*****Victory To The Fast-Food Workers The Vanguard Of The Fight For $15......

*****Victory To The Fast-Food Workers The Vanguard Of The Fight For $15......Fight For $15 Is Just A Beginning-All Labor Must Support Our Sisters And Brothers

 

 

 

 

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

Frank Jackman had always ever since he was a kid down in Carver, a working class town formerly a shoe factory mecca about thirty miles south of Boston and later dotted with assorted small shops related to the shipbuilding trade, a very strong supporters of anything involving organized labor and organizing labor, anything that might push working people ahead. While it had taken it a long time, and some serious military service during the Vietnam War, his generation’s war, to get on the right side of the angels on the war issue and even more painfully and slowly on the woman’s liberation and gay rights issues, and he was still having a tough time with the transgender thing although the plight of heroic Wikileaks whistle-blower Army soldier Chelsea Manning had made it easier to express solidarity, he had always been a stand-up guy for unions and for working people. Maybe it was because his late father, Lawrence Jackman, had been born and raised in coal country down in Harlan County, Kentucky where knowing which side you were on, knowing that picket lines mean don’t cross, knowing that every scrap given by the bosses had been paid for in blood and so it was in his blood. Maybe though it was closer to the nub, closer to home, that the closing of the heavily unionized shoe factories which either headed down south or off-shore left slim leaving for those who did not follow them south, slim pickings for an uneducated man like his father trying to raise four daughters and son on hopes and dreams and not much else. Those hopes and dreams leaving his mother to work in the “mother’s don’t work” 1950s at a local donut shop filling donuts for chrissakes to help make ends meet so his was always aware of how close the different between work and no work was, and decent pay for decent work too. How ever he got “religion” on the question as a kid, and he suspected the answer was in the DNA, Frank was always at the ready when the latest labor struggles erupted, the latest recently being the sporadic uprisings amount fast-food workers and lowly-paid Walmart workers to earn a living wage.        

One day in the late summer of 2014 he had picked up a leaflet from a young guy, a young guy who later identified himself as a field organizer for the Service Employees International Union (SEIU), a union filled to the brim with low-end workers like janitors, nurses assistants, salespeople, and the like, passing them out at an anti-war rally (against the American escalations in Syria and Iraq) in downtown Boston. The leaflet after giving some useful information about how poorly fast-food worker were paid and how paltry the benefits, especially the lack of health insurance announced an upcoming “Fight for $15” action in Downtown Boston on September 4, 2014 at noon as part of a national struggle for economic justice and dignity for the our hard working sisters and brothers. He told the young organizer after expressing solidarity with the upcoming efforts that he would try to bring others to the event although being held during a workday would be hard for some to make the time.

In the event Frank brought about a dozen others with him. They and maybe fifty to one hundred others during the course of the event stood in solidarity for a couple of hours while a cohort of fast-food workers told their stories. And while another cohort of fast-food workers were sitting on the ground in protest prepared to commit civil disobedience by blocking the street to make their point. Several of them would eventually be arrested and taken away by the police later to be fined and released.

Frank, when he reflected on the day’s events later, was pretty elated as he told his old friend Josh Breslin whom he had called up in Maine to tell him what had happened that day. Josh had also grown up in a factory town, a textile town, Olde Saco, and had been to many such support events himself and before he retired had as a free-lance writer written up lots of labor stories. The key ingredient that impressed Josh in Frank’s description had been how many young serious black and Latino workers had participated in the actions. Later than night when Frank reflected further on the situation he broke out in a smile as he was writing up his summary of his take on the events. There would be people pass off the torch to when guys like him and Josh were no longer around. He had been afraid that would not happen after the long drought doldrums in the class struggle of the previous few decades. Here is what else he had to say:            

No question in this wicked old world that those at the bottom are “the forgotten ones,” “los olvidados,” those who a writer who had worked among them had long ago correctly described as the world fellahin, the ones who never get ahead. This day we are talking about working people, people working and working hard for eight, nine, ten dollars an hour. Maybe working two jobs to make ends meet since a lot of times these McJobs, these Wal-Mart jobs do not come with forty hours of work attached but whatever some cost-cutting manager deems right to keep them on a string and keep them from qualifying for certain benefits that do not kick in with “part-time” work. And lately taking advantage of cover from Obamacare keeping the hours below the threshold necessary to kick in health insurance and other benefits. Yes, the forgotten people.

But let’s do the math here figuring on forty hours and figuring on say ten dollars an hour. That‘s four hundred a week times fifty weeks (okay so I am rounding off for estimate purposes here too since most of these jobs do not have vacation time figured in).That’s twenty thousand a year. Okay so just figure any kind of decent apartment in the Boston area where I am writing this-say one thousand a month. That’s twelve thousand a year. So the other eight thousand is for everything else. No way can that be done. And if you had listened to the young and not so young fast-food workers, the working mothers, the working older brothers taking care of younger siblings, workers trying to go to school to get out of the vicious cycle of poverty you would understand the truth of that statement. And the stories went on and on along that line all during the action. 

