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Saturday, August 03, 2013
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Remembering Hiroshima
August 6, 2013, 3:30 pm - Cambridge
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68 years later, it’s time!
The Dancer –With Eli Wallach’s The
Line-Up In Mind
The Dancer was a craftsman alright,
a perfect artist just like you see at the ballet or in the art galleries,
places like that. He had beautiful moves, knew how to do his work right, once I
broke his flame temper and got him to see each action as something to be
thought through, planned, and then executed. Incidentally, in case you might
have heard otherwise, I was the one who gave him the name Dancer after bringing
him around, bringing him around from a rough-hewn kid, a punk maybe if left to
his own devises, a punk with no sense to
that perfect artist that I knew he had in him.
See we were partners for about a
decade, actually maybe more like twelve years, but that decade is what counts
because it probably took me two years to cut off those rough edges, so let’s
call it a decade. I was his coach, at least that is the way I looked at it and
after a while that was the way he looked at it too. See Dancer, and me too,
were professional “hit men,” guys who big- time guys, guys with no names, no public
names, but plenty of dough for what they
wanted done, would hire to do what had
to be done. And we were good, known far and wide in the right circles as being
good, and so there you have it. Here’s the funny thing, funny in a way, I never
fired a gun on a job, not in anger anyway, hated the damn things, hated the
sight of blood, hated when the job called for a rub-out and nothing else. After
a while though I got less squeamish, maybe more indifferent, but I never really
liked it. So like I say the Dancer did his part, and I did mine and for that
decade we were the walking daddies of the hired killer night.
Let me tell you a little about how
Dancer and me met, how we moved up the food chain in our chosen profession, and
then maybe you will see how an artist was created out of pure rough stuff. The
Dancer grew up, or at least he told me he grew up and I had no reason to not
believe him, in New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen, a rough place all the way
around. Before we met he was maybe jack-rolling drunks, maybe pimping a couple
of whores, maybe an off-hand armed robbery, or a low level hit from some
third-rate hood with a grudge.
It went something like this, something
like some guy needed dough bad, real bad, maybe was into the wise guys way too
deep, gambling, drugs, an overdue loan, and so he would hire the Dancer to off his
wife, or his partner, someone worth something, insurance something and he would
do the deed. See rough stuff, kid’s stuff really. Wasting his talent on
low-rent outings like that. I could hardly believe he never got caught working
off some ten percent commission stuff. Jesus.
And the Dancer might have stayed
there, stayed doing nickel and dime stuff, working hard, too hard for cheap dough,
except Big Chief, that is the only name you need to know, the wise guy of wise
guys had hired me to take care of some business, some business having to do
with an underling of his in the drug trade, in the heroin trade to be exact, who
was skimming way too much off the top in their international operations. So he
had to fall, fall hard to be made an n example of for other punks who might get
too greedy as the money from the drug trade exploded.
Now I had regular guys who I worked
with, who I coached and planned with, but just that moment they were all either
in stir or working some other job. So I asked Soldier McGee, one of the
low-rider chieftains of the New York City bike crowd and a middle-level
distributor of goods, whether he knew somebody who needed dough, and was not
afraid to get his hair all mushed up. Oh yah, and who did not, I repeat, did
not have a criminal record, nothing. Soldier thought about it, about the requirements
and came up with Sid Lorraine, the Dancer.
I almost didn’t take him on, his idea of a plan was all wild, all shoot ‘em up, bang-bang and collect the dough. Yah, and then walk right up to Sing-Sing. So on that caper I showed him how to really do the thing right, how to do the thing with style, no muss, no fuss and gone. My idea was to get the underling’s confidence, play to his weak side, the side that was all wreck-less skim. So the deal was that Dancer was going to be a Big Chief “mule,” a rogue mule looking to go independent, and contact the underling about moving the material cutting himself in for a large slice of the proceeds for his efforts. He went for it, went like a lemming to the sea. So when the meet occurred over in the Jersey marshes the Dancer had no problem with the problem guy. The cops as usual never ever found the guy, if they were ever looking for him once he wasn’t around anymore. That job was our ticket up the food chain, and the Dancer started taking my instructions more seriously, although like I said it wasn’t all a bed of roses because there was always a little bang-bang and done in him.
Once we moved up as far as we could
go in our profession we were given nothing but high-end assignments. All strictly
high-end drug deals. This is how it worked (the cops even if they saw this
wouldn’t believe it anyway, or would take their cut and look the other way like
usual). The Big Chief had agents all over the world, but with the heroin trade
mainly in the Far East, places like the Golden Triangle, or South Asia, like
maybe Afghanistan. Those agents would procure the stuff (cheap too, cheap to
our eyes anyway), and then use “marks,” mostly unknowing people, tourists,
businessmen, people like that, who purchased something, a vase, a doll, a
figurine, for whatever reason and they would “carry” the stuff through customs.
Beautiful right. Then when the dope got state-side we went to work. We went to
“collect” the dope. Anyway we could.
That, after a while, was how the
Dancer became a perfect artist. See, he would know who he would have to “hit”
and who he wouldn’t. Say some sailor brought the stuff in. Dancer knew, knew
deep in his bones, that there was no other way than a hit to get the
merchandise. So we planned accordingly, set the bait, did the deed, got the
merchandise then vanished, no trace. Other times, with the tourists though, he
could almost just con his way into letting him have the carrier object and be
done with it. And it worked like clockwork for that decade I mentioned before
like all things it went off the tracks.
We had a job set-up in Frisco, a
town neither of us knew, but which looked like an average job. The China Star out of Hong Kong was coming
in with three marks, all tourists, all carrying heroin in respectively, a horse
figurine, a rag doll, and an intricate jade necklace. We had to kill the first
guy because he just wasn’t going to give up the damn figurine. The second guy,
or really his daughter, gave it up with, well, a little struggle. The third, a
woman, we had to waste since she would not take off the necklace, no way, but
we kind of figured that the way dames are about jewelry. So that part was no
big deal. But this is where some guys get kind of squirrely no matter how much
training they get. The Dancer decided, decided all by himself, that he was
keeping this stash, was going into business for himself (or we, for us, the way
he figured it at first). That was a problem a big problem, a Big Chief big
problem.
I tried to talk him out of it, tried
to say it couldn’t work out right no matter how it was cut up, that we had a
our place in the food chain, a pretty good place. Naturally he would not listen
and naturally I had to “hit” him when Big Chief sent the word. My first kill. I
still didn’t like it, still didn’t, don’t, like guns, still don’t like the
sight of blood, still didn’t like sending him out with the Japan Current like
some easy mark. But I did it. And now these many years later all I have is the
memory of the Dancer, the perfect artist.
Free Bradley Manning Now!
Update 8/2/13: Colbert Report’s great segment on Bradley, “my view from inside the courtroom”, Berlin rally pics
digg
Bradley Manning: my view from inside the Fort Meade courtroom
The media loves to argue whether Manning is a hero or a traitor, but that is beside the point. This is about truth
Molly Crabapple, The Guardian. July 31, 2013On a delicious July afternoon, US army private Bradley Manning sat in a Fort Meade, Maryland courtroom and waited to hear if he’d be declared guilty of treason…. Only the guards hint that the proceedings are special. They carried enough ammo to turn every Manning supporter present into a fine red mist. Read the article at theguardian.com
Sketches by New York-based writer and artist Molly Crabapple
Photos from the ‘Stop Watching Us’ rally in Berlin, Germany
View more photos, along with a few videos, here.
Free Bradley Manning Now !
Govt. wants to blame Manning for harm yet to come from WikiLeaks releases: trial report, day 26
By Nathan Fuller, BMSN. August 2, 2013.
