to their everlasting shame,
And the cowards there attacked us, damnation to their name.
All across the nation the people heard the tale,
And marveled at the concert, and knew we had not failed,
We shed our blood at Peekskill, and suffered many a pain,
But we beat back the fascists and we'll beat them back again!
Words by Lee Hays; Music by Pete Seeger (1949)
TALKING UNION
If you want higher wages, let me tell you what to do;
You got to talk to the workers in the shop with you;
You got to build you a union, got to make it strong,
But if you all stick together, now, ‘twont he long.
You'll get shorter hours,
Better working conditions.
Vacations with pay,
Take your kids to the seashore.
It ain’t quite this simple, so I better explain
Just why you got to ride on the union train;
‘Cause if you wait for the boss to raise your pay,
We’ll all be waiting till Judgment Day;
We’ll all he buried - gone to Heaven -
Saint Peter’ll be the straw boss then.
Now, you know you’re underpaid, hut the boss says you ain’t;
He speeds up the work till you’re ‘bout to faint,
You may he down and out, but you ain’t beaten,
Pass out a leaflet and call a meetin’
Talk it over - speak your mind -
Decide to do something about it.
‘Course, the boss may persuade some poor damn fool
To go to your meeting and act like a stool;
But you can always tell a stool, though - that’s a fact;
He’s got a yellow streak running down his back;
He doesn’t have to stool - he'll always make a good living
On what he takes out of blind men’s cups.
You got a union now; you’re sitting pretty;
Put some of the boys on the steering committee.
The boss won’t listen when one man squawks.
But he’s got to listen when the union talks.
He better -
He’ll be mighty lonely one of these days.
Suppose they’re working you so hard it’s just outrageous,
They’re paying you all starvation wages;
You go to the boss, and the boss would yell,
"Before I'd raise your pay I’d see you all in Hell."
Well, he’s puffing a big see-gar and feeling mighty slick,
He thinks he’s got your union licked.
He looks out the window, and what does he see
But a thousand pickets, and they all agree
He’s a bastard - unfair - slave driver -
Bet he beats his own wife.
Now, boy, you’ve come to the hardest time;
The boss will try to bust your picket line.
He’ll call out the police, the National Guard;
They’ll tell you it’s a crime to have a union card.
They’ll raid your meeting, hit you on the head.
Call every one of you a goddamn Red -
Unpatriotic - Moscow agents -
Bomb throwers, even the kids.
But out in Detroit here’s what they found,
And out in Frisco here’s what they found,
And out in Pittsburgh here’s what they found,
And down in Bethlehem here’s what they found,
That if you don’t let Red-baiting break you up,
If you don’t let stool pigeons break you up,
If you don’t let vigilantes break you up,
And if you don’t let race hatred break you up -
You’ll win. What I mean,
Take it easy - but take it!
Words by Millard Lampell, Lee Hays and Pete Seeger (1941)
Music: traditional ("TaIking Blues”)
That Old Devil Time- The Music Of Pete Seeger
Headlines&Footnotes: A Collection Of Topical Songs, Pete Seeger, Smithsonian/Folkways, 1999
The name Pete Seeger has come up repeatedly in this space over the past few years as the transmission belt from the old 1930’s and 1940’s Depression and World War II era folk revival to the that of the one in the early 1960’s. In other places in this space (check archives) I have mentioned my political differences, great and small, with Brother Seeger so there is no need to go into that here. I would note, however, that despite his folksy style he has always been driven by a political conception to his work. That is, that music, and in his case, folk music can be used to bring political “glad tidings” to the masses. One cannot fault that principle, although what effect music has in driving people to higher political consciousness is a very, very open question in my mind. Nevertheless putting topical subjects to music by the folk balladeer and troubadour alike has a long pedigree and needs no defense here. Moreover, in the capable hands of Pete Seeger, the compilation under review represents a very nice cross-section of that way of driving the political message home.
Everyone in the modern folk milieu owes a debt to Pete Seeger for playing “keeper of the flame” for the old time ‘talking blues’ format of spreading political and social messages (and Woody Guthrie as well, who perfected the art form). This volume is ample proof of that. Good examples here that provide such messages without the drumbeat of heavy political analysis are the pro-women’s liberation “There Once Was A Woman Who Swallowed A Lie” and, most dramatically (and relevantly, as President Obama right now works his way through the “Big Poppy Field” of Afghanistan) “Waist Deep In The Big Muddy” (ostensibly a tale about World War II but really about Lyndon Johnson’s Vietnam War policy). For social commentary one cannot beat Malvina Reynolds’ “Little Boxes” (almost self-explanatory about the deadening nature of upscale American suburban life) and The Claiborne’s “Listen Mr. Bilbo” (about the simple truths of immigration in America, virtually an immigrant-created country).