Confession: it has been a very long time since I have had to scrimp and scrim to make ends meet, to get the rent in, to keep those damn bill-collectors away from my door, to beg the utility companies to not shut off those necessary services. But I have been there, no question. Growing up working class town poor, the only difference on the economic question was that it was all poor whites unlike today’s crowd. Also for many years living from hand to mouth before things got steady. I did not like it then and I do not like the idea of it now.  I am here to say even the “Fight for $15” is not enough, but it is a start. And I whole-heartedly support the struggle of my sisters and brothers for a little economic justice in this wicked old world. And any reader who might read this-would you work for these slave wages? I think not. So show your solidarity and get out and support the fast-food and Wal-Mart workers in their just struggles. 

Organize Wal-Mart! Organize the fast food workers! Union! Union!  

       http://www.boston.com/news/local/massachusetts/2014/09/04/boston-fast-food-workers-rally-for-wages-unions/bc1ZqZIgwsVcOw0QHIV74M/story.html         

*****John Brown’s Body Lies A Moldering In The Grave-With The Massachusetts 54th Black Volunteer Regiment In Mind.

*****John Brown’s Body Lies A Moldering In The Grave-With The Massachusetts 54^th Black Volunteer Regiment In Mind.

 

Every time I pass the frieze honoring the heroic Massachusetts 54^th Black Volunteer Regiment across from the State House on Beacon Street in Boston, a unit that fought in the American Civil War, a war which we have just finished commemorating the 150^th anniversary of its formal ending (April 1865) I am struck by one figure who I will discuss in a minute. For those who do not know the 54^th Regiment the unit had been recruited and made up of all volunteers, former slaves, freedmen, maybe a current fugitive slave snuck in there, those were such times for such unheralded personal valor, the recruitment a task that the great abolitionist Frederick Douglass, himself an ex-slave had been central in promoting (including two of his sons). All knew, or soon became aware that if they did not fight to the finish they would not be treated as prisoners of war but captured chattel subject to re-enslavement or death.  The regiment fought with ferocious valor before Fort Wagner down in South Carolina and other hot spots where an armed black man, in uniform or out, brought red flashes of deep venom, if venom is red, but hellfire hatred in any case to the Southern plantation owners and their hangers-on (that armed black men acting in self-defense of themselves and theirs still bringing hellfire hatred among some whites to this day, no question).

I almost automatically focus in on that old hard-bitten grizzled erect bearded soldier who is just beneath the head of the horse being ridden by Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, the white commander of the regiment who from a family of ardent abolitionists fell with his men before Fort Wagner and was buried with them, an honor. (See above) I do not know the details of the model Saint-Gauden’s used when he worked that section (I am sure that specific information can be found although it is not necessary to this sketch) but as I grow older I appreciate that old man soldier even more, as old men are supposed to leave the arduous duty of fighting for just causes, arms in hand, to the young.

I like to think that that old grizzled brother who aside from color looks like me when he heard the call from Massachusetts wherever he was, maybe had read about the plea in some abolitionist newspaper, had maybe even gotten the message from Frederick Douglass himself through his newspaper, The North Star, calling Sable Brother to Arms or on out the stump once Lincoln unleashed him to recruit his black brothers for whatever reason although depleting Union ranks reduced by bloody fight after bloody fight as is the nature of civil war when the societal norms are broken  as was at least one cause, he picked up stakes leaving some small farm or trade and family behind and volunteered forthwith. Maybe he had been born, like Douglass, in slavery and somehow, manumission, flight, something, following the Northern Star, got to the North. Maybe learned a skill, a useful skill, got a little education to be able to read and write and advance himself and had in his own way prospered.

But something was gnawing at him, something about the times, something about tow-headed white farm boys, all awkward and ignorant from the heartland of the Midwest, sullen Irish and other ethnic immigrants from the cities where it turned out the streets were not paved with gold and so took the bounty for Army duty, took some draft-dodger’s place for pay, hell, even high-blown Harvard boys were being armed to defend the Union (and the endless names of the fallen and endless battles sites on Memorial Hall at Harvard a graphic testament to that solemn sense of duty then). And more frequently as the days and months passed about the increasing number of white folk who hated, hated with a red-hot passion, slavery and if that passion meant anything what was he a strong black man going to do about it, do about breaking the hundreds of years chains. Maybe he still had kindred under the yolk down South in some sweated plantation, poorly fed, ill-treated, left to fester and die when not productive anymore, the women, young and old subject to Mister’s lustful appetites and he had to do something.