Today the government called former State Department Chief Information Officer Susan Swart to testify about how the State Dept. responded to WikiLeaks’ release of diplomatic cables. Swart testified that the Net-Centric Diplomacy (NCD) database, which housed the records that Pfc. Bradley Manning downloaded and sent to WikiLeaks, was first implemented to give those on classified networks greater ease of access to those cables. No technical limitations were in place, so those with access could simply search for and find any cable they needed, as opposed to waiting for it to be pushed out through various channels as it had before.
After WikiLeaks’ releases, the State Dept. pulled the database from the Secret-level network and kept it only in the Top Secret network, and Swart reviewed possibilities for furthering limiting access to the NCD.
The government started to ask about what the State Department did to prevent future conduct similar to Manning’s, and the defense objected that this type of “aggravating evidence” was outside the scope of what should be legally allowed.
After Swart’s testimony, the parties argued the defense’s motion to limit that very scope, under Rule for Court Martial 1001(b)(4), which says (emphasis mine),
Yesterday in a classified session, John Feeley testified about (it was suggested, we can’t know because the court was closed to the press) how WikiLeaks’ release of the cables caused diplomatic relationships with some Latin American countries to erode. In open court, Feeley discussed estranged ties with countries like Venezuela and Nicaragua, whom he admitted have had longstanding ideological differences with the United States. But Coombs says that Feeley made few specific points about actual harm caused, and could have testified in about ten minutes instead of the hours they took yesterday. The government, he said, was attempting to lay the “many so-called ills of world” at Bradley Manning’s feet.
Furthermore, Coombs argued that if the government is allowed to present evidence of events not directly related to WikiLeaks releases, the defense should be allowed to present evidence of indirectly related events that were beneficial:
But prosecutor Maj. Ashden Fein admitted that the government did intend to elicit information regarding future harm. He said he would call terrorism experts (likely to include Youssef Aboul-Enein) to discuss information that terrorists now have due to WikiLeaks’ releases, but also to opine on what they will do with that information in the future.
Military judge Col. Denise Lind is taking the matter under advisement, and will rule on the defense motion on Monday.
This afternoon, the government will call Ambassador Michael Kosack (profiled here) from the Persons-At-Risk Working Group, which attempted to identify people vulnerable due to WikiLeaks’ releases and mitigate potential harm.
Amb. Kozak on “chilling effect” and protecting sources
Ambassador Michael Kozak, from the State Department’s Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor, led the Persons-At-Risk Working Group, which around Christmas of 2011 branched off from the broader 24/7 WikiLeaks response group. The Persons-At-Risk group reviewed the WikiLeaks-released diplomatic cables and determined if some people identified by name were at risk of death, violence, or incarceration. These people were largely human rights and democracy activists who could be vulnerable to retribution if their government or nonstate actors discovered they’d cooperated with the United States. The group determined that if the State Dept. could do something about it, it would offer to assist that person discretely, he testified. Kozak testified the group felt a “moral obligation” to mitigate potential harm to people who trusted the State Dept. to keep their work secret, but also said that the State Dept. didn’t always commit to helping out, at first merely determining what was needed. Prosecutors asked him to give a general approximation of how many such sources needed help, but Kozak said he’d have to answer that in a classified session.
This assistance sometimes involved paying airfare for the activist to relocate and then helping him or her “regularize” (meaning help with immigration paperwork and then gain employment) in the new country.
But asked about the “greatest damage” that resulted from WikiLeaks’ Cablegate release, Kozak discussed the “chilling effect” it instilled in these activists, who then felt they might not be able to trust the State Dept. to keep their work secret. He compared diplomacy to journalism, in that a newspaper similarly wants to protect its credibility: if it outs a source, he or she will probably stop talking.
Kozak said that while members of the Persons-At-Risk team have resumed their previous duties, they are still in the process of assisting some people (one of whom had slipped through the cracks in 2010-11, and a few of whom have simply needed more assistance “regularizing” in their new countries). He couldn’t say when the group would ever be done, because journalists continue to cite cables in new reporting, and so new sources and cooperative activists could be at risk in the future. Referring back to its motion and this morning’s argument over aggravating damage, the defense objected to the judge considering this speculative damage that has not occurred.
Ambassador Patrick Kennedy is expected to testify all day on Monday, beginning at 10:00am.
Susan Swart, formerly of the State Dept., drawn by Debra Van Poolen
After WikiLeaks’ releases, the State Dept. pulled the database from the Secret-level network and kept it only in the Top Secret network, and Swart reviewed possibilities for furthering limiting access to the NCD.
The government started to ask about what the State Department did to prevent future conduct similar to Manning’s, and the defense objected that this type of “aggravating evidence” was outside the scope of what should be legally allowed.
After Swart’s testimony, the parties argued the defense’s motion to limit that very scope, under Rule for Court Martial 1001(b)(4), which says (emphasis mine),
The trial counsel may present evidence as to any aggravating circumstances directly relating to or resulting from the offenses of which the accused has been found guilty. Evidence in aggravation includes, but is not limited to, evidence of financial, social, psychological, and medical impact on or cost to any person or entity who was the victim of an offense committed by the accused and evidence of significant adverse impact on the mission, discipline, or efficiency of the command directly and immediately resulting from the accused’s offense.
Defense lawyer David Coombs explained that while the merits (guilt v. innocence) phase of the trial dealt with “potential damage” (Manning was convicted on six Espionage counts for disclosing information he should have known “could” harm the United States or aid a foreign nation), the sentencing phase is supposed to deal with “actual damage.” Yet the government is trying to extend that out as far as possible, calling witnesses to speculate about how limited actual damage could have a domino effect down the line. Yesterday in a classified session, John Feeley testified about (it was suggested, we can’t know because the court was closed to the press) how WikiLeaks’ release of the cables caused diplomatic relationships with some Latin American countries to erode. In open court, Feeley discussed estranged ties with countries like Venezuela and Nicaragua, whom he admitted have had longstanding ideological differences with the United States. But Coombs says that Feeley made few specific points about actual harm caused, and could have testified in about ten minutes instead of the hours they took yesterday. The government, he said, was attempting to lay the “many so-called ills of world” at Bradley Manning’s feet.
Furthermore, Coombs argued that if the government is allowed to present evidence of events not directly related to WikiLeaks releases, the defense should be allowed to present evidence of indirectly related events that were beneficial:
Moreover, if the Government were to be permitted to advance an attenuated chain of events that seek to place many of the ills of the world at PFC Manning’s feet, then the Court would have to allow the Defense to rebut this with evidence that PFC Manning’s disclosures actually effected meaningful change in the world. For instance, PFC Manning’s disclosures have been credited with empowering people in the Middle East and with precipitating “Arab Spring.” See http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/06/03/how-bradley-manning-changed-the-war-on-terror.html (“Some commentators have credited Manning’s leak with providing a spark for the revolutions that toppled the governments of Egypt and Tunisia and triggered uprisings in Bahrain, Libya, and Yemen, collectively known as the Arab Spring. Files leaked by Manning disclosed a secret relationship between the U.S. government and President Ali Abdullah Saleh of Yemen, to allow drone strikes inside the country where the United States was not in a declared war. Another cable detailed the private investments and holdings of the Tunisian ruling family.”) The Defense submits that allowing the Government or the Defense to go down this road would be improper aggravation or mitigation and would run afoul of R.C.M. 1001(b)(4) and R.C.M. 1001(c)(1)(B) respectively.