Of course, no collection of Seeger efforts is complete without the Spanish Civil War song, “Viva La Quince Brigada”, about the heroic Abraham Lincoln Battalion of the 15th International Brigade that fought valiantly there or to do a cover to commemorate an early heroic Cuban patriot, Jose Marti’s “Guantanamera”. For topical songs, a staple of the folk tradition since about the Middle Ages, try “The Titanic” (yes, that one that went down in 1912-and wasn’t suppose to) and “The Sinking Of The Reuben James” ( an ode to the merchant marines in the early days of World War II). For left wing political struggles under adverse conditions, “Hold The Line”, about a famous Paul Robeson concert at Peekskill, New York that was busted up by fascistic local red necks in the build-up to the ‘red scare of the 1940’s and 1950’s is a good exemplar. And so on. In short, for those who want to hear folk music with a historical sense as it was meant to be presented then here is your primer by one of your master singers of such works. Get to it, okay.
Here are some Pete Seeger-created songs (not all on this reviewed CD)
A LITTLE A' THIS 'N' THAT
My grandma, she can make a soup,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
She can feed the whole sloop group,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Stone soup! You know the story.
Stone soup! Who needs the glory?
But with grandma cooking, no need to worry.
Just a little a' this 'n' that.
Grandma likes to make a garden grow,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
But she likes to have the ground just so,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Not too loose and not too firm.
In the spring, the ground's all got to be turned.
In the fall, lots of compost, to feed the worms,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Grandma knows we can build a future,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
And a few arguments never ever hurt ya,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
True, this world's in a helluva fix,
And some say oil and water don't mix.
But they don't know a salad-maker's tricks,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
The world to come may be like a song,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
To make ev'rybody want to sing along,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
A little dissonance ain't no sin,
A little skylarking to give us all a grin.
Who knows but God's got a plan for the people to win,
with a little a' this 'n' that.
Words and Music by Pete Seeger (1991)
(c) 1991, 1993 by Sanga Music Inc.
IF YOU LOVE YOUR UNCLE SAM) BRING THEM HOME
If you love your Uncle Sam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
It'll make our generals sad, I know,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to tangle with the foe,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They want to test their weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But here is their big fallacy,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I may be right, I may be wrong,
Bring them home, bring them home.
But I got a right to sing this song,
Bring them home, bring them home.
There's one thing I must confess,
Bring them home, bring them home.
I'm not really a pacifist,
Bring them home, bring them home.
If an army invaded this land of mine,
Bring them home, bring them home.
You'd find me out on the firing line,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought their planes to bomb,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Even if they brought helicopters and napalm,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Show those generals their fallacy:
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right weaponry,
Bring them home, bring them home.
For defense you need common sense,
Bring them home, bring them home.
They don't have the right armaments,
Bring them home, bring them home.
The world needs teachers, books and schools,
Bring them home, bring them home.
And learning a few universal rules,
Bring them home, bring them home.
So if you love your Uncle Same,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Support our boys in Vietnam,
Bring them home, bring them home.
Words and Music by Pete Seeger
© 1966 Storm King Music, Inc.
(From Broadside #71, June 1966: "A woman told me, 'I'm praying every night, please bring my son home safe.' I told her, 'Haven't you learned the lesson of the song WE SHALL OVERCOME? There's no solution for you or your son or me and my son unless it's a solution for all of us. It's got to be 'WE' or there's no solving the problem.' Now I don't claim this song is as good as it should be. But I was hoping for a song which would be good for a group of people to sing over and over again, and a frame in which new verses could be improvised, and the melody and harmony developed as the singers got with it.")
HOLD THE LINE
Let me tell you the story of a line that was held,
And many brave men and women whose courage we know well,
How we held the line at Peekskill on that long September day!
We will hold the line forever till the people have their way.
Chorus (after each verse):
Hold the line!
Hold the line!
As we held the line at Peekskill
We will hold it everywhere.
Hold the line!
Hold the line!
We will hold the line forever
Till there's freedom ev'rywhere.
There was music, there was singing, people listened everywhere;
The people they were smiling, so happy to be there -
While on the road behind us, the fascists waited there,
Their curses could not drown out the music in the air.
The grounds were all surrounded by a band of gallant men,
Shoulder to shoulder, no fascist could get in,
The music of the people was heard for miles around,
Well guarded by the workers, their courage made us proud.
When the music was all over, we started to go home,
We did not know the trouble and the pain that was to come,
We go into our buses and drove out through the gate,
And saw the gangster police, their faces filled with hate.
Then without any warning the rocks began to come,
The cops and troopers laughed to see the damage that was done,
They ran us through a gauntlet, to their everlasting shame,
And the cowards there attacked us, damnation to their name.