Then the call came, Governor Andrews of Massachusetts was raising a “sable” armed regiment (Douglass’ word) to be headed by a volunteer Harvard boy urged on by his high abolitionist parents, Colonel Shaw, the question of black military leadership of their own to be left to another day, another day long in the future as it turned out but what was he to know of that, and he shut down his small shop or farm, said good-bye to kin and neighbors and went to Boston to join freedom’s fight. I wonder if my old bearded soldier fell before Fort Wagner fight down in heated rebel country, or maybe fell in some other engagement less famous but just as important to the concept of disciplined armed black men fighting freedom’s fight. I like to think though that the grizzled old man used every bit of wit and skill he had and survived to march into Charleston, South Carolina, the fire-breathing heart of the Confederacy, then subdued at the end of war with his fellows in the 54^th stepping off to the tune of John Brown’s Body Lies A-Moldering In The Grave. A fitting tribute to Captain Brown and his band of brother, black and white, at Harper’s Ferry fight and to an old grizzled bearded soldier’s honor.             

The Sons Of The Ghost Dance-With The Lakota Struggle At Standing Rock Against The Dakota Pipeline In Mind

The Sons Of The Ghost Dance-With The Lakota Struggle At Standing Rock Against The Dakota Pipeline In Mind

By Fritz Taylor

 

Brad Fox, a little late summer September sunburn showing on his face for his efforts, was talking to Zack James, his old friend from high school in growing up poor Riverdale and later on the dope-strewn merry prankster yellow brick road during the high holy days of the 1960s counter-cultural movement, about a demonstration that he had attended earlier that day in support of the Lakota Sioux and their allies’ struggle against the Dakota pipeline. Brad had rekindled his friendship with Zack after a number of years when the two coasts separated them Brad returning home to Riverdale to run his father’s specialty carpentry shop after he had had a stroke and Zack remaining on the West Coast in pursuit of his journalism career. They had reunited at their 40^th high school class reunion in 2004 and had since that time several times a month gotten together either at their old hang-out Jack Kelly’s Grille in Riverdale or at Zack’s slightly more upscale watering hole, Barney’s in downtown Boston.

Brad had called Zack up to report on the demonstration and the issues involved around stopping the pipeline something Zack, now retired from Rock Age magazine, had heard about on the news but had not followed closely but more importantly something that had happened at the rally that had reminded him of the time they had been out in Joshua Tree in California in the early 1970s. Brad had over his cellphone sent Zack photos of the rally which had started at Park Street Station the historic spot on Boston Common for all kinds of events since about colonial times and of the march that followed through downtown Boston, Back Bay and after crossing a footbridge over Storrow Drive ending with a water-cleansing ceremony at the Charles River.

He quickly highlighted the struggle of the tribes who had gathered out in the badlands of Dakota to stop the desecration of sacred burial lands and the continuing pollution of their water sources by the unchecked construction and destruction caused by the pipeline headed from the Dakotas to Illinois. He told Zack that he would provide links to sites which could fill him in on the specifics (which he subsequently did do) and then went on to describe the particulars of the support rally. It was that aspect of the event that caused Brad to envision long ago memories that he knew Zack would have remembered without much prompting.                   

After some of the usual milling around time always associated with almost any political event before the organizers gathered themselves for their tasks all the fifty to seventy-five attendees were called to form a healing welcome circle. Then one of the organizers, a Native American woman who had been delegated by the tribes out in the Dakotas to speak for them, passed along the circle to distribute some good spirits incense in the form of smoke with which to insure the well-being of the participants. Then she and a male Native American organizer stepped to the center of the circle after she had put the remnants of the incense vessel on the ground. Then the male began beating lightly on his hand-held drum increasing the tempo as he went along. All of a sudden he started chanting the ah, ah, ah, oh, oh, sounding chant that made Brad flash back to the early 1970s out in Joshua Tree. The female organizer began to chant as well and both did so for several minutes. Brad knew he would have to call Zack immediately after the demo to see what his reaction would be.

Zack almost before Brad could finish describing the ceremony blurred out “ghost dance in Bryant’s Canyon” and Brad smiled the knowing smile of the initiate. Before Brad could continue with his version of that long along story Zack started talking about their old friend the late Peter Paul Markin whom everybody had called the “Scribe” in those old high school days after Frankie Riley had christened him with that moniker. Markin had earned the title after faithfully serving as the mouthpiece, flak for Frankie, the leader of the boyos in front of Tonio Pizza Parlor over on Thornton Street in the old hometown. The Scribe had been the guy who had set all the corner boys heading west after they had finished high school and during that uprising of the young associated with the summer of love, 1967 and all the mad dope, rock and roll, sex escapades that followed. He had been the first to head west in that year. Brad and Zack followed later in the late winter of 1968.  

Of course the way to travel in those days for poor boys and the adventuresome was to follow the karma of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road which was mandatory reading for the footloose youth of America, particularly the male portion, and hitchhike out. That is what Brad and Zack did one cold day as they headed for the truck depot behind the Coca-Cola plant near the Charles River entrance to the Mass Turnpike where they expected to start grabbing a ride from some lonesome or talkative long haul truck-driver maybe going to Chicago or some other point west. They got a ride although that first one was only to Cleveland but after a series of shorter rides they wound up in Denver where they met Smiling Jack and Handsome Johnny who would form the foursome who would wind up in Joshua Tree and who would wind up serving as the vessels for the ghost dance which would brand them forever as among the kindred of ancient warriors. 