The prosecution defended its approach, contending that the testimony it elicited was “directed related to or resulted from” Manning’s disclosures. It didn’t go into specifics about yesterday’s testimony.But prosecutor Maj. Ashden Fein admitted that the government did intend to elicit information regarding future harm. He said he would call terrorism experts (likely to include Youssef Aboul-Enein) to discuss information that terrorists now have due to WikiLeaks’ releases, but also to opine on what they will do with that information in the future.
Military judge Col. Denise Lind is taking the matter under advisement, and will rule on the defense motion on Monday.
This afternoon, the government will call Ambassador Michael Kosack (profiled here) from the Persons-At-Risk Working Group, which attempted to identify people vulnerable due to WikiLeaks’ releases and mitigate potential harm.
Amb. Kozak on “chilling effect” and protecting sources
Ambassador Michael Kozak, from the State Department’s Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor, led the Persons-At-Risk Working Group, which around Christmas of 2011 branched off from the broader 24/7 WikiLeaks response group. The Persons-At-Risk group reviewed the WikiLeaks-released diplomatic cables and determined if some people identified by name were at risk of death, violence, or incarceration. These people were largely human rights and democracy activists who could be vulnerable to retribution if their government or nonstate actors discovered they’d cooperated with the United States. The group determined that if the State Dept. could do something about it, it would offer to assist that person discretely, he testified. Kozak testified the group felt a “moral obligation” to mitigate potential harm to people who trusted the State Dept. to keep their work secret, but also said that the State Dept. didn’t always commit to helping out, at first merely determining what was needed. Prosecutors asked him to give a general approximation of how many such sources needed help, but Kozak said he’d have to answer that in a classified session.
This assistance sometimes involved paying airfare for the activist to relocate and then helping him or her “regularize” (meaning help with immigration paperwork and then gain employment) in the new country.
But asked about the “greatest damage” that resulted from WikiLeaks’ Cablegate release, Kozak discussed the “chilling effect” it instilled in these activists, who then felt they might not be able to trust the State Dept. to keep their work secret. He compared diplomacy to journalism, in that a newspaper similarly wants to protect its credibility: if it outs a source, he or she will probably stop talking.
Kozak said that while members of the Persons-At-Risk team have resumed their previous duties, they are still in the process of assisting some people (one of whom had slipped through the cracks in 2010-11, and a few of whom have simply needed more assistance “regularizing” in their new countries). He couldn’t say when the group would ever be done, because journalists continue to cite cables in new reporting, and so new sources and cooperative activists could be at risk in the future. Referring back to its motion and this morning’s argument over aggravating damage, the defense objected to the judge considering this speculative damage that has not occurred.
Ambassador Patrick Kennedy is expected to testify all day on Monday, beginning at 10:00am.
From The #Occupied Boston (#TomemonosBoston) Archives -Day Forty-Two- An Injury To One Is An Injury To All!-Defend All The Occupation Sites And All The Occupiers!–No Mas- The Class-War Lines Are Being Drawn-There Is A Need To Unite And Fight-Random Sights From Life At Dewey Square-An Encore Sketch
********
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
#TomemonosBoston
Somos la Sociedad conformando el 99% -Dewey Square, Cercerde South Station
#Tomemonos Boston se reuniarin en el Dewey Square en Downtown Boston a discutir cambios que la ciudadania puede hacer en el gobierno que afecte un cambio social positivo.
********
Peter Paul Markin comment November 9, 2011:
“Hey brother, can you help me put this tarp over my tent? It got cold as hell last night and the winds were blowing fierce,” yelled a youthfully-faced male, but now a few weeks-seasoned Occupy Boston grizzly veteran resident to a middle-aged man casually walking by. “Sure thing, let’s get to it” replied that passer-by.
“Can you bring this hot pot of soup to the kitchen? Some lady, a lady who would not give her name and would not acknowledge anything but thanks, drove up on the Atlantic Avenue side and asked me to unload some stuff for her,” said one young woman in shorts to another young woman dressed for colder climates.
“If you want a meal, a nice hot meal, could you wash some dishes to help us out,” barked, barked above the din in front of him, a man who had daily volunteered to help out in the makeshift kitchen. And a couple of older guys, older guys who knew the streets and the lore of the streets backward and forward, stepped behind the tent and got to work while another passed on the request.
“Man, play us a Hendrix tune on that thing, ‘cause you are smokin’, man” earnestly requested a young bearded man, obviously a student, an ardent musical student from the look of him. “Okay man, if you play a little drum behind me.” came the reply from the reincarnation of Jimi, complete with tie-dyed headband to hold his head together.
“Say, can I have cigarette, man, I’m out?” said another older man weary, street weary, getting ready to enter a tent to catch a few winks. “I’m rolling Bull, okay?,” answered a red-headed dread-locked young man.
Such were, are, the random sights and sounds of the Occupy Boston encampment on any given day, or any given minute if you can be in seven places at one time, as the camp continues to organize itself in the tradition of the old westward pioneers seeking that great American west night, and still are seeking it generations later.
“Hey man, don’t be cheap give me a fucking cigarette, I’m all shaky,” shouted out a razor- edged guy, obviously working off some hang-over, although not necessarily an alcoholic or drug one. “I’m down to my last one, what the fuck do you want from me,” came the surly reply. And the tension passed away in the midday air.
“This place is neat, three squares and a cot, and nobody hassles you and you don’t have to work for your grub, or nothing,” murmured a street veteran to no one in particular in a crowd of suburban tourists who have made the site at Dewey Square a place on their “must see” map.
“You had better stay the fuck away from my woman, and stay way away,” threatened a young guy, a young white guy, not a street guy, not a student but just the kind of guy who drifts in and out of things. “Fuck you and your woman,” came the reply from a young Spanish-looking dude who had daggers in his eyes as the two nearly came to blows. Just then someone yelled “rainbow” and several people appeared to calm the situation down.
This too is a part of the “new world a-borning” as not everybody is quite ready yet to shift gears, or just has too much, much too much, baggage from old bourgeois society to make the leap of faith just yet.
Five minutes ago the sidewalk along the Atlantic Avenue side of the encampment was deserted, a lonely yellow-jacketed cop shifting back and forth on his heels to make his duty time pass more quickly. Now the first sign of the day, “Tax The Rich,” along with it human holder, here a well-dressed, well-reserved older woman, a woman who looks like she has seen many battles for social justice in her time hits the sidewalk. And her action acts as a catalyst because now here come a couple of young students carrying a banner-“Banks got bailed out, we got sold out,” one of the anthems of the Occupy movement, to stand beside her. They smile, she smiles, nothing more is needed they understand each other completely.
Then a convoy of about twelve middle-aged and older Universalist-Unitarians from out in some suburban town, who have rented a bus for the occasion, begin filling in the sidewalk with their “peace, this,” “peace, that,” “good will toward all” signs. Upon investigation this group had made a solemn decision to come weekly to Boston to stand in solidarity with the efforts in Dewey Square.
A few minutes later, from out of nowhere, came a nomadic resident of the “village” with a plateful of cookies, chocolate chip perhaps, and offers them to those “working the line” on Atlantic Avenue.
An older model automobile, frankly a heap, driven by a menacing-looking man in lumberjack jacket with fierce eyes stopped just in front of the entrance to the encampment and yells out, “Hey, where do I put these sleeping bags, tarps, shovels, and pots? I can’t stay but I am with you, with you all the way.” Of such acts by such desperate looking men, revolutions are made, big-time revolutions.
