Friday, July 24, 2015
In Honor Of Newport 1965-Bob Dylan- Unplugged, Again
Click on the headljne to link to a "YouTube" film clip of ob Dylan performing "John Brown".
DVD REVIEW
Bob Dylan: Unplugged, Bob Dylan in a 1995 MTV Concert, Sony Records, 2004
Not intentionally, a least I do not think that is the case, I watched this Bob Dylan MTV Concert from 1995 directly after watching his Bob Dylan: The Other Side of The Mirror: Live at The Newport Folk Festival 1963-1965, Bob Dylan and various other artists, 2007. I have reviewed that documentary separately in this space. However, comments, and of necessity, comparisons between the two are in order here. I will not go on and on about hair styles and clothing as I did in the earlier film, in order to draw contrasts, because except wearing some sunglasses his persona has not changed dramatically from the 1965 Concert where he set himself on his own personal rock and roll (or better, I think) folk rock path.
Obviously, there cannot be a complete comparison between play lists for the two films because in 1965 some of the material covered in the 1995 film had not been created like Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door or things like that. Others are older works, like a well- done "John Brown", which had not been released earlier. Or the 1990’s-created "Dignity". One can, however, compare certain material covered in both films like "The Times They Are A- Changin’" , the classic "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Love Minus Zero, No Limit" (hereafter, No Limits).
Two things are clear by 1995. One is that Dylan, either by design or happenstance, had changed the mood and the manner in which he sang those songs, some for the better, some not. I believe that his newer version of "Like a Rolling Stone" geared to the musical tastes of a new generation works, "No Limits" does somewhat and "Times" not at all. First, I had to get over the sentimentally of knowing how these songs were played in my youth and wanting to cling to that notion, especially on a favored love anthem like "No Limits". Still the changed-up in rhythm only partially works to demonstrate the original pathos of that song.
Second, and this is something I had also observed in a live concert that I attended in the early 1990’s, old Bob had lost his voice and had adjusted some of his material to that new fact. Here comparison with the strong vibrant voice of 1965 is truly amazing. His adjustments worked best on a then new song like "Dignity" that has lyrics like in the old days but reflected his new vocal range. Nice. So is this thing worth seeing and hearing. Sure. But I would get that old "The Other Side of the Mirror" documentary – on purpose- to check out why, for a minute anyhow Dylan was the voice of my generation, the generation of ’68.
DVD REVIEW
Bob Dylan: Unplugged, Bob Dylan in a 1995 MTV Concert, Sony Records, 2004
Not intentionally, a least I do not think that is the case, I watched this Bob Dylan MTV Concert from 1995 directly after watching his Bob Dylan: The Other Side of The Mirror: Live at The Newport Folk Festival 1963-1965, Bob Dylan and various other artists, 2007. I have reviewed that documentary separately in this space. However, comments, and of necessity, comparisons between the two are in order here. I will not go on and on about hair styles and clothing as I did in the earlier film, in order to draw contrasts, because except wearing some sunglasses his persona has not changed dramatically from the 1965 Concert where he set himself on his own personal rock and roll (or better, I think) folk rock path.
Obviously, there cannot be a complete comparison between play lists for the two films because in 1965 some of the material covered in the 1995 film had not been created like Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door or things like that. Others are older works, like a well- done "John Brown", which had not been released earlier. Or the 1990’s-created "Dignity". One can, however, compare certain material covered in both films like "The Times They Are A- Changin’" , the classic "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Love Minus Zero, No Limit" (hereafter, No Limits).
Two things are clear by 1995. One is that Dylan, either by design or happenstance, had changed the mood and the manner in which he sang those songs, some for the better, some not. I believe that his newer version of "Like a Rolling Stone" geared to the musical tastes of a new generation works, "No Limits" does somewhat and "Times" not at all. First, I had to get over the sentimentally of knowing how these songs were played in my youth and wanting to cling to that notion, especially on a favored love anthem like "No Limits". Still the changed-up in rhythm only partially works to demonstrate the original pathos of that song.
Second, and this is something I had also observed in a live concert that I attended in the early 1990’s, old Bob had lost his voice and had adjusted some of his material to that new fact. Here comparison with the strong vibrant voice of 1965 is truly amazing. His adjustments worked best on a then new song like "Dignity" that has lyrics like in the old days but reflected his new vocal range. Nice. So is this thing worth seeing and hearing. Sure. But I would get that old "The Other Side of the Mirror" documentary – on purpose- to check out why, for a minute anyhow Dylan was the voice of my generation, the generation of ’68.