But that is getting ahead of the story slightly because that Denver stop after meeting Jack and Johnny on Larimer Street one afternoon when they were looking to score some dope and they were passed a huge blunt by Johnny meant they would stay for week in the Humble Pie Commune where Jack and Johnny lived. There they would be introduced to the ancient delights of peyote buttons and other magic mushroom delights. It was there that the newly endowed foursome would decide to go to California by the southern route as fast as they could going through desert country that none of them had ever seen before. After a short stay in Phoenix and a couple of short rides they wound up getting a ride from a Volkswagen van with four or five travelers inside stoned to high heaven (to this day neither Brad nor Zack could be sure of the number in the van when they were picked up right at Needles on the California-Arizona border).  

This crew with the four add-ons decided to stop at Joshua Tree one later afternoon since there was no place to stay cheaply if they went further that day. So they made camp at one of the primitive campsites (then primitive anyway) near a broad and beautiful canyon that had several layers of rock in various colors showing. Needless to say by the time they had gotten to Joshua Tree they were in the language of the day “ripped.” Had also started taking peyotes buttons to chill out with after smoking so much weed. Somebody, maybe Sunshine Mary, the driver of the van’s girlfriend, neither were sure on that detail  forty years later,  started a huge and glowing fire and as the sun went down to the west the shadow of the flames made crazy patterns on the layered canyon walls. The young woman also started to put a big pot on the grill to make a hell-bent soup. 

While the young woman was preparing some vegetables Smiling Jack suddenly got up and started to slowly dance, not a rock and roll dance, but a dance like he had maybe seen the “Indians” do on television when he was a kid. As he danced he began to take off most of his clothes and to slowly writhe in the coming light from the fire. He began an ah,ah, ah,oh,oh chant slowly picking up the tempo as he moved around the circle. A few minutes later Brad who had just eaten another peyote button, as he said later “flipped out,” and began to get up and follow Jack in his circle, kept his clothes on but chimed in with on Jack’s chant. A few minutes later Johnny and Zack followed suit. They did this for at least an hour without stopping, or not stopping much. As that hour approached though Zack, Zack the then college drop-out to “find” himself because he knew no Indian languages began to call on some ancient forebears out in the canyon to give him strength to fight the “white devils,” to avenge the rape of his lands, women and culture. The other three soon joined in grabbing some soil and some water to paint themselves up as warriors. Then just as they were at fever pitch as if on command all the heat of the day, the lack of food, maybe water too, the long exertions and above all those fiery drugs they all collapsed almost simultaneously in a heap in front of the fire.       

Zack would later write that as best as he could understand what had happened that night for one minute he and his brethren knew what it was like to be an avenging angel warrior going back ten thousand years to turn the earth back to mother. And thus these days to support the struggles out in Standing Rock. 

 

From Veterans For Peace- Boston Rally to stop U.S. war on Syria - Sat., Sept. 24, Park St. Station, 1:00 p.m.

To smedleyvfp@googlegroups.com  

Say NO to U.S. Imperialism's War on Syria

Rally this Saturday, Sept. 24*

Park Street Station  1:00 - 3:00 p.m.

(corner of Tremont and Park Streets in Boston)





Veterans For Peace believes that the only way to resolve the crisis in Syria and to assist the victims of this conflict is to end the fighting, not to escalate it. The Syrian people have the right to elect their leaders and to determine their own future.

We call on the United States government to cease all military, political and economic assistance to armed opposition groups in Syria and to take actions to pressure US allies to do the same.

Veterans For Peace further calls for an end to all economic sanctions against Syria, especially of medicines, including much needed cancer medicines.

We call on the U.S. government to provide massive humanitarian assistance for the millions of Syrian refugees, and to allow more Syrian refugees into the United States.

The Syrian Government has the right to defend itself from foreign aggression and the “regime change” schemes of the United States and its allies.  We call on the all parties to do their utmost to avoid killing innocent civilians.

It is time to bring the Syrian war to an end.  It is time to begin the hard work of healing the wounds of the terrible war that has been imposed upon the people of Syria.  We must take responsibility for the role of our own government.  We must allow the people of Syria and the Middle East to live in peace.

* Partial list of sponsors: International Action Center (Boston), United National Anti-War Coalition, Syrian American Forum, Committee for Peace and Human Rights-Park St Peace Vigil, Moorehead for President/Lilly for VP Campaign of Workers World Party Boston (partial. list in formation)







-- 

You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "SmedleyVFP" group.

To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to Smedleyvfp+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com.

For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout.

From Veterans For Peace- Boston Rally to stop U.S. war on Syria - Sat., Sept. 24, Park St. Station, 1:00 p.m.

To smedleyvfp@googlegroups.com  

Say NO to U.S. Imperialism's War on Syria

Rally this Saturday, Sept. 24*

Park Street Station  1:00 - 3:00 p.m.