Toward late afternoon the Atlantic Avenue traffic gets heavier, bumper to bumper, as people try to leave the city, and city cares behind. A guy in a big dump truck, a flat-top hair cut showing yells out, “Get a job” at a group of street people standing on the avenue. Later a pedestrian muttered to that cop on duty, who was still rocking his heel, about how he payed taxes and isn’t it a shame what these people are up to. The call of the day though goes to a guy, a light-skinned Cuban-looking guy in a late model sports car driving on the far right lane away from the encampment, who yells out, “Commies, go back to where you came from.” Yah, I know not everybody got the news, not everybody gets what is going on, and not everybody, despite the sleek street slogan of ninety-nine percent is with us. But just remember that guy, that lumberjack jacket guy who gave what he had, and gave it all the way.
********
Fight-Don’t Starve-We Created The Wealth, Let's Take It Back! Labor And The Oppressed Must Rule!
********
#TomemonosBoston
Somos la Sociedad conformando el 99% -Dewey Square, Cercerde South Station
#Tomemonos Boston se reuniarin en el Dewey Square en Downtown Boston a discutir cambios que la ciudadania puede hacer en el gobierno que afecte un cambio social positivo.
********
Peter Paul Markin comment November 9, 2011:
“Hey brother, can you help me put this tarp over my tent? It got cold as hell last night and the winds were blowing fierce,” yelled a youthfully-faced male, but now a few weeks-seasoned Occupy Boston grizzly veteran resident to a middle-aged man casually walking by. “Sure thing, let’s get to it” replied that passer-by.
“Can you bring this hot pot of soup to the kitchen? Some lady, a lady who would not give her name and would not acknowledge anything but thanks, drove up on the Atlantic Avenue side and asked me to unload some stuff for her,” said one young woman in shorts to another young woman dressed for colder climates.
“If you want a meal, a nice hot meal, could you wash some dishes to help us out,” barked, barked above the din in front of him, a man who had daily volunteered to help out in the makeshift kitchen. And a couple of older guys, older guys who knew the streets and the lore of the streets backward and forward, stepped behind the tent and got to work while another passed on the request.
“Man, play us a Hendrix tune on that thing, ‘cause you are smokin’, man” earnestly requested a young bearded man, obviously a student, an ardent musical student from the look of him. “Okay man, if you play a little drum behind me.” came the reply from the reincarnation of Jimi, complete with tie-dyed headband to hold his head together.
“Say, can I have cigarette, man, I’m out?” said another older man weary, street weary, getting ready to enter a tent to catch a few winks. “I’m rolling Bull, okay?,” answered a red-headed dread-locked young man.
Such were, are, the random sights and sounds of the Occupy Boston encampment on any given day, or any given minute if you can be in seven places at one time, as the camp continues to organize itself in the tradition of the old westward pioneers seeking that great American west night, and still are seeking it generations later.
“Hey man, don’t be cheap give me a fucking cigarette, I’m all shaky,” shouted out a razor- edged guy, obviously working off some hang-over, although not necessarily an alcoholic or drug one. “I’m down to my last one, what the fuck do you want from me,” came the surly reply. And the tension passed away in the midday air.
“This place is neat, three squares and a cot, and nobody hassles you and you don’t have to work for your grub, or nothing,” murmured a street veteran to no one in particular in a crowd of suburban tourists who have made the site at Dewey Square a place on their “must see” map.
“You had better stay the fuck away from my woman, and stay way away,” threatened a young guy, a young white guy, not a street guy, not a student but just the kind of guy who drifts in and out of things. “Fuck you and your woman,” came the reply from a young Spanish-looking dude who had daggers in his eyes as the two nearly came to blows. Just then someone yelled “rainbow” and several people appeared to calm the situation down.
This too is a part of the “new world a-borning” as not everybody is quite ready yet to shift gears, or just has too much, much too much, baggage from old bourgeois society to make the leap of faith just yet.
Five minutes ago the sidewalk along the Atlantic Avenue side of the encampment was deserted, a lonely yellow-jacketed cop shifting back and forth on his heels to make his duty time pass more quickly. Now the first sign of the day, “Tax The Rich,” along with it human holder, here a well-dressed, well-reserved older woman, a woman who looks like she has seen many battles for social justice in her time hits the sidewalk. And her action acts as a catalyst because now here come a couple of young students carrying a banner-“Banks got bailed out, we got sold out,” one of the anthems of the Occupy movement, to stand beside her. They smile, she smiles, nothing more is needed they understand each other completely.
Then a convoy of about twelve middle-aged and older Universalist-Unitarians from out in some suburban town, who have rented a bus for the occasion, begin filling in the sidewalk with their “peace, this,” “peace, that,” “good will toward all” signs. Upon investigation this group had made a solemn decision to come weekly to Boston to stand in solidarity with the efforts in Dewey Square.
A few minutes later, from out of nowhere, came a nomadic resident of the “village” with a plateful of cookies, chocolate chip perhaps, and offers them to those “working the line” on Atlantic Avenue.
An older model automobile, frankly a heap, driven by a menacing-looking man in lumberjack jacket with fierce eyes stopped just in front of the entrance to the encampment and yells out, “Hey, where do I put these sleeping bags, tarps, shovels, and pots? I can’t stay but I am with you, with you all the way.” Of such acts by such desperate looking men, revolutions are made, big-time revolutions.
Toward late afternoon the Atlantic Avenue traffic gets heavier, bumper to bumper, as people try to leave the city, and city cares behind. A guy in a big dump truck, a flat-top hair cut showing yells out, “Get a job” at a group of street people standing on the avenue. Later a pedestrian muttered to that cop on duty, who was still rocking his heel, about how he payed taxes and isn’t it a shame what these people are up to. The call of the day though goes to a guy, a light-skinned Cuban-looking guy in a late model sports car driving on the far right lane away from the encampment, who yells out, “Commies, go back to where you came from.” Yah, I know not everybody got the news, not everybody gets what is going on, and not everybody, despite the sleek street slogan of ninety-nine percent is with us. But just remember that guy, that lumberjack jacket guy who gave what he had, and gave it all the way.
***Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- When The Music’s Over-On The 41st Anniversary Of Janis Joplin’s Death-An Encore Sketch
A YouTube film clip of Janis Joplin and Big Brother and the Holding Company performing the bluesy classic, Piece Of My Heart.
Classic Rock : 1968: Shakin’ All Over, various artists, Time-Life Music, 1989
Scene: Brought to mind by the cover art on this CD of a Janis Joplin-like female performer belting out some serious blues rock in the heat of the “Generation of ‘68” night.
Josh Breslin (a. k. a. the Prince of Love, although some yellow bus wit made a joke of that moniker calling him the Prince of Lvov, some Podunk town in bleak old Poland, or some place like that) was weary, weary as hell, road- weary, drug-weary, Captain Crunch’s now Big Sur–based magical mystery tour, merry prankster, yellow brick road bus-weary, even hanging around with his “papa,” “Far-Out” Phil Larkin who had gotten him through some pretty rough spots weary. Hell, he was girl-weary too, girl weary ever since his latest girlfriend, Gypsy Lady (nee Phyllis McBride), decided that she just had to go back to her junior year of college at Berkeley in order to finish some academic paper on the zodiac signs and their meaning for the new age rising. Yah, okay Gypsy, do what you have to do. Moreover this summer of 1968, June to be exact, after a year of bouncing between summers of love, autumns of drugs, winters of discontent, and springs of political madness what with Johnson’s resignation, Robert Kennedy’s assassination piled on to that of King’s had taken a lot out of him, including his weight, weight loss that his already slim runner’s frame could not afford.