All across the nation the people heard the tale,
And marveled at the concert, and knew we had not failed,
We shed our blood at Peekskill, and suffered many a pain,
But we beat back the fascists and we'll beat them back again!
Words by Lee Hays; Music by Pete Seeger (1949)
TALKING UNION
If you want higher wages, let me tell you what to do;
You got to talk to the workers in the shop with you;
You got to build you a union, got to make it strong,
But if you all stick together, now, ‘twont he long.
You'll get shorter hours,
Better working conditions.
Vacations with pay,
Take your kids to the seashore.
It ain’t quite this simple, so I better explain
Just why you got to ride on the union train;
‘Cause if you wait for the boss to raise your pay,
We’ll all be waiting till Judgment Day;
We’ll all he buried - gone to Heaven -
Saint Peter’ll be the straw boss then.
Now, you know you’re underpaid, hut the boss says you ain’t;
He speeds up the work till you’re ‘bout to faint,
You may he down and out, but you ain’t beaten,
Pass out a leaflet and call a meetin’
Talk it over - speak your mind -
Decide to do something about it.
‘Course, the boss may persuade some poor damn fool
To go to your meeting and act like a stool;
But you can always tell a stool, though - that’s a fact;
He’s got a yellow streak running down his back;
He doesn’t have to stool - he'll always make a good living
On what he takes out of blind men’s cups.
You got a union now; you’re sitting pretty;
Put some of the boys on the steering committee.
The boss won’t listen when one man squawks.
But he’s got to listen when the union talks.
He better -
He’ll be mighty lonely one of these days.
Suppose they’re working you so hard it’s just outrageous,
They’re paying you all starvation wages;
You go to the boss, and the boss would yell,
"Before I'd raise your pay I’d see you all in Hell."
Well, he’s puffing a big see-gar and feeling mighty slick,
He thinks he’s got your union licked.
He looks out the window, and what does he see
But a thousand pickets, and they all agree
He’s a bastard - unfair - slave driver -
Bet he beats his own wife.
Now, boy, you’ve come to the hardest time;
The boss will try to bust your picket line.
He’ll call out the police, the National Guard;
They’ll tell you it’s a crime to have a union card.
They’ll raid your meeting, hit you on the head.
Call every one of you a goddamn Red -
Unpatriotic - Moscow agents -
Bomb throwers, even the kids.
But out in Detroit here’s what they found,
And out in Frisco here’s what they found,
And out in Pittsburgh here’s what they found,
And down in Bethlehem here’s what they found,
That if you don’t let Red-baiting break you up,
If you don’t let stool pigeons break you up,
If you don’t let vigilantes break you up,
And if you don’t let race hatred break you up -
You’ll win. What I mean,
Take it easy - but take it!
Words by Millard Lampell, Lee Hays and Pete Seeger (1941)
Music: traditional ("TaIking Blues”)
Sunday, July 07, 2019
The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *The Folk Historian On Camera- Pete Seeger Back In The Days
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee Doing "Hootin' The Blues".
DVD REVIEW
Rainbow Quest: Sonny Terry/Brownie McGhee, Hedy West, Mississippi John Hurt, Paul Cardwell and hosted by Pete Seeger, Shanachie Entertainment, 2005
In a year that has featured various 90th birthday celebrations it is very appropriate to review some of the 1960’s television work of Pete Seeger, one of the premier folk anthologists, singers, transmitters of the tradition and “keeper” of the folk flame. This DVD is a “must see” for anyone who is interested in the history of the folk revival of the 1960’s , the earnest, folksy style of Pete Seeger or the work of Mississippi John Hurt, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Hedy West or banjoist Paul Cardwell.
This DVD contains some very interesting and, perhaps, rare television film footage from two Pete Seeger shows entitled “Rainbow Quest”. Each show is introduced (and ends, as well) by Pete singing his old classic “If Oh I Had A Golden Thread” and then he proceeds to introduce and play banjo along with the above-mentioned artists. No date is given (as far as I could find) but these shows must have been fairly early in the 1960’s because I believe that John Hurt died in about 1964 or 1965.
Pete’s relationship with Sonny and Brownie went back to the days of the Almanac Singers (that included Woody Guthrie) and New York City in the early 1940’s. That segment gives some details about various goings on of those times and the genesis of some of the songs that are sung in the set. I have read elsewhere that at some point in their joint careers Sonny and Brownie stopped talking to each other even as they continued their professional lives together. Here, at least, they appeared to be civil to each other as the combination of Brownie’s guitar and vocals, Sonny’s smokin’ harmonica and accompaniment by Pete on the banjo is a rare treat.