(corner of Tremont and Park Streets in Boston)





Veterans For Peace believes that the only way to resolve the crisis in Syria and to assist the victims of this conflict is to end the fighting, not to escalate it. The Syrian people have the right to elect their leaders and to determine their own future.

We call on the United States government to cease all military, political and economic assistance to armed opposition groups in Syria and to take actions to pressure US allies to do the same.

Veterans For Peace further calls for an end to all economic sanctions against Syria, especially of medicines, including much needed cancer medicines.

We call on the U.S. government to provide massive humanitarian assistance for the millions of Syrian refugees, and to allow more Syrian refugees into the United States.

The Syrian Government has the right to defend itself from foreign aggression and the “regime change” schemes of the United States and its allies.  We call on the all parties to do their utmost to avoid killing innocent civilians.

It is time to bring the Syrian war to an end.  It is time to begin the hard work of healing the wounds of the terrible war that has been imposed upon the people of Syria.  We must take responsibility for the role of our own government.  We must allow the people of Syria and the Middle East to live in peace.

* Partial list of sponsors: International Action Center (Boston), United National Anti-War Coalition, Syrian American Forum, Committee for Peace and Human Rights-Park St Peace Vigil, Moorehead for President/Lilly for VP Campaign of Workers World Party Boston (partial. list in formation)







-- 

You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "SmedleyVFP" group.

To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to Smedleyvfp+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com.

For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout.

[BostonUNAC] 9/24 Hands off Syria Demoposting - 1 pm, Park St.

To ujp-planning@googlegroups.com • code-pink-greater-boston <code-pink-greater-boston@googlegroups.com> • BostonUNAC-announce@googlegroups.com <bostonunac-announce@googlegroups.com> • bostonunac <bostonunac@googlegroups.com> • massaction-boston <massaction-boston@googlegroups.com>  

BOSTON U.S. HANDS OFF SYRIA DEMO

SATURDAY 9/24 1 PM

PARK ST STATION, BOSTON, MA 

Say NO to US Imperialism's War on Syria.
Hands Off Syria! Picket and Street Rally

The US bombing of Syrian Government's Army positions in the Eastern city of Deir ez-Zor on Saturday 9/17/16 is a very dangerous escalation in the 5 year US Imperialist campaign of Regime Change, the complete overturn of the legally elected and internationally recognized government of Syria. The US Anti-war movement must say NO to this US war on Syria NOW! 

Call to Protest by International Action Center (Boston), United National Anti-War Coalition, Syrian American Forum, Committee for Peace and Human Rights-Park St Peace Vigil, Veterans for Peace, Bishop Filipe Teixeira OFSJC, Charles Clemons Touch 106.1 FM, Women's Fightback Network,Steve Kirschbaum VP USW 8751Boston School Bus Union,  Moorehead for President/Lilly for VP Campaign of Workers World Party Boston (partial. List in formation)


facebook event page (please share widely!): 

https://www.facebook.com/events/623831724443590/?ti=icl

 iacboston@iacboston.org  617-522-6626





-- 

You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "BostonUNAC" group.

To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to bostonunac+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com.

For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout.

*****Once Again On The 1960s Folk Minute-The Cambridge Club 47 Scene

*****Once Again On The 1960s Folk Minute-The Cambridge Club 47 Scene

 

 

From The Pen Of Zack James

Joshua Breslin, Carver down in the wilds of Southeastern Massachusetts cranberry bog country born, had certainly not been the only one who had recently taken a nose-dive turn back in time to that unique moment beginning in the very late 1950s, say 1958, 1959 when be-bop jazz (you know Dizzy, the late Bird, the mad man Monk the guys who bopped swing-a-ling for “cool” high white note searches on the instruments) “beatnik” complete with beret and bop-a-long banter and everybody from suburb land was clad in black, guys in black chinos and flannel shirts, gals in black dresses, black stockings, black shoes, who knows maybe black underwear which in Victoria's Secret time is not hard to image but then something the corner boys in front of Jimmy Jack’s Diner salaciously contemplated about the female side of that "beat" scene (what King Kerouac termed beatitude, the search for holiness or wholeness), was giving way to earnest “folkie” time. And no alluring black-dressed gals but unisex flannel shirts, or sometimes once somebody had been to Mexico peasant blouses, unisex blue jeans and unisex sandals leaving nothing in particular to the fervent corner boy imagination) in the clubs that mattered around the Village (the Gaslight, Geddes Folk City, half the joints on Bleecker Street), Harvard Square (Club Blue, the place for serious cheap dates since for the price of coffees and pastries for two you could linger on, Café Blanc, the place for serious dates since they had a five dollar minimum, Club 47, the latter a place where serious folkies and serious folk musicians hung out) and North Beach (Club Ernie’s, The Hungry Eye, all a step behind the folk surge since you would still find a jazz-poetry mix longer than in the Eastern towns). That scene would go on in earnest to the mid-1960s when folk music had its minute as a popular genre and faded a bit. Even guys like Sam Eaton, Sam Lowell, Jack Callahan and Bart Webber, who only abided the music back in the day, now too, because the other guys droned on and on about it under the influence of Pete Markin a guy Josh had met  in the summer of love, 1967 were diving in too. Diving into the music which beside first love rock and roll got them through the teenage night.