In Honor Of Newport 1965-Muddy Waters Get Righteous At Newport 1960-Parental Guidance Suggested
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Muddy Waters at the Newport Jazz Festival in 1960. With Jimmy Rushing and Otis Spann, among others. Read some of the comments for more information. A seminal blues moment for the old staid Newport crowd (Remember the practical civil war in the 1950s when Duke Ellington went all out in his return to the limelight there). I heard about the performance on the Boston jazz/blue-oriented radio at the time but I was then too young to go. I wish to high heaven I had been there.Wow!
In Honor Of Newport 1965-The Not Joan Baez Female Folkies- The Music Of Carolyn Hester
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Carolyn Hester Doing " The Praties They Grow".
CD REVIEW
Carolyn Hester At Town Hall 1965, Carolyn Hester, Bear Family Records, 1990
Earlier this year I posed a question concerning the fates of a group of talented male folk singers like Tom Rush, Tom Paxton and Jesse Colin Young, who, although some of them are still performing or otherwise still on the musical scene have generally fallen off the radar in today’s mainstream musical consciousness, except, of course, the acknowledged “king of the hill”, Bob Dylan. I want to pose that same question in this entry concerning the talented female folk performers of the 1960’s, except, of course, the "queen of the hill” Joan Baez. I will start out by merely rephrasing the first paragraph from the reviews of those male performers.
“If I were to ask someone, in the year 2008, to name a female folk singer from the 1960’s I would assume that if I were to get an answer to that question that the name would be Joan Baez (or, maybe, Judy Collins but you get my point). And that would be a good and appropriate choice. One can endlessly dispute whether or not Baez was (or wanted to be) the female voice of the Generation of ’68 but in terms of longevity and productivity she fits the bill as a known quality. However, there were a slew of other female folk singers who tried to find their niche in the folk milieu and who, like Baez, may today still quietly continue to produce work and to perform. The artist under review, Carolyn Hester, certainly had the talent to challenge Baez to be “queen of the hill.”
Carolyn Hester wrote a number of good songs (“Three Young Men” here, among others), sang like a nightingale, filled Town Hall in New York City on several occasions, was political and had long, straight hair(presumably ironed as was the fashion started by Ms. Baez then) hair. Oh, yes, and was beautiful and wistful. That sounds like the formula for success in the 1960’s folk scene, right? But, and I pose this as a query as much as a statement, where is she now? Certainly off this CD (produced in 1990 from the 1965 Town Hall performances) she had a voice to die for. Listen to her on Tom Paxton’s “Outward Bound” or the classic “Summertime” or the nice musical rendition of Walt Whitman’s Lincoln tribute poem, “Captain, My Captain” or “Jute Mill Song” and several others here. Then you will be asking the same damn question that I have posed above.
O Captain! My Captain!
Walt Whitman
1
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
CD REVIEW
Carolyn Hester At Town Hall 1965, Carolyn Hester, Bear Family Records, 1990
Earlier this year I posed a question concerning the fates of a group of talented male folk singers like Tom Rush, Tom Paxton and Jesse Colin Young, who, although some of them are still performing or otherwise still on the musical scene have generally fallen off the radar in today’s mainstream musical consciousness, except, of course, the acknowledged “king of the hill”, Bob Dylan. I want to pose that same question in this entry concerning the talented female folk performers of the 1960’s, except, of course, the "queen of the hill” Joan Baez. I will start out by merely rephrasing the first paragraph from the reviews of those male performers.
“If I were to ask someone, in the year 2008, to name a female folk singer from the 1960’s I would assume that if I were to get an answer to that question that the name would be Joan Baez (or, maybe, Judy Collins but you get my point). And that would be a good and appropriate choice. One can endlessly dispute whether or not Baez was (or wanted to be) the female voice of the Generation of ’68 but in terms of longevity and productivity she fits the bill as a known quality. However, there were a slew of other female folk singers who tried to find their niche in the folk milieu and who, like Baez, may today still quietly continue to produce work and to perform. The artist under review, Carolyn Hester, certainly had the talent to challenge Baez to be “queen of the hill.”