The second segment is a little less entertaining as Pete introduces the mountain banjo man Crawford doing traditional reels and jigs and Hedy West doing a couple of numbers . Then there is a magic moment. Mississippi John Hurt, with his clean, simple guitar picking, doing “ Lonesome Valley”. Wow. And then ending with his version of Lead Belly’s “Goodnight, Irene” (with the others joining in). These, alone, are worth the price of admission. Wow, again.
One final note. This is a piece of folk history. Pete Seeger is a folk legend. However, the production values here are a bit primitive and low budget. Moreover, for all his stature as a leading member of the folk pantheon Pete was far from the ideal host. His halting speaking style and almost bashful manner did not draw his guests out. Let’s just put it this way the production concept used then would embarrass a high school television production class today. But, Pete, thanks for the history lesson.
Ain't no tellin
Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
She might shoot you, may cut ya and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin, what, she might do.
I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
Ain't no telling how much further I may go.
Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
I tol' you I was comin', baby, won't you look for me.
Hey, hey, such lookin' the class.
The way I'm sleepin' my back and shoulders tired.
Way I'm sleepin' babe, my back and shoulders tired.
Gonna turn over, try it on the side.
Don't you let, my good girl catch you here.
She, might shoot you, may cut you and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin', what, she might do.
Ain't nobody but you baby
Chorus:
Ain't nobody but you baby,
Ain't nobody but you,.
Ain't nobody but you,
Ain't nobody but you.
I got a letter last night,
I got a letter last night,
I got a letter last night,
How do you reckon it read?
chorus
I went down to the ball,
Went down to the ball last night.
chorus
Avalon Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Hollerin' one mornin' in
Avalon
, couldn't hardly keep from cryin'
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Pretty mama's in Avalon want me there all the time
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
Says, "Come back, daddy, and stay right here with me"
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Pretty mama's in Avalon, they sure will spend your change
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
Goin' back to Avalon, near where I have a pretty mama all the time
Big Leg Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Raise up, baby, get your big leg offa mine
Raise up, baby, get your big leg offa mine
They're so heavy, make a good man change his mind
I asked you, baby, to come and hold my head
I ask you, baby, to come and hold my head
Send me word that you'd rather see me dead
I'm goin', I'm goin', your cryin' won't make me stay
I'm goin', I'm goin', cryin' won't make me stay
More you cry, the further you drive me away
Some crave
high yellow
, I like black and brown
Some crave high yellow, I like black and brown
Black won't quit you, brown won't lay you down
It was late at midnight and the moon shine bright like day
It was late at midnight and moon shine bright like day
I seen your
faror
goin' up the right of way
Candy Man Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Well all you ladies gather 'round
That good sweet candy man's in town
It's the candy man
It's the candy man
He likes a stick of candy just nine inch long
He sells as fast a hog can chew his corn
It's the candy man...
All heard what sister Johnson said
She always takes a candy stick to bed
Don't stand close to the candy man
He'll leave a big candy stick in your hand
He sold some candy to sister Bad
The very next day she took all he had
If you try his candy, good friend of mine,
you sure will want it for a long long time
His stick candy don't melt away
It just gets better, so the ladies say
go to top of page
Casey Jones
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
Early one mornin' came a shower of rain,
'round the curve I seen a passenger train
In the cabin was Casey Jones,
he's a noble engineer man but he's dead and gone
"Children, children, get your hat"
Mama, mama, what you mean by that?"
"Get your hat , put it on your head,
go down in town, see if your daddy's dead"
"Mama, mama, how can it be?
My daddy got killed on the old I.C.
"Hush your mouth and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey's wife, she got the news,
she was sittin' on the bedside,
she was lacin' up her shoes
I said, "Go away, children, and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey said, before he died,
fixed the
blinds so the boys can't ride
If they ride, let 'em ride the rod,
trust they lives in the hands of God"
Casey said again, before he died,
one more road that he wanted to ride
People wondered what road could that be?
The Gulf Colorado and the Santa Fe
Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
go to top of page
Coffee Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
(spoken:
This is the "Coffee Blues", I likes a certain brand
- Maxwell's House - it's good till the last drop,
just like it says on the can. I used to have a girl
cookin' a good Maxwell House. She moved away.
Some said to
Memphis
and some said to Leland,
but I found her. I wanted her to cook me some
good Maxwell's House. You understand,
if I can get me just a spoonful of Maxwell's House,
do me much good as two or three cups this other coffee)
I've got to go to Memphis, bring her back to
Leland
I wanna see my baby 'bout a lovin'
spoonful
, my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
(spoken: I found her)
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
My baby packed her suitcase and she went away
I couldn't let her stay for my lovin',
my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
Well, the preacher in the pulpit, jumpin' up and down
He laid his bible down for his lovin'
(spoken: Ain't Maxwell House all right?)