The best way to describe that turn from be-bop beat to earnest folkie, is by way of a short comment by the late folk historian Dave Von Ronk which summed up the turn nicely. Earlier in that period, especially the period after Allen Ginsburg’s Howl out in the Frisco poetry slam blew the roof off modernist poetry with his talk of melted modern minds, hipsters, negro streets, the fight against Moloch, the allure of homosexuality, and Jack Kerouac’s On The Road in a fruitless search for the father he and Neal Cassady never knew had the Army-Navy surplus stores cleaning out their rucksack inventories, when “beat poets” held sway and folkies were hired to clear the room between readings Dave would have been thrown in the streets to beg for his supper if his graven voice and quirky folk songs did not empty the place, and he did (any serious look at some of his earliest compositions will tell in a moment why, and why the cross-over from beat to folkie by the former crowd never really happened). But then the sea-change happened, tastes changed and the search for roots was on, and Von Ronk would be doing three full sets a night and checking every folk anthology he could lay his hands on (including naturally Harry Smith’s legendary efforts and the Lomaxes and Seegers too) and misty musty record store recordings to get enough material.

People may dispute the end-point of that folk minute like they do about the question of when the "turn the world upside down" counter-cultural 1960s ended as a “youth nation” phenomenon but clearly with the advent of acid-etched rock (acid as in LSD, blotter, electric kool aid acid test not some battery stuff ) by 1967-68 the searching for and reviving of the folk roots that had driven many aficionados to the obscure archives like Harry Smith’s anthology, the recording of the Lomaxes, Seegers and that crowd had passed.

As an anecdote, one that Josh would use whenever the subject of his own sea-change back to rock and roll came up, in support of that acid-etched dateline that is the period when Josh stopped taking his “dates” to the formerly ubiquitous home away from home coffeehouses which had sustained him through many a dark home life night in high school and later when he escaped home during college, cheap poor boy college student dates to the Harvard Square coffeehouses where for the price of a couple of cups of coffee, expresso then a favorite since you could sip it slowly and make it last for the duration and rather exotic since it was percolated in a strange copper-plated coffee-maker, a shared pastry of unknown quality, and maybe a couple of dollars admission charge or for the “basket” that was the life-support of the performers you could hear up and coming talent working out their kinks, and took those "dates" instead to the open-air fashion statement rock concerts that were abounding around the town.

The shift also entailed a certain change in fashion from those earnest flannel shirts, denims, lacy blouses and sandals to day-glo tie-dye shirts, bell-bottomed denims, granny dresses, and mountain boots or Chuck Taylor sneakers. Oh yeah, and the decibel level of the music got higher, much higher and the lyrics talked not of ancient mountain sorrows, thwarted triangle love, or down-hearted blues over something that was on your mind but to alice-in-wonderland and white rabbit dreams, carnal nightmares, yellow submarines, satanic majesties, and wooden ships on the water.             

Some fifty years out others in Josh-like fits of nostalgia and maybe to sum up a life’s work there have been two recent documentaries concerning the most famous Harvard Square coffeehouse of them all, the Club 47 (which still exists under the name of the non-profit Club Passim which traces its genealogy to that legendary Mount Auburn Street spot in a similar small venue near the Harvard Co-Op Bookstore off of Church Street).

One of the documentaries put out a few years ago (see above) traces the general evolution of that club in its prime when the likes of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Rush, Eric Von Schmidt, the members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band (the forming of jug bands, a popular musical form including a seemingly infinite number of bands with the name Sheik in them, going back to the early 20^th century itself a part of the roots revival guys like Josh were in thrall to), and many others sharpened up their acts there. The other documentary, No Regrets (title taken from one of his most famous songs) which Josh reviewed for one of the blogs, The American Folk Minute, to which he has contributed to over the years is a biopic centered on the fifty plus years in folk music of Tom Rush. Both those visual references got Josh thinking about how that folk scene, or better, the Harvard Square coffeehouse scene kept Josh from going off the rails, although that was a close thing.        