Carolyn Hester wrote a number of good songs (“Three Young Men” here, among others), sang like a nightingale, filled Town Hall in New York City on several occasions, was political and had long, straight hair(presumably ironed as was the fashion started by Ms. Baez then) hair. Oh, yes, and was beautiful and wistful. That sounds like the formula for success in the 1960’s folk scene, right? But, and I pose this as a query as much as a statement, where is she now? Certainly off this CD (produced in 1990 from the 1965 Town Hall performances) she had a voice to die for. Listen to her on Tom Paxton’s “Outward Bound” or the classic “Summertime” or the nice musical rendition of Walt Whitman’s Lincoln tribute poem, “Captain, My Captain” or “Jute Mill Song” and several others here. Then you will be asking the same damn question that I have posed above.
O Captain! My Captain!
Walt Whitman
1
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
In Honor Of Newport 1965- Bob Dylan- Unplugged and Plugged at Newport 1963-65
Bob Dylan- Unplugged and Plugged at Newport 1963-65
Bob Dylan: The Other Side of The Mirror: Live at The Newport Folk Festival 1963-1965,Bob Dylan and various other artists, 2007
Were we ever really that young? That is the first reaction I had in viewing this film. A young Bob Dylan featured with his lady at the time (I believe, if memory serves) a young Joan Baez. And who, at least for the controversial 1965 concert (where he did that taboo couple of electrified guitar numbers that freaked the old-time folkies out) had a young Markin as part of his audience. I am not altogether sure that in the end Bob Dylan cared one way or the other whether he was the voice of a generation, my generation, the generation of ’68 but in this very well configured musical documentary there is certainly a case to be made for that proposition. This is the high tide of Dylan’s career as an acoustic folk performer making the transition to, for lack of a better term, folk rock or just flat out rock.
Probably the most important reason to view this documentary, however, is to observe Dylan’s visual, vocal and professional transformation during this short two year period. In 1963 Dylan is dressed in the de rigueur work shirt and denim jeans with an unmade bed of a hairdo. His voice is, to be kind, reedy and scratchy, and his songs sung at that time are things like Blowin’ in the Wind (done here with Baez and others in an incredible finale) and With God on Our Side (with Baez) reflecting the influence of traditional folk themes and of a style derived from his early hero Woody Guthrie. Newport 1964 is a transition. The hair is somewhat styled, the outfit more hippie than traditional folk garb, the voice is stronger reflecting the established fact that he is now ‘king of the hill’ in the folk world. And he sings things like the classic Mr. Tambourine Man that give a hint that he is moving away from the tradition idiom.
Newport 1965 gives us the full blown Dylan that we have come not to know. The one that once we think we have him pegged slips away on us. Here we get no mixing it up with Baez or other folkies but a full-bore rock back up band to play Maggie’s Farm and one of the anthems for my generation, Like A Rolling Stone. Then back to acoustic with It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue and Love Minus Zero, No Limit (which is something of the love anthem for my generation or, at least, one of them). All done in a very strong and confident voice that says here it is, take it or leave it. Wow. You know my answer.
This film, seemingly consciously, shies away from an investigation of any of the controversies of the time concerning the direction of Dylan’s work. Pete Seeger’s only shot on film, as I recall, was to introduce Dylan at the 1964 festival. The most controversial subjects addressed seem to be whether or not it would throw the schedule off to give into the crowd and have Dylan play longer. Or whether it was okay for the jaded youth of the day to have folk singers as idols. Aside from that shortcoming, which in any case can be pursued elsewhere, this film will go a long way to solving any lingering controversy about whether Mr. Dylan belongs in the folk pantheon.
In Honor Of Newport 1965-Odetta- A Powerful Voice Of The Black Liberation Struggle
CD REVIEW
From a review on Amazon.com in 2006
The Essential Odetta. Odetta, Vanguard Records, 1973
I have been listening to and occasionally attending concerts by Odetta for over forty years and she still brings that big strong voice to her work as she did when I first heard her. A big strong strumming guitar adds to the pleasure. She is the consummate female interpreter of the old ballads that denoted the struggle of blacks and other at work and play in slavery times and later in wage slavery times. Religious sentiments about a better life in the hereafter because this life so is hell are also interwoven into some these ballads. It is hard today to get the full impact of that genre but I have noticed that audiences still response to her gentle prodding to sing along. If you have one Odetta album to get this is the one. Some children-oriented ballads, also sing-along-able add to the flavor of this album. Standouts here are "If I Had A Hammer" and "Long Chains On".