Moreover, now the chickens were coming home to roost. Before he had joined Captain Crunch’s merry prankster crew in San Francisco, got “on the bus,” in the youth nation tribal parlance, last summer he had assumed that he would enter State U in the fall (University of Maine, for those who did not know). After a summer of love with Butterfly Swirl though (his temperature rose every time he thought about her and her cute little tricks to get him going sexually even now) and then a keen interest in a couple of other young women before Gypsy Lady landed on him, some heavy drug experiences that he was still trying to figure out, his start–up friendship with Phil, and the hard fact that he just did not want to go home now that he had found “family” he decided that he needed to “see the world” for a while instead. And he had, at least enough to weary him.
What he did not figure on, or what got blasted into the deep recesses of his brain just a couple of days before, was a letter from his parents with a draft notice from his local board enclosed. Hell’s bells he had better get back, weary or not, and get some school stuff going real fast, right now fast. There was one thing for sure, one nineteen-year old Joshua Peter Breslin, Olde Saco, Maine High School Class of 1967, was not going with some other class of young men to ‘Nam to be shot at, or to shoot.
Funny, Josh thought, as he mentally prepared himself for the road back to Olde Saco, how the past couple of months had just kind of drifted by and that he really was ready to get serious. The only thing that had kind of perked him up lately was Ruby Red Lips (nee Sandra Kelly), who had just got “on the bus” from someplace down South like Georgia, or Alabama and who had a great collection of blues records that he was seriously getting into (as well as seriously into Ruby although she seemed slow, very slow, to get his message). Josh, throughout high school and even on the bus, was driven by rock ‘n’ roll. Period. He got surprised one day when he heard Ruby playing Shake, Rattle, and Roll. He asked, “Is that Carl Perkins?” Ruby laughed, laughed a laugh that he found appealing and said, “No silly, that's the king of be-bop blues, Big Joe Turner. Want to hear more stuff?” And that was that. Names like Skip James, Howlin’ Wolf, Robert Johnson, Son House, Muddy Waters and Little Walter started to fill his musical universe.
What got him really going though were the women singers, Sippie Wallace, mad Bessie Smith, a whole bunch of other barrelhouse blues-singers named Smith, Memphis Minnie and the one that really, really got to him, “Big Mama” Thornton. The latter belting out a bluesy rendition of Hound Dog that made Elvis' seem kind of punk, and best of all Piece Of My Heart.
Then one night Ruby took him to club over in Monterrey, the Blue Note, a club for young blues talent, mainly, that was a stepping-stone to getting work at the Monterrey Pop Festival each year. There he heard, heard if you can believe this, some freckled, red-headed whiskey-drinking off the hip girl, yah just a wisp of a girl, from Podunk, Texas, or maybe Oklahoma who was singing Big Mama’s Piece of My Heart. And then Ball and Chain, Little School Girl, and Little Red Rooster. Hell, she had the joint jumping until the early hours for just as long as guys kept putting drinks in front of her. What a night, what a blues singer.
Just now though Ruby Red Lips came over to him, kind of perky and kind of with that look in her that he was getting to catch on to when a girl was interested in him and said, “Hey, Janis, that singer from the Blue Note, is going to be at Monterrey Pops next month with a band to back her up, want to go? And, do you want to go to the Blue Note with me tonight?” After answering, yes, yes, to both those questions the Prince of Love (and not some dinky Lvov either) figured he could go back to old life Olde Saco by late August and still be okay but he had better grab Ruby now while he could.
***40th Anniversary Of The Death Of The Doors' Jim Morrsion- AND AGAIN-WE WANT THE WORLD, AND WE WANT IT NOW! - The Music Of Jim Morrison And The Doors-An Encore Review
From American Left History
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
*AND AGAIN-WE WANT THE WORLD, AND WE WANT IT NOW! - The Music Of Jim Morrison And The Doors
CD Review
Waiting For The Sun, Jim Morrison and the Doors, Rhino, 2007
Since my youth I have had an ear for American (and other roots music), whether I was conscious of that fact or not. The origin of that interest first centered on the blues, then early rock and roll and later, with the folk revival of the early 1960’s, folk music. I have often wondered about the source of this interest. I am, and have always been a city boy, and an Eastern city boy at that. Nevertheless, over time I have come to appreciate many more forms of roots music than in my youth. The subject of the following review is an example.
The Doors are roots music? Yes, in the sense that one of the branches of rock and roll derives from early rhythm and blues and in the special case of Jim Morrison, leader of the Doors, the attempt to musically explore the shamanic elements in the Western American Native American culture. Some of that influence is apparent here.
More than one rock critic has argued that at their best the Doors were the best rock and roll band ever created. Those critics will get no argument here. What a reviewer with that opinion has to do is determine whether any particular CD captures the Doors at their best. This reviewer advises that if you want to buy only one Doors CD that would be The Best of the Doors. If you want to trace their evolution other CD’s, like this “Waiting For The Sun” album do an adequate job. Stick outs here include: the anti-war classic "The Unknown Soldier," “Love Street,” and "Spanish Caravan".
A note on Jim Morrison as an icon of the 1960s. He was part of the trinity – Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix who lived fast and died young. The slogan- Drugs, sex, and rock and roll. And we liked that idea. Then. Their deaths were part of the price we felt we had to pay if we were going to be free. And creative. Even the most political, including this writer, among us felt those cultural winds and counted those who espoused this vision as part of the chosen. Those who believed that we could have a far-reaching positive cultural change without a political change proved to be wrong long ago. But, these were still our people.
MARK THIS WELL. Whatever excesses were committed by the generation of ’68, and there were many, were mainly made out of ignorance and foolishness. Our opponents at the time, exemplified by one Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal, spent every day of their lives as a matter of conscious, deliberate policy raining hell down on the peoples of the world, minorities in this country, and anyone else who got in their way. 40 years of ‘cultural wars’ by his protégés in revenge is a heavy price to pay for our youthful errors. Enough.
The Unknown Soldier Lyrics
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier, uh hu-uh
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Comp'nee,
Halt!
Pree-sent arms!
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over,
The war is over.
It's all over, war is over.
It's all over, baby!
All over, baby!
All, all over, yeah!
Aah, hah-hah.
All over, all over, babe!
Oh! Oh yeah!
All over, all over!
Ye-e-e-ah…
From American Left History
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
*AND AGAIN-WE WANT THE WORLD, AND WE WANT IT NOW! - The Music Of Jim Morrison And The Doors
CD Review
Waiting For The Sun, Jim Morrison and the Doors, Rhino, 2007
Since my youth I have had an ear for American (and other roots music), whether I was conscious of that fact or not. The origin of that interest first centered on the blues, then early rock and roll and later, with the folk revival of the early 1960’s, folk music. I have often wondered about the source of this interest. I am, and have always been a city boy, and an Eastern city boy at that. Nevertheless, over time I have come to appreciate many more forms of roots music than in my youth. The subject of the following review is an example.
The Doors are roots music? Yes, in the sense that one of the branches of rock and roll derives from early rhythm and blues and in the special case of Jim Morrison, leader of the Doors, the attempt to musically explore the shamanic elements in the Western American Native American culture. Some of that influence is apparent here.
More than one rock critic has argued that at their best the Doors were the best rock and roll band ever created. Those critics will get no argument here. What a reviewer with that opinion has to do is determine whether any particular CD captures the Doors at their best. This reviewer advises that if you want to buy only one Doors CD that would be The Best of the Doors. If you want to trace their evolution other CD’s, like this “Waiting For The Sun” album do an adequate job. Stick outs here include: the anti-war classic "The Unknown Soldier," “Love Street,” and "Spanish Caravan".