Like about a billion kids before and after Josh in his coming of age in the early 1960s went through the usual bouts of teenage angst and alienation aided and abetted by growing up “from hunger” among the very lowest rung of the working poor with all the pathologies associated with survival down at the base of society where the bonds of human solidarity are often times very attenuated. All of this “wisdom” complete with appropriate “learned” jargon, of course figured out, told about, made many mistakes to gain, came later, much later because at the time Josh was just feeling rotten about his life and how the hell he got placed in a world which he had not created (re-enforced when questioned by one Delores Breslin with Prescott Breslin as a behind-the scenes back-up about his various doings) and no likely possibilities of having a say what with the world stacked against him, his place in the sun (and not that “safe” white collar civil service job that Delores saw as the epitome of upward mobility for her brood), and how he didn’t have a say in what was going on. Then through one source or another mainly by the accident of tuning in his life-saver transistor radio, which for once he successfully badgered to get from Delores and Prescott one Christmas by threatening murder and mayhem if he didn’t when all his corner boys at Jimmy Jack’s Diner had them, on one Sunday night to listen to a favorite rock and roll DJ that he could receive on that night from Chicago he found a folk music program that sounded interesting (it turned out to be the Dick Summer show on WBZ, a DJ who is featured in the Tom Rush documentary) and he was hooked by the different songs played, some mountain music, some jug, some country blues, some protest songs.

Each week Dick Summer would announce who was playing where for the week and he kept mentioning various locations, including the Club 47, in Harvard Square. Josh was intrigued, wanted to go if only he could find a kindred for a date and if he could scratch up some dough. Neither easy tasks for a guy in high teen alienation mode.           

One Saturday afternoon Josh made connections to get to a Red Line subway stop which was the quickest way for him to get to Harvard Square (and was also the last stop on that line then) and walked around the Square looking into the various clubs and coffeehouses that had been mentioned by Summer and a few more as well. You could hardly walk a block without running into one or the other. Of course during the day all people were doing was sitting around drinking coffee and reading, maybe playing chess, or as he found out later huddled in small group corners working on their music (or poetry which also still had some sway as a tail end of the “beat” scene) so he didn’t that day get the full sense of what was going on. A few weeks later, having been “hipped” to the way things worked, meaning that as long as you had coffee or something in front of you in most places you were cool Josh always chronically low on funds took a date, a cheap date naturally, to the Club Blue where you did not pay admission but where Eric Von Schmidt was to play. Josh had heard his Joshua Gone Barbados covered by Tom Rush on Dick Summer’s show and he had flipped out so he was eager to hear him. So for the price of, Josh thought, two coffees each, a stretched-out shared brownie and two subway fares they had a good time, an excellent time (although that particular young woman and Josh would not go on much beyond that first date since she was looking for a guy who had more dough to spend on her, and maybe a “boss” car too).

Josh would go over to Harvard Square many weekend nights in those days, including sneaking out of the house a few time late at night and heading over since in those days the Red Line subway ran all night. That was his home away from home not only for cheap date nights depending on the girl he was interested in but when the storms gathered at the house about his doing, or not doing, this or that, stuff like that when his mother pulled the hammer down. If Josh had a few dollars make by caddying for the Mayfair swells at the Carver Country Club, a private club a few miles from his house he would pony up the admission, or two admissions if he was lucky, to hear Joan Baez or her sister Mimi with her husband Richard Farina, maybe Eric Von Schmidt, Tom Paxton when he was in town at the 47. If he was broke he would do his alternative, take the subway but rather than go to a club he would hang out all night at the famous Harvard Square Hayes-Bickford just up the steps from the subway stop exit. That was a wild scene made up of winos, grifters, con men, guys and gals working off barroom drunks, crazies, and… almost every time out there would be folk-singers or poets, some known to him, others from cheap street who soon faded into the dust, in little clusters, coffee mugs filled, singing or speaking low, keeping the folk tradition alive, keeping the faith that a new wind was coming across the land and they, Josh, wanted to catch it. Wasn’t that a time.          

 

[BostonUNAC] 9/24 Hands off Syria Demoposting - 1 pm, Park St.

To ujp-planning@googlegroups.com • code-pink-greater-boston <code-pink-greater-boston@googlegroups.com> • BostonUNAC-announce@googlegroups.com <bostonunac-announce@googlegroups.com> • bostonunac <bostonunac@googlegroups.com> • massaction-boston <massaction-boston@googlegroups.com>  

BOSTON U.S. HANDS OFF SYRIA DEMO

SATURDAY 9/24 1 PM

PARK ST STATION, BOSTON, MA 

Say NO to US Imperialism's War on Syria.
Hands Off Syria! Picket and Street Rally

The US bombing of Syrian Government's Army positions in the Eastern city of Deir ez-Zor on Saturday 9/17/16 is a very dangerous escalation in the 5 year US Imperialist campaign of Regime Change, the complete overturn of the legally elected and internationally recognized government of Syria. The US Anti-war movement must say NO to this US war on Syria NOW! 

Call to Protest by International Action Center (Boston), United National Anti-War Coalition, Syrian American Forum, Committee for Peace and Human Rights-Park St Peace Vigil, Veterans for Peace, Bishop Filipe Teixeira OFSJC, Charles Clemons Touch 106.1 FM, Women's Fightback Network,Steve Kirschbaum VP USW 8751Boston School Bus Union,  Moorehead for President/Lilly for VP Campaign of Workers World Party Boston (partial. List in formation)


facebook event page (please share widely!): 

https://www.facebook.com/events/623831724443590/?ti=icl

 iacboston@iacboston.org  617-522-6626





-- 

You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "BostonUNAC" group.