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
Corrina, Corrina
traditional
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right
I left Corrina, way across the sea
I left Corrina, way across the sea
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right
go to top of page
Frankie
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
(spoken introduction:
"Frankie and Albert", the same thing as "Frankie and Johnnie")
Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
Frankie went down to the corner saloon, she ordered her a glass of beer,
she asked the barkeeper, "Gas my lovin' Albert been here?"
"He been here, but he's gone again"
"Ain't gonna tell you no story, Frankie, I ain't gonna tell you no lie"
Says, "Albert a-passed about a hour ago, with a girl you call Alice Frye
He's your man, and he's doin' you wrong
Frankie went down to the corner saloon, she didn't go to be gone long
She peeked through keyhole in the door, spied Albert in Alice's arm
He's my man, and you's doin' me wrong
Frankie called Albert, she shot him three or four times,
says, "Stand back, I'm smokin' my gun, let me see is Albert dyin'
He's my man, and he did me wrong"
Frankie and the judge walked outta the stand, and walked out side by side
The judge says, "Frankie, you're gonna be justified,
killin' a man, and he did you wrong"
Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
Said, "Turn me over, mother, turn me over slow,
it may be my last time, you won't turn me no more
He's my man, and he did me wrong"
Says, Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
go to top of page
DVD REVIEW
Rainbow Quest: Sonny Terry/Brownie McGhee, Hedy West, Mississippi John Hurt, Paul Cardwell and hosted by Pete Seeger, Shanachie Entertainment, 2005
In a year that has featured various 90th birthday celebrations it is very appropriate to review some of the 1960’s television work of Pete Seeger, one of the premier folk anthologists, singers, transmitters of the tradition and “keeper” of the folk flame. This DVD is a “must see” for anyone who is interested in the history of the folk revival of the 1960’s , the earnest, folksy style of Pete Seeger or the work of Mississippi John Hurt, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Hedy West or banjoist Paul Cardwell.
This DVD contains some very interesting and, perhaps, rare television film footage from two Pete Seeger shows entitled “Rainbow Quest”. Each show is introduced (and ends, as well) by Pete singing his old classic “If Oh I Had A Golden Thread” and then he proceeds to introduce and play banjo along with the above-mentioned artists. No date is given (as far as I could find) but these shows must have been fairly early in the 1960’s because I believe that John Hurt died in about 1964 or 1965.
Pete’s relationship with Sonny and Brownie went back to the days of the Almanac Singers (that included Woody Guthrie) and New York City in the early 1940’s. That segment gives some details about various goings on of those times and the genesis of some of the songs that are sung in the set. I have read elsewhere that at some point in their joint careers Sonny and Brownie stopped talking to each other even as they continued their professional lives together. Here, at least, they appeared to be civil to each other as the combination of Brownie’s guitar and vocals, Sonny’s smokin’ harmonica and accompaniment by Pete on the banjo is a rare treat.
The second segment is a little less entertaining as Pete introduces the mountain banjo man Crawford doing traditional reels and jigs and Hedy West doing a couple of numbers . Then there is a magic moment. Mississippi John Hurt, with his clean, simple guitar picking, doing “ Lonesome Valley”. Wow. And then ending with his version of Lead Belly’s “Goodnight, Irene” (with the others joining in). These, alone, are worth the price of admission. Wow, again.
One final note. This is a piece of folk history. Pete Seeger is a folk legend. However, the production values here are a bit primitive and low budget. Moreover, for all his stature as a leading member of the folk pantheon Pete was far from the ideal host. His halting speaking style and almost bashful manner did not draw his guests out. Let’s just put it this way the production concept used then would embarrass a high school television production class today. But, Pete, thanks for the history lesson.
Ain't no tellin
Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
She might shoot you, may cut ya and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin, what, she might do.
I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
Ain't no telling how much further I may go.
Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
I tol' you I was comin', baby, won't you look for me.
Hey, hey, such lookin' the class.
The way I'm sleepin' my back and shoulders tired.
Way I'm sleepin' babe, my back and shoulders tired.
Gonna turn over, try it on the side.
Don't you let, my good girl catch you here.
She, might shoot you, may cut you and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin', what, she might do.
Ain't nobody but you baby
Chorus:
Ain't nobody but you baby,
Ain't nobody but you,.
Ain't nobody but you,
Ain't nobody but you.