A note on Jim Morrison as an icon of the 1960s. He was part of the trinity – Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix who lived fast and died young. The slogan- Drugs, sex, and rock and roll. And we liked that idea. Then. Their deaths were part of the price we felt we had to pay if we were going to be free. And creative. Even the most political, including this writer, among us felt those cultural winds and counted those who espoused this vision as part of the chosen. Those who believed that we could have a far-reaching positive cultural change without a political change proved to be wrong long ago. But, these were still our people.
MARK THIS WELL. Whatever excesses were committed by the generation of ’68, and there were many, were mainly made out of ignorance and foolishness. Our opponents at the time, exemplified by one Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal, spent every day of their lives as a matter of conscious, deliberate policy raining hell down on the peoples of the world, minorities in this country, and anyone else who got in their way. 40 years of ‘cultural wars’ by his protégés in revenge is a heavy price to pay for our youthful errors. Enough.
The Unknown Soldier Lyrics
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier, uh hu-uh
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Comp'nee,
Halt!
Pree-sent arms!
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over,
The war is over.
It's all over, war is over.
It's all over, baby!
All over, baby!
All, all over, yeah!
Aah, hah-hah.
All over, all over, babe!
Oh! Oh yeah!
All over, all over!
Ye-e-e-ah…
***40th Anniversary Of The Death Of The Doors' Jim Morrsion- AND AGAIN-WE WANT THE WORLD, AND WE WANT IT NOW! - The Music Of Jim Morrison And The Doors-An Encore Review
From American Left History
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
*AND AGAIN-WE WANT THE WORLD, AND WE WANT IT NOW! - The Music Of Jim Morrison And The Doors
CD Review
Waiting For The Sun, Jim Morrison and the Doors, Rhino, 2007
Since my youth I have had an ear for American (and other roots music), whether I was conscious of that fact or not. The origin of that interest first centered on the blues, then early rock and roll and later, with the folk revival of the early 1960’s, folk music. I have often wondered about the source of this interest. I am, and have always been a city boy, and an Eastern city boy at that. Nevertheless, over time I have come to appreciate many more forms of roots music than in my youth. The subject of the following review is an example.
The Doors are roots music? Yes, in the sense that one of the branches of rock and roll derives from early rhythm and blues and in the special case of Jim Morrison, leader of the Doors, the attempt to musically explore the shamanic elements in the Western American Native American culture. Some of that influence is apparent here.
More than one rock critic has argued that at their best the Doors were the best rock and roll band ever created. Those critics will get no argument here. What a reviewer with that opinion has to do is determine whether any particular CD captures the Doors at their best. This reviewer advises that if you want to buy only one Doors CD that would be The Best of the Doors. If you want to trace their evolution other CD’s, like this “Waiting For The Sun” album do an adequate job. Stick outs here include: the anti-war classic "The Unknown Soldier," “Love Street,” and "Spanish Caravan".
A note on Jim Morrison as an icon of the 1960s. He was part of the trinity – Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix who lived fast and died young. The slogan- Drugs, sex, and rock and roll. And we liked that idea. Then. Their deaths were part of the price we felt we had to pay if we were going to be free. And creative. Even the most political, including this writer, among us felt those cultural winds and counted those who espoused this vision as part of the chosen. Those who believed that we could have a far-reaching positive cultural change without a political change proved to be wrong long ago. But, these were still our people.
MARK THIS WELL. Whatever excesses were committed by the generation of ’68, and there were many, were mainly made out of ignorance and foolishness. Our opponents at the time, exemplified by one Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal, spent every day of their lives as a matter of conscious, deliberate policy raining hell down on the peoples of the world, minorities in this country, and anyone else who got in their way. 40 years of ‘cultural wars’ by his protégés in revenge is a heavy price to pay for our youthful errors. Enough.
The Unknown Soldier Lyrics
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier, uh hu-uh
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Comp'nee,
Halt!
Pree-sent arms!
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over,
The war is over.
It's all over, war is over.
It's all over, baby!
All over, baby!
All, all over, yeah!
Aah, hah-hah.
All over, all over, babe!
Oh! Oh yeah!
All over, all over!
Ye-e-e-ah…
From American Left History
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
*AND AGAIN-WE WANT THE WORLD, AND WE WANT IT NOW! - The Music Of Jim Morrison And The Doors
CD Review
Waiting For The Sun, Jim Morrison and the Doors, Rhino, 2007
Since my youth I have had an ear for American (and other roots music), whether I was conscious of that fact or not. The origin of that interest first centered on the blues, then early rock and roll and later, with the folk revival of the early 1960’s, folk music. I have often wondered about the source of this interest. I am, and have always been a city boy, and an Eastern city boy at that. Nevertheless, over time I have come to appreciate many more forms of roots music than in my youth. The subject of the following review is an example.
The Doors are roots music? Yes, in the sense that one of the branches of rock and roll derives from early rhythm and blues and in the special case of Jim Morrison, leader of the Doors, the attempt to musically explore the shamanic elements in the Western American Native American culture. Some of that influence is apparent here.
More than one rock critic has argued that at their best the Doors were the best rock and roll band ever created. Those critics will get no argument here. What a reviewer with that opinion has to do is determine whether any particular CD captures the Doors at their best. This reviewer advises that if you want to buy only one Doors CD that would be The Best of the Doors. If you want to trace their evolution other CD’s, like this “Waiting For The Sun” album do an adequate job. Stick outs here include: the anti-war classic "The Unknown Soldier," “Love Street,” and "Spanish Caravan".
A note on Jim Morrison as an icon of the 1960s. He was part of the trinity – Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix who lived fast and died young. The slogan- Drugs, sex, and rock and roll. And we liked that idea. Then. Their deaths were part of the price we felt we had to pay if we were going to be free. And creative. Even the most political, including this writer, among us felt those cultural winds and counted those who espoused this vision as part of the chosen. Those who believed that we could have a far-reaching positive cultural change without a political change proved to be wrong long ago. But, these were still our people.
MARK THIS WELL. Whatever excesses were committed by the generation of ’68, and there were many, were mainly made out of ignorance and foolishness. Our opponents at the time, exemplified by one Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal, spent every day of their lives as a matter of conscious, deliberate policy raining hell down on the peoples of the world, minorities in this country, and anyone else who got in their way. 40 years of ‘cultural wars’ by his protégés in revenge is a heavy price to pay for our youthful errors. Enough.
The Unknown Soldier Lyrics
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier, uh hu-uh
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Comp'nee,
Halt!
Pree-sent arms!
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over,
The war is over.
It's all over, war is over.
It's all over, baby!
All over, baby!
All, all over, yeah!
Aah, hah-hah.
All over, all over, babe!
Oh! Oh yeah!
All over, all over!
Ye-e-e-ah…
***On The 40th Anniversary Of The Death Of The Doors' Jim Morrsion- Greil Marcus' New Book -"The Doors: A Lifetime of Listening to Five Mean Years"-An Encore Review
Click on the headline to link to an On Point (NPR) broadcast of Greil Marcus discussing ...The Doors: A Lifetime of Listening to Five Mean Years.
********
From American Left History
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
*AND AGAIN-WE WANT THE WORLD, AND WE WANT IT NOW! - The Music Of Jim Morrison And The Doors
CD Review
Waiting For The Sun, Jim Morrison and the Doors, Rhino, 2007
Since my youth I have had an ear for American (and other roots music), whether I was conscious of that fact or not. The origin of that interest first centered on the blues, then early rock and roll and later, with the folk revival of the early 1960’s, folk music. I have often wondered about the source of this interest. I am, and have always been a city boy, and an Eastern city boy at that. Nevertheless, over time I have come to appreciate many more forms of roots music than in my youth. The subject of the following review is an example.