December 3, 2008- Honor the memory of a big, big voice in support of the black liberation struggle. Odetta, 1930-2008.
December 7, 2008
When The Blues Is Dues
Lookin For A Home-Thanks To Leadbelly, Odetta, M.C. Records, 2001
I have been listening to and occasionally attending concerts by the recently departed Odetta for over forty years and she, despite her various illnesses in her latter years was still able to bring that big strong voice to her work as she did when I first heard her. A big strong strumming guitar added to the pleasure. And on this album some helpful and thoughtful backup work by her band members. Odetta was the consummate female interpreter of the old ballads that denoted the struggle of blacks and other at work and play in slavery times and later in wage slavery times. Religious sentiments about a better life in the hereafter because this life so is hell are also interwoven into some these ballads. It is hard today to get the full impact of that genre but I always noticed that audiences still responded to her gentle prodding to sing along.
There is an old expression-“What goes around, comes around”. Nothing profound in that but it does point out that Odetta was very aware of her roots, of her debts to earlier black singers and influences and of the need to pay back those debts. The last part of here career included efforts in that direction, a prime example being this cover tribute to the legendary country blues singer and performer Leadbelly. On the face of it the storied 'rough and ready' life of an old time rural country singer caught up in a violent and unforgiving world that included a southern prison and the rather proper upbringing of a modern city-bred and educated woman would not seem a match that makes musical sense. However, go back to the beginning of this paragraph and the part about roots and debts. That, my friends is the link, the eternal binding.
That said, Odetta does not try, like many an urban folkie of the 1960’s and others, to imitate Leadbelly’s style, manner and mistakes but hones her own renditions and gives them her own interpretation. That is the true way to honor one’s forbears. Thus, although not every song here makes you want to throw away your old Leadbelly albums there are many more hits than misses. The hits- a very upbeat, carib-influenced rendition of the Leadbelly theme song, “Goodnight, Irene”; a very political take (highlighting Jim Crow racism) on “Bourgeois Blues” and “Easy Rider” (also known as “C.C. Rider”). The misses- “Midnight Special”; “How Long” and “Rock Island Line”. Overall though, a nice tribune from one legendary singer to another.
From a review on Amazon.com in 2006
The Essential Odetta. Odetta, Vanguard Records, 1973
I have been listening to and occasionally attending concerts by Odetta for over forty years and she still brings that big strong voice to her work as she did when I first heard her. A big strong strumming guitar adds to the pleasure. She is the consummate female interpreter of the old ballads that denoted the struggle of blacks and other at work and play in slavery times and later in wage slavery times. Religious sentiments about a better life in the hereafter because this life so is hell are also interwoven into some these ballads. It is hard today to get the full impact of that genre but I have noticed that audiences still response to her gentle prodding to sing along. If you have one Odetta album to get this is the one. Some children-oriented ballads, also sing-along-able add to the flavor of this album. Standouts here are "If I Had A Hammer" and "Long Chains On".
December 3, 2008- Honor the memory of a big, big voice in support of the black liberation struggle. Odetta, 1930-2008.
December 7, 2008
When The Blues Is Dues
Lookin For A Home-Thanks To Leadbelly, Odetta, M.C. Records, 2001
I have been listening to and occasionally attending concerts by the recently departed Odetta for over forty years and she, despite her various illnesses in her latter years was still able to bring that big strong voice to her work as she did when I first heard her. A big strong strumming guitar added to the pleasure. And on this album some helpful and thoughtful backup work by her band members. Odetta was the consummate female interpreter of the old ballads that denoted the struggle of blacks and other at work and play in slavery times and later in wage slavery times. Religious sentiments about a better life in the hereafter because this life so is hell are also interwoven into some these ballads. It is hard today to get the full impact of that genre but I always noticed that audiences still responded to her gentle prodding to sing along.
There is an old expression-“What goes around, comes around”. Nothing profound in that but it does point out that Odetta was very aware of her roots, of her debts to earlier black singers and influences and of the need to pay back those debts. The last part of here career included efforts in that direction, a prime example being this cover tribute to the legendary country blues singer and performer Leadbelly. On the face of it the storied 'rough and ready' life of an old time rural country singer caught up in a violent and unforgiving world that included a southern prison and the rather proper upbringing of a modern city-bred and educated woman would not seem a match that makes musical sense. However, go back to the beginning of this paragraph and the part about roots and debts. That, my friends is the link, the eternal binding.