I got a letter last night,
I got a letter last night,
I got a letter last night,
How do you reckon it read?
chorus
I went down to the ball,
Went down to the ball last night.
chorus
Avalon Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Hollerin' one mornin' in
Avalon
, couldn't hardly keep from cryin'
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Pretty mama's in Avalon want me there all the time
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
Says, "Come back, daddy, and stay right here with me"
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Pretty mama's in Avalon, they sure will spend your change
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
Goin' back to Avalon, near where I have a pretty mama all the time
Big Leg Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Raise up, baby, get your big leg offa mine
Raise up, baby, get your big leg offa mine
They're so heavy, make a good man change his mind
I asked you, baby, to come and hold my head
I ask you, baby, to come and hold my head
Send me word that you'd rather see me dead
I'm goin', I'm goin', your cryin' won't make me stay
I'm goin', I'm goin', cryin' won't make me stay
More you cry, the further you drive me away
Some crave
high yellow
, I like black and brown
Some crave high yellow, I like black and brown
Black won't quit you, brown won't lay you down
It was late at midnight and the moon shine bright like day
It was late at midnight and moon shine bright like day
I seen your
faror
goin' up the right of way
Candy Man Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Well all you ladies gather 'round
That good sweet candy man's in town
It's the candy man
It's the candy man
He likes a stick of candy just nine inch long
He sells as fast a hog can chew his corn
It's the candy man...
All heard what sister Johnson said
She always takes a candy stick to bed
Don't stand close to the candy man
He'll leave a big candy stick in your hand
He sold some candy to sister Bad
The very next day she took all he had
If you try his candy, good friend of mine,
you sure will want it for a long long time
His stick candy don't melt away
It just gets better, so the ladies say
go to top of page
Casey Jones
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
Early one mornin' came a shower of rain,
'round the curve I seen a passenger train
In the cabin was Casey Jones,
he's a noble engineer man but he's dead and gone
"Children, children, get your hat"
Mama, mama, what you mean by that?"
"Get your hat , put it on your head,
go down in town, see if your daddy's dead"
"Mama, mama, how can it be?
My daddy got killed on the old I.C.
"Hush your mouth and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey's wife, she got the news,
she was sittin' on the bedside,
she was lacin' up her shoes
I said, "Go away, children, and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey said, before he died,
fixed the
blinds so the boys can't ride
If they ride, let 'em ride the rod,
trust they lives in the hands of God"
Casey said again, before he died,
one more road that he wanted to ride
People wondered what road could that be?
The Gulf Colorado and the Santa Fe
Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
go to top of page
Coffee Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
(spoken:
This is the "Coffee Blues", I likes a certain brand
- Maxwell's House - it's good till the last drop,
just like it says on the can. I used to have a girl
cookin' a good Maxwell House. She moved away.
Some said to
Memphis
and some said to Leland,
but I found her. I wanted her to cook me some
good Maxwell's House. You understand,
if I can get me just a spoonful of Maxwell's House,
do me much good as two or three cups this other coffee)
I've got to go to Memphis, bring her back to
Leland
I wanna see my baby 'bout a lovin'
spoonful
, my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
(spoken: I found her)
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
My baby packed her suitcase and she went away
I couldn't let her stay for my lovin',
my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
Well, the preacher in the pulpit, jumpin' up and down
He laid his bible down for his lovin'
(spoken: Ain't Maxwell House all right?)
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
Corrina, Corrina
traditional
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right
I left Corrina, way across the sea
I left Corrina, way across the sea
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right
go to top of page
Frankie
written by: Mississippi John Hurt
(spoken introduction:
"Frankie and Albert", the same thing as "Frankie and Johnnie")
Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
Frankie went down to the corner saloon, she ordered her a glass of beer,
she asked the barkeeper, "Gas my lovin' Albert been here?"
"He been here, but he's gone again"
"Ain't gonna tell you no story, Frankie, I ain't gonna tell you no lie"
Says, "Albert a-passed about a hour ago, with a girl you call Alice Frye
He's your man, and he's doin' you wrong
Frankie went down to the corner saloon, she didn't go to be gone long
She peeked through keyhole in the door, spied Albert in Alice's arm
He's my man, and you's doin' me wrong
Frankie called Albert, she shot him three or four times,
says, "Stand back, I'm smokin' my gun, let me see is Albert dyin'
He's my man, and he did me wrong"
Frankie and the judge walked outta the stand, and walked out side by side
The judge says, "Frankie, you're gonna be justified,
killin' a man, and he did you wrong"
Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
Said, "Turn me over, mother, turn me over slow,
it may be my last time, you won't turn me no more
He's my man, and he did me wrong"
Says, Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
go to top of page
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
*The Bob Dylan Bootleg Legacy- A Time Capsule
Happy Birthday To You-
By Lester Lannon
I am devoted to a local
folk station WUMB which is run out of the campus of U/Mass-Boston over near
Boston Harbor. At one time this station was an independent one based in
Cambridge but went under when their significant demographic base deserted or
just passed on once the remnant of the folk minute really did sink below the
horizon.