The Doors are roots music? Yes, in the sense that one of the branches of rock and roll derives from early rhythm and blues and in the special case of Jim Morrison, leader of the Doors, the attempt to musically explore the shamanic elements in the Western American Native American culture. Some of that influence is apparent here.
More than one rock critic has argued that at their best the Doors were the best rock and roll band ever created. Those critics will get no argument here. What a reviewer with that opinion has to do is determine whether any particular CD captures the Doors at their best. This reviewer advises that if you want to buy only one Doors CD that would be The Best of the Doors. If you want to trace their evolution other CD’s, like this “Waiting For The Sun” album do an adequate job. Stick outs here include: the anti-war classic "The Unknown Soldier," “Love Street,” and "Spanish Caravan".
A note on Jim Morrison as an icon of the 1960s. He was part of the trinity – Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix who lived fast and died young. The slogan- Drugs, sex, and rock and roll. And we liked that idea. Then. Their deaths were part of the price we felt we had to pay if we were going to be free. And creative. Even the most political, including this writer, among us felt those cultural winds and counted those who espoused this vision as part of the chosen. Those who believed that we could have a far-reaching positive cultural change without a political change proved to be wrong long ago. But, these were still our people.
MARK THIS WELL. Whatever excesses were committed by the generation of ’68, and there were many, were mainly made out of ignorance and foolishness. Our opponents at the time, exemplified by one Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal, spent every day of their lives as a matter of conscious, deliberate policy raining hell down on the peoples of the world, minorities in this country, and anyone else who got in their way. 40 years of ‘cultural wars’ by his protégés in revenge is a heavy price to pay for our youthful errors. Enough.
The Unknown Soldier Lyrics
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Unborn living, living dead
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier
It's all over
For the unknown soldier, uh hu-uh
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Hut!
Hut!
Hut ho hee up!
Comp'nee,
Halt!
Pree-sent arms!
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder
The unknown soldier
Breakfast where the news is read
Television children fed
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over,
The war is over.
It's all over, war is over.
It's all over, baby!
All over, baby!
All, all over, yeah!
Aah, hah-hah.
All over, all over, babe!
Oh! Oh yeah!
All over, all over!
Ye-e-e-ah…
*Nick And Nora To The Rescue- Dashiell Hammet's "The Thin Man"
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Dashiell Hammett's classic detective novel, The Thin Man.
Book Review
The Thin Man, Dashiell Hammett, Alfred A. Knopf, new York, 1934
Dashiell Hammett, along with Raymond Chandler, reinvented the detective genre in the 1930's and 1940's. They moved the genre away from the amateurish and simple parlor detectives that had previously dominated the genre to hard-boiled action characters who knew what was what and didn't mind taking a beating to get the bad guys. And along the way they produced some very memorable literary characters as well. Nick Charles (and wife Nora), Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe are well known exemplars of the action detective. Hammett, on the way to creating these literary works of art did journeyman's work at the detective genre in various pulp detective magazines. Moreover, in the beginning he hid his detectives behind the anonymous, although not faceless or without personality, average detectives of a national detective agency, the Continental Op series(shades of his own past). One of those efforts is an early almost totally unrelated version of The Thin Man that those who have read the later version (or know Nick, Nora and Asta only from the film series) would not recognize.
Dashiell Hammett is perhaps better known for creating the classic modern proto-typical detective, one Sam Spade the detective-hero (or anti-hero, if you prefer) of the literary (and film) noir The Maltese Falcon. With The Thin Man he took a different tack in providing a model detective- the urbane Nick Charles, his side-kick society wife, Nora, and their ever present faithful dog companion, Asta. The story line here centers on a missing eccentric inventor/businessman who it is suspected has been a victim of foul play. Enter Nick, Nora and Asta at the request of his wondering society family (wondering, that is, about the fate of the dough necessary to keep them in their luxuries) and after a series of misadventures and false leads Nick grabs the villain. That is what old Nick has in common with the illustrious Mr. Spade-the dogged (not pun, intended) and tenacious search for the truth and the killer, come what may. If you like your detectives with a light touch this is for you. If you like your detective novels to be minor works of literary art this is also for you. Hammett (along with the above-mentioned Raymond Chandler) practically reinvented the previously rather shabby art of the early detective story into literature. Kudos.
Note: It is not altogether clear to me what Hammett’s political sympathies (or rather more to the point, organization connections) were in the period of his great detection-writing period, the early 1930s, although one can speculate they were at least progressive. I should note for those who are only familiar with the detective novels and crime short stories that Hammett was a make-no-bones-about-it supporter of the American Communist Party during the hard, don’t trust your neighbor, see reds under every bed, your mommie is a commie turn her in, prison house, American night of the red scare, Cold War, post World War II period (and earlier as well, during the Popular Front all the way with FDR (Franklin Delano Roosevelt), Joe Stalin, our father can do no wrong, Moscow Trials liquidate the Old Bolsheviks, the makers of the revolution, time but this post-war period is what concerns me here).
This was period when anything to the left of Herbert Hoover, including probably red tablecloths on restaurant tables, was suspect. This is also the period of the unlamented Joe McCarthy, the equally unlamented Richard Nixon, the deep, fatal, anti-communist purges in the labor unions from which we still suffer today (and anti-red purges in many other political and cultural institutions as well), and of the time of “the naming of names.” The high watermark time of the “fink” and of the “blacklist.” I have vilified, rightly so, no, righteously so, the likes of movie director Elia Kazan (Viva Zapata, On The Waterfront) for their “stool pigeon” scab actions before the "committees".
Kazan was, unfortunately, not alone in that dark, witch-hunt, keep your eyes down, keep walking straight ahead with blinkers on, and tell them what they want to know although they already know it, night. I have also heaped tons of well-deserved praise on the heroic Rosenbergs, Julius and Ethel, for holding their ground under intense pressure and under penalty of paying the ultimate price, their lives, for their steadfastness. For defending the Soviet Union, not in our Trotskyist way, but in their own honorable way, and didn’t complain about it when they were called on it, unjustly, by the American imperial state.
Dashiell Hammett was called, tooth brush in hand, before the “red scare” committees and just said no. Hats off. Now there is no need to get mushy about it, and one should not forget that in the end Hammett’s Stalinist politics (and vilification of leftist political opponents like our Trotskyist forbears) made us not less political opponents, but isn’t there something in old Hammett’s actions, that sense of “tilting to the windmills,” that leads right back to Sam Spade (and Nick and Nora in an oblique, half-funny way). Yes, I thought you would think so.
Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Dashiell Hammett's classic detective novel, The Thin Man.
Book Review
The Thin Man, Dashiell Hammett, Alfred A. Knopf, new York, 1934
Dashiell Hammett, along with Raymond Chandler, reinvented the detective genre in the 1930's and 1940's. They moved the genre away from the amateurish and simple parlor detectives that had previously dominated the genre to hard-boiled action characters who knew what was what and didn't mind taking a beating to get the bad guys. And along the way they produced some very memorable literary characters as well. Nick Charles (and wife Nora), Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe are well known exemplars of the action detective. Hammett, on the way to creating these literary works of art did journeyman's work at the detective genre in various pulp detective magazines. Moreover, in the beginning he hid his detectives behind the anonymous, although not faceless or without personality, average detectives of a national detective agency, the Continental Op series(shades of his own past). One of those efforts is an early almost totally unrelated version of The Thin Man that those who have read the later version (or know Nick, Nora and Asta only from the film series) would not recognize.