To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to bostonunac+unsubscribe@googlegroups.com.

For more options, visit https://groups.google.com/d/optout.

From The "Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archives" Website- The Alba Blog

Click on the headline to link to the Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archive blog page for all kinds of interesting information about that important historic grouping.

Markin comment:

This blog had gotten my attention for two reasons: those rank and filers who fought to defend democracy, fight the fascists and fight for socialism in Spain for the most part, political opponents or not, were kindred spirits; and, those with first-hand knowledge of those times over seventy years ago are dwindling down to a precious few and so we had better listen to their stories while they are around to tell it. More, later.

*Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By-Merle Travis' "Dark As A Dungeon"

Click on the title to link a "YouTube" film clip of Johnny Csh performing Merle Travis' "Dark As A Dungeon."

In this series, presented under the headline “Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By”, I will post some songs that I think will help us get through the “dog days” of the struggle for our communist future. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, a communist, although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground. Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here. Markin.

ORIGINAL MERLE TRAVIS LYRICS, transcribed from Capitol 48001:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's as dark as a dungeon way down in the mine...

SPOKEN:

I never will forget one time when I was on a little visit down home in Ebenezer, Kentucky. I was a-talkin' to an old man that had known me ever since the day I was born, and an old friend of the family. He says, "Son, you don't know how lucky you are to have a nice job like you've got and don't have to dig out a livin' from under these old hills and hollers like me and your pappy used to." When I asked him why he never had left and tried some other kind of work, he says, "Nawsir, you just won't do that. If ever you get this old coal dust in your blood, you're just gonna be a plain old coal miner as long as you live." He went on to say, "It's a habit [CHUCKLE] sorta like chewin' tobaccer."

Come and listen you fellows, so young and so fine,
And seek not your fortune in the dark, dreary mines.
It will form as a habit and seep in your soul,
'Till the stream of your blood is as black as the coal.
CHORUS:
It's dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,
Where danger is double and pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It's dark as a dungeon way down in the mine.
It's a-many a man I have seen in my day,
Who lived just to labor his whole life away.
Like a fiend with his dope and a drunkard his wine,
A man will have lust for the lure of the mines.

I hope when I'm gone and the ages shall roll,
My body will blacken and turn into coal.
Then I'll look from the door of my heavenly home,
And pity the miner a-diggin' my bones.

ADDITIONAL STANZA RARELY PERFORMED BY MERLE TRAVIS:

The midnight, the morning, or the middle of day,
Is the same to the miner who labors away.
Where the demons of death often come by surprise,
One fall of the slate and you're buried alive.

Fight Deportations-Join Veterans For Peace At The US-Mexico Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

Fight Deportations-Join Veterans For Peace At The US-Mexico  Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

Fight Deportations-Join Us At The US-Mexico Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

Fight Deportations-Join Us At The US-Mexico  Border In Nogales-October 7-10, 2016

 

Stop Continuing To Let The Military Sneak Into The High Schools-Down With JROTC And Military Recruiter Access

Stop Continuing To Let The Military Sneak Into The High Schools-Down With JROTC And Military Recruiter Access

 

 Frank Jackman comment:

 

One of the great struggles on college campuses during the height of the struggle against the Vietnam War back in the 1960s aside from trying to close down that war outright was the effort to get the various ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corps, I think that is right way to say it) programs off campus. In a number of important campuses that effort was successful, although there has been back-sliding going on since the Vietnam War ended and like any successful anti-war or progressive action short of changing the way governments we could support do business is subject to constant attention or the bastards will sneak something in the back door.

        

To the extent that reintroduction of ROTC on college campuses has been thwarted, a very good anti-war action indeed which had made it just a smidgen harder to run ram shot over the world, that back door approach has been a two-pronged attack by the military branches to get their quota of recruits for their all-volunteer military services in the high schools. First to make very enticing offers to cash-strapped public school systems in order to introduce ROTC, junior version, particularly but not exclusively, urban high schools (for example almost all public high schools in Boston have some ROTC service branch in their buildings with instructors partially funded by the Defense Department and with union membership right and conditions a situation which should be opposed by teachers’ union members).

 

Secondly, thwarted at the college level for officer corps trainees they have just gone to younger and more impressible youth, since they have gained almost unlimited widespread access to high school student populations for their high pressure salesmen military recruiters to do their nasty work. Not only do the recruiters who are graded on quota system and are under pressure produce X number of recruits or they could wind doing sentry guard duty in Kabul or Bagdad get that access where they have sold many young potential military personnel many false bills of goods but in many spots anti-war veterans and other who would provide a different perspective have been banned or otherwise harassed in their efforts.  

 

Thus the tasks of the day-JROTC out of the high schools-military recruiters out as well! Let anti-war ex-soldiers, sailors, Marines and airpersons have their say.