So much for radio folk
history except to say that the DJs on many of the programs go out of their ways
to commemorate or celebrate the birthdays of many folk, rock, blues and related
genre artists. So many and so often that I have had a hard time keeping up with
noting those occurrences in this space which after all is dedicated to such
happening along the historical continuum.
To “solve” this problem
I have decided to send birthday to that grouping of musicians on an arbitrary
basis as I come across their names in other contents or as someone here has
written about them and we have them in the archives. This may not be the best
way to acknowledge them, but it does do so in a respectful manner.
CD REVIEW
Bob Dylan: The Bootleg Series, Volumes 1-3, Bob Dylan, Columbia Records, 1991.
I have spilled no little ink on the question of the value of various bootleg products, genuine basement tapes, fake basement tapes, etc. that have come out of over the years detailing the career of the premier folk troubadour of his times, Bob Dylan. The core of my argument is that if you have limited cash resources, time or energy (or, heaven forbid, aren't all that into him) then getting copies of his earlier albums rather than more esoteric compilations is the way to go. That said, I can remember being very pleasantly surprised when this three volume CD start of what would become, as of this writing, an eight volume series came out.
The virtue of this particular set housed under roof is that it ranges in material, time and composition from Dylan's early work in 1961 until the time of release, 1991. In between we are feasted to outtakes, variations and some never, until then, previously released material. Thus we get some early talking blues material that shows the early influence of Woody Guthrie on Dylan's early style as he tries to find his "voice" (and Volume One ends with a poetic screed/talking blues in honor of Woody that alone is worth the price of admission to this volume).
We further get some glimpses at Dylan's changeover to a more personal, less quasi-political style, in the mid-1960's with songs like "Farewell, Angelina" and "Sad-eyed Lady Of The Lowlands". Of course, the whole switchover to electric, including electric back up band (The Band, initially), gets signaled here by full array of tracks with the classic "Like A Rolling Stone" being a very nice highlight. His religious conversion, or whatever it was (or is), is expressed in songs like "Foot Of Pride" and "Tell Me". Then there are the variations like a faster version of "It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes a Train To Cry" than the one used on an earlier album. And, of course, the outtakes like the truncated version of "Subterranean Homesick Blues" recorded here. All in all, quite a mishmash but a mishmash with great historical interest. And a few tunes that should have been released long ago like "Blind Willie McTell", a carib-flavored "Santa Fe" and "Walking Down The Line". Feast on.
Note: As always in this series there is a very informative and copious set of liner notes that go into detail about the genesis of each song or some other worthwhile tidbit.
ANGELINA
Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1981 Special Rider Music
Well, it's always been my nature to take chances
My right hand drawing back while my left hand advances
Where the current is strong and the monkey dances
To the tune of a concertina
Blood dryin' in my yellow hair as I go from shore to shore
I know what it is that has drawn me to your door
But whatever it could be, makes you think you've seen me before
Angelina
Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina
His eyes were two slits that would make a snake proud
With a face that any painter would paint as he walked through the crowd
Worshipping a god with the body of a woman well endowed
And the head of a hyena
Do I need your permission to turn the other cheek?
If you can read my mind, why must I speak?
No, I have heard nothing about the man that you seek
Angelina
Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina
In the valley of the giants where the stars and stripes explode
The peaches they were sweet and the milk and honey flowed
I was only following instructions when the judge sent me down the road
With your subpoena
When you cease to exist, then who will you blame?
I've tried my best to love you, but I cannot play this game
Your best friend and my worst enemy is one and the same
Angelina
Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina
There's a black Mercedes rollin' through the combat zone
Your servants are half dead; you're down to the bone
Tell me, tall man, where would you like to be overthrown
Maybe down in Jerusalem or Argentina?
She was stolen from her mother when she was three days old
Now her vengeance has been satisfied and her possessions have been sold
He's surrounded by God's angels and she's wearin' a blindfold
And so are you, Angelina
Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina
I see pieces of men marching; trying to take heaven by force
I can see the unknown rider, I can see the pale white horse
In God's truth tell me what you want, and you'll have it of course
Just step into the arena
Beat a path of retreat up them spiral staircases
Pass the tree of smoke, pass the angel with four faces
Begging God for mercy and weepin' in unholy places
Angelina
Oh, Angelina. Oh, Angelina
BLIND WILLIE MCTELL
Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1983 Special Rider Music
Seen the arrow on the doorpost
Saying, "This land is condemned
All the way from New Orleans
To Jerusalem."