Dashiell Hammett is perhaps better known for creating the classic modern proto-typical detective, one Sam Spade the detective-hero (or anti-hero, if you prefer) of the literary (and film) noir The Maltese Falcon. With The Thin Man he took a different tack in providing a model detective- the urbane Nick Charles, his side-kick society wife, Nora, and their ever present faithful dog companion, Asta. The story line here centers on a missing eccentric inventor/businessman who it is suspected has been a victim of foul play. Enter Nick, Nora and Asta at the request of his wondering society family (wondering, that is, about the fate of the dough necessary to keep them in their luxuries) and after a series of misadventures and false leads Nick grabs the villain. That is what old Nick has in common with the illustrious Mr. Spade-the dogged (not pun, intended) and tenacious search for the truth and the killer, come what may. If you like your detectives with a light touch this is for you. If you like your detective novels to be minor works of literary art this is also for you. Hammett (along with the above-mentioned Raymond Chandler) practically reinvented the previously rather shabby art of the early detective story into literature. Kudos.
Note: It is not altogether clear to me what Hammett’s political sympathies (or rather more to the point, organization connections) were in the period of his great detection-writing period, the early 1930s, although one can speculate they were at least progressive. I should note for those who are only familiar with the detective novels and crime short stories that Hammett was a make-no-bones-about-it supporter of the American Communist Party during the hard, don’t trust your neighbor, see reds under every bed, your mommie is a commie turn her in, prison house, American night of the red scare, Cold War, post World War II period (and earlier as well, during the Popular Front all the way with FDR (Franklin Delano Roosevelt), Joe Stalin, our father can do no wrong, Moscow Trials liquidate the Old Bolsheviks, the makers of the revolution, time but this post-war period is what concerns me here).
This was period when anything to the left of Herbert Hoover, including probably red tablecloths on restaurant tables, was suspect. This is also the period of the unlamented Joe McCarthy, the equally unlamented Richard Nixon, the deep, fatal, anti-communist purges in the labor unions from which we still suffer today (and anti-red purges in many other political and cultural institutions as well), and of the time of “the naming of names.” The high watermark time of the “fink” and of the “blacklist.” I have vilified, rightly so, no, righteously so, the likes of movie director Elia Kazan (Viva Zapata, On The Waterfront) for their “stool pigeon” scab actions before the "committees".
Kazan was, unfortunately, not alone in that dark, witch-hunt, keep your eyes down, keep walking straight ahead with blinkers on, and tell them what they want to know although they already know it, night. I have also heaped tons of well-deserved praise on the heroic Rosenbergs, Julius and Ethel, for holding their ground under intense pressure and under penalty of paying the ultimate price, their lives, for their steadfastness. For defending the Soviet Union, not in our Trotskyist way, but in their own honorable way, and didn’t complain about it when they were called on it, unjustly, by the American imperial state.
Dashiell Hammett was called, tooth brush in hand, before the “red scare” committees and just said no. Hats off. Now there is no need to get mushy about it, and one should not forget that in the end Hammett’s Stalinist politics (and vilification of leftist political opponents like our Trotskyist forbears) made us not less political opponents, but isn’t there something in old Hammett’s actions, that sense of “tilting to the windmills,” that leads right back to Sam Spade (and Nick and Nora in an oblique, half-funny way). Yes, I thought you would think so.
***Out In The 1950s Crime Noir Night, Kind Of- Beauty Is Only Skin Deep, Right, “Stolen Face” –A Film Review
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
DVD Review
Stolen Face, starring Paul Henreid, Lizabeth Scott, Hammer Film Productions, 1952
Love, as almost everybody knows from personal experience, will make you do crazy thing sometimes. It will drive a seemingly rational calm and thoughtful man or woman over the edge every once in while. Make “evil” in the world without missing a beat. That, my friends, is the premise behind the film under review, Stolen Face, one of a long line of films that portray the bad results of fooling around with Mother Nature too much, and with getting fogged up in that love embrace.
A British doctor, a plastic surgeon, (played Paul Henreid last seen leading the anti-fascist resistance as Victor Lazlo in early World War II in the film Casablanca) in post-World War II London working apparently for the National Health Service, and working very hard and diligently, thank you, takes a little vacation to the wilds of coastal England. He winds up in an inn along the way, an inn which also is hosting a beautiful American pianist ready to go on a European tour (played by smoky-voiced Lizabeth Scott) with a cold. Well, naturally, Doc comes to the rescue, and as part of the "cure" they fall head over heels in love. However, Lizabeth is already “spoken for,” leaving Doc very unhappy. So back to work he goes with a vengeance.
And that vengeance, as previously, entailed working on the faces of criminal types to give them a chance to change their ways (okay, Doc, if you say so). As part of that work he runs up against a disfigured dregs of the working-class young woman (okay, lumpen-proletarian), Lily, whom he thinks that he can help by use of the surgeon’s scalpel. After much ado he gives her a new beautiful face, a face that is strangely very, very, very similar to his lost love’s. On top of that he goes off and marries her. But here is where things get dicey and the scriptwriter proves to be no Marxist or other believer in the ever upward rise of human progress. Lily, skin beautiful or not, goes back to her old ways “proving” that you cannot teach an old dog new tricks. Worst Lizabeth comes back; ready to get back into Doc’s arms. Fortunately Lily, drunk as a skunk riding on the train with hubby Doc, falls out of the train door (or was she pushed) just as Lizabeth shows up. Very convenient, very convenient indeed although no one is looking to make a court case out of it. Yes I guess beauty is really only skin deep, but no question love can drive you screwy. No question.
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
DVD Review
Stolen Face, starring Paul Henreid, Lizabeth Scott, Hammer Film Productions, 1952
Love, as almost everybody knows from personal experience, will make you do crazy thing sometimes. It will drive a seemingly rational calm and thoughtful man or woman over the edge every once in while. Make “evil” in the world without missing a beat. That, my friends, is the premise behind the film under review, Stolen Face, one of a long line of films that portray the bad results of fooling around with Mother Nature too much, and with getting fogged up in that love embrace.
A British doctor, a plastic surgeon, (played Paul Henreid last seen leading the anti-fascist resistance as Victor Lazlo in early World War II in the film Casablanca) in post-World War II London working apparently for the National Health Service, and working very hard and diligently, thank you, takes a little vacation to the wilds of coastal England. He winds up in an inn along the way, an inn which also is hosting a beautiful American pianist ready to go on a European tour (played by smoky-voiced Lizabeth Scott) with a cold. Well, naturally, Doc comes to the rescue, and as part of the "cure" they fall head over heels in love. However, Lizabeth is already “spoken for,” leaving Doc very unhappy. So back to work he goes with a vengeance.
And that vengeance, as previously, entailed working on the faces of criminal types to give them a chance to change their ways (okay, Doc, if you say so). As part of that work he runs up against a disfigured dregs of the working-class young woman (okay, lumpen-proletarian), Lily, whom he thinks that he can help by use of the surgeon’s scalpel. After much ado he gives her a new beautiful face, a face that is strangely very, very, very similar to his lost love’s. On top of that he goes off and marries her. But here is where things get dicey and the scriptwriter proves to be no Marxist or other believer in the ever upward rise of human progress. Lily, skin beautiful or not, goes back to her old ways “proving” that you cannot teach an old dog new tricks. Worst Lizabeth comes back; ready to get back into Doc’s arms. Fortunately Lily, drunk as a skunk riding on the train with hubby Doc, falls out of the train door (or was she pushed) just as Lizabeth shows up. Very convenient, very convenient indeed although no one is looking to make a court case out of it. Yes I guess beauty is really only skin deep, but no question love can drive you screwy. No question.
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