That said, Odetta does not try, like many an urban folkie of the 1960’s and others, to imitate Leadbelly’s style, manner and mistakes but hones her own renditions and gives them her own interpretation. That is the true way to honor one’s forbears. Thus, although not every song here makes you want to throw away your old Leadbelly albums there are many more hits than misses. The hits- a very upbeat, carib-influenced rendition of the Leadbelly theme song, “Goodnight, Irene”; a very political take (highlighting Jim Crow racism) on “Bourgeois Blues” and “Easy Rider” (also known as “C.C. Rider”). The misses- “Midnight Special”; “How Long” and “Rock Island Line”. Overall though, a nice tribune from one legendary singer to another.
In Honor Of Newport 1965-The 1960's Cambridge Folk Scene- The Work Of Eric Von Schmidt
CD REVIEWS
Baby, Let Me Lay It On You, Eric Von Schmidt, Gazell Productions, 1995
If I were to ask someone, in the year 2008, to name a male folk singer from the 1960's I would assume that if I were to get an answer to that question that the name would be Bob Dylan. And that would be a good and appropriate choice. One can endlessly dispute whether or not Dylan was (or wanted to be) the voice of the Generation of '68 but in terms of longevity and productivity he fits the bill as a known quality. However, there were a slew of other male folk singers who tried to find their niche in the folk milieu and who, like Dylan, continued to produce work and to perform beyond the 1960's. The artist under review Eric Von Schmidt was one such singer/songwriter.
I have been posing a question, in reviewing the work of a number of male folk singers from the 1960's, about whether their dream was to be 'king of the hill' on the folk scene and it is certainly an appropriate question to ask of Eric as well, although in this case I may know the answer. I do not know if Eric Von Schmidt, like his contemporary Bob Dylan(and early friend in the Cambridge folk scene), started out wanting to be the `king of the hill' among male folk singers but he certainly had some things going for him. A decent acoustic guitar but a very interesting voice to fit the lyrics of the kind of traditional songs of the sea, the Caribbean and the like that he was singing about at the time.
In Eric's case though, I believe, I can partially answer the question for, according to a couple of long time friends that I ran into a few years ago, he just flat-out did not care for success in the folk field. For him it was about fun and carrying traditional music forward, and besides, they argued, he was as interested in becoming a painter as a singer. Fair enough.
As for the songs here, most of which were written by Eric early on, he does a very nice rendition of "Joshua Gone Barbados" a song covered by both Tom Rush and Dave Van Ronk. But here is a surprise the best cover version I have heard was recently on Volume Five of Bob Dylan's "Genuine Basement Tapes" done in an upstate New York studio in 1967 with The Band for kicks. It blew me away. Eric's "Light Rain" and "Rule the Road" also should get a listen.
Roy Cahn and Eric Von Schmidt, Eric Von Schmidt, Roy Cahn, Smithsonian Folkways, 2007
As for the songs here, most of which were covered by Eric early on he does a very nice rendition of "Wasn't That A Mighty Storm" (about the Galveston, Texas flood in the early 20th century) a song covered by both Tom Rush and Dave Van Ronk. "Buddy Bolden's Blues" (used by August Wilson in one f his plays) and "He Was A Friend Of Mine" need a listen. But you are getting this one for the archival value and for "Wasn't That a Mighty Storm"- a rare treat.
Baby, Let Me Lay It On You, Eric Von Schmidt, Gazell Productions, 1995
If I were to ask someone, in the year 2008, to name a male folk singer from the 1960's I would assume that if I were to get an answer to that question that the name would be Bob Dylan. And that would be a good and appropriate choice. One can endlessly dispute whether or not Dylan was (or wanted to be) the voice of the Generation of '68 but in terms of longevity and productivity he fits the bill as a known quality. However, there were a slew of other male folk singers who tried to find their niche in the folk milieu and who, like Dylan, continued to produce work and to perform beyond the 1960's. The artist under review Eric Von Schmidt was one such singer/songwriter.
I have been posing a question, in reviewing the work of a number of male folk singers from the 1960's, about whether their dream was to be 'king of the hill' on the folk scene and it is certainly an appropriate question to ask of Eric as well, although in this case I may know the answer. I do not know if Eric Von Schmidt, like his contemporary Bob Dylan(and early friend in the Cambridge folk scene), started out wanting to be the `king of the hill' among male folk singers but he certainly had some things going for him. A decent acoustic guitar but a very interesting voice to fit the lyrics of the kind of traditional songs of the sea, the Caribbean and the like that he was singing about at the time.