I traveled through East Texas
Where many martyrs fell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell
Well, I heard the hoot owl singing
As they were taking down the tents
The stars above the barren trees
Were his only audience
Them charcoal gypsy maidens
Can strut their feathers well
But nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell
See them big plantations burning
Hear the cracking of the whips
Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
(And) see the ghosts of slavery ships
I can hear them tribes a-moaning
(I can) hear the undertaker's bell
(Yeah), nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell
There's a woman by the river
With some fine young handsome man
He's dressed up like a squire
Bootlegged whiskey in his hand
There's a chain gang on the highway
I can hear them rebels yell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell
Well, God is in heaven
And we all want what's his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I'm gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell
FAREWELL ANGELINA
Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1965, 1966 Warner Bros. Music Inc
Farewell Angelina
The bells of the crown
Are being stolen by bandits
I must follow the sound
The triangle tingles
And the trumpet play slow
Farewell Angelina
The sky is on fire
And I must go.
There's no need for anger
There's no need for blame
There's nothing to prove
Ev'rything's still the same
Just a table standing empty
By the edge of the sea
Farewell Angelina
The sky is trembling
And I must leave.
The jacks and queens
Have forsaked the courtyard
Fifty-two gypsies
Now file past the guards
In the space where the deuce
And the ace once ran wild
Farewell Angelina
The sky is folding
I'll see you in a while.
See the cross-eyed pirates sitting
Perched in the sun
Shooting tin cans
With a sawed-off shotgun
And the neighbors they clap
And they cheer with each blast
Farewell Angelina
The sky's changing color
And I must leave fast.
King Kong, little elves
On the rooftoops they dance
Valentino-type tangos
While the make-up man's hands
Shut the eyes of the dead
Not to embarrass anyone
Farewell Angelina
The sky is embarrassed
And I must be gone.
The machine guns are roaring
The puppets heave rocks
The fiends nail time bombs
To the hands of the clocks
Call me any name you like
I will never deny it
Farewell Angelina
The sky is erupting
I must go where it's quiet.
FOOT OF PRIDE
Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1983 Special Rider Music
Like the lion tears the flesh off of a man
So can a woman who passes herself off as a male
They sang "Danny Boy" at his funeral and the Lord's Prayer
Preacher talking Ôbout Christ betrayed
It's like the earth just opened and swallowed him up
He reached too high, was thrown back to the ground
You know what they say about bein' nice to the right people on the way up
Sooner or later you gonna meet them comin' down
Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back
Hear ya got a brother named James, don't forget faces or names
Sunken cheeks and his blood is mixed
He looked straight into the sun and said revenge is mine
But he drinks, and drinks can be fixed
Sing me one more song, about ya love me to the moon and the stranger
And your fall by the sword love affair with Erroll Flynn
in these times of compassion when conformity's in fashion
Say one more stupid thing to me before the final nail is driven in.
Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back
There's a retired businessman named Red, cast down from heaven and he's out of his head
He feeds off of everyone that he can touch
He said he only deals in cash or sells tickets to a plane crash
He's not somebody that you play around with much
Miss Delilah is his, a Philistine is what she is
She'll do wondrous works with your fate
Feed you coconut bread, spice buns in your bed
If you don't mind sleepin' with your head face down in a grave.
Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back
Well they'll choose a man for you to meet tonight
You'll play the fool and learn how to walk through doors
How to enter into the gates of paradise
No, how to carry a burden too heavy to be yours
Yeah, from the stage they'll be tryin' to get water outta rocks
A whore will pass the hat, collect a hundred grand and say thanks
They like to take all this money from sin, build big universities to study in
Sing "Amazing Grace" all the way to the Swiss banks
Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back
They got some beautiful people out there, man
They can be a terror to your mind and show you how to hold your tongue
They got mystery written all over their forehead
They kill babies in the crib and say only the good die young
They don't believe in mercy
Judgment on them is something that you'll never see
They can exalt you up or bring you down main route
Turn you into anything that they want you to be
Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back
Yes, I guess I loved him too
I can still see him in my mind climbin' that hill
Did he make it to the top, well he probably did and dropped
Struck down by the strength of the will
Ain't nothin' left here partner, just the dust of a plague that has left this whole town afraid
From now on, this'll be where you're from
Let the dead bury the dead. Your time will come
Let hot iron blow as he raised the shade
Well, there ain't no goin' back when your foot of pride come down
Ain't no goin' back
I SHALL BE RELEASED
Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1967,1976 Dwarf Music
They say ev'rything can be replaced,
Yet ev'ry distance is not near.
So I remember ev'ry face
Of ev'ry man who put me here.
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.
They say ev'ry man needs protection,
They say ev'ry man must fall.
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place so high above this wall.
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.
Standing next to me in this lonely crowd,
Is a man who swears he's not to blame.
All day long I hear him shout so loud,
Crying out that he was framed.
I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.
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 AINÕT 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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