In Eric's case though, I believe, I can partially answer the question for, according to a couple of long time friends that I ran into a few years ago, he just flat-out did not care for success in the folk field. For him it was about fun and carrying traditional music forward, and besides, they argued, he was as interested in becoming a painter as a singer. Fair enough.
As for the songs here, most of which were written by Eric early on, he does a very nice rendition of "Joshua Gone Barbados" a song covered by both Tom Rush and Dave Van Ronk. But here is a surprise the best cover version I have heard was recently on Volume Five of Bob Dylan's "Genuine Basement Tapes" done in an upstate New York studio in 1967 with The Band for kicks. It blew me away. Eric's "Light Rain" and "Rule the Road" also should get a listen.
Roy Cahn and Eric Von Schmidt, Eric Von Schmidt, Roy Cahn, Smithsonian Folkways, 2007
As for the songs here, most of which were covered by Eric early on he does a very nice rendition of "Wasn't That A Mighty Storm" (about the Galveston, Texas flood in the early 20th century) a song covered by both Tom Rush and Dave Van Ronk. "Buddy Bolden's Blues" (used by August Wilson in one f his plays) and "He Was A Friend Of Mine" need a listen. But you are getting this one for the archival value and for "Wasn't That a Mighty Storm"- a rare treat.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Rock ‘Em Daddy, Be My Be-Bop Daddy-The Search For The Great Working-Class Love Song - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind –Take Three
Rock ‘Em Daddy, Be My Be-Bop Daddy-The Search For The Great Working-Class Love
Song - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind –Take
Three
From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin:
Several
years ago, maybe about eight years now that I think about it, I did a series of
sketches on guys, folk-singers, folk-rockers, rock-folkers or whatever you want
to call those who weened us away from the stale pablum rock in the early 1960s (Bobby
Vee, Rydell, Darin, et al, Sandra Dee, Brenda Lee, et al) after the gold rush
dried up in what is now called the classic age of rock and roll in the mid to
late 1950s when Elvis, Jerry Lee, Buddy, Chuck, Bo and their kindred made us
jump. (There were gals too like Wanda Jackson but mainly it was guys in those
days.) I am referring of course to the savior folk minute of the early 1960
when a lot of guys with acoustic guitars, some self-made lyrics, or stuff from
old Harry Smith Anthology times gave us a reprieve. The series titled Not
Bob Dylan centered on why those budding folkies like Tom Rush, Tom Paxton,
Phil Ochs, Jesse Winchester and the man under review Richard Thompson to name a
few did not make the leap to be the “king of folk” that had been ceded by the
media to Bob Dylan and whatever happened to them once the folk minute went
south after the combined assault of the British rock invasion (you know the
Beatles, Stones, Kinks, hell, even Herman’s Hermits got play for a while), and the rise of acid rock put folk in the
shade (you know the Jefferson Airplane, the Dead, The Doors, The Who, hell,
even the aforementioned Beatles and Stones got caught up in the fray although
not to their eternal musical playlist benefit). I also did a series on Not
Joan Baez, the “queen of the folk minute” asking that same question on the
female side but here dealing with one Richard Thompson the male side of the
question is what is of interest.
I did a
couple of sketches on Richard Thompson back then, or rather sketches based on
probably his most famous song, Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
which dove-tailed with some remembrances of my youth and my semi-outlaw front
to the world and the role that motorcycles played in that world. Additionally,
in light of the way that a number of people whom I knew back then, classmates
whom I reconnected on a class reunion website responded when I posed the
question of what they thought was the great working-class love song since North
Adamsville was definitely a working class town driven by that self-same ethos I
wrote some other sketches driving home my selection of Thompson’s song as my
choice.
The latter sketches
are what interest me here. See Thompson at various times packed it in, said he
had no more spirit or some such and gave up the road, the music and the
struggle to made that music, as least professionally. Took time to make a more
religious bent to his life and other such doings. Not unlike a number of other
performers from that period who tired of the road or got discourage with the
small crowds, or lost the folk spirit. Probably as many reasons as individuals
to give them. Then he, they had an epiphany or something, got the juices
flowing again and came back on the road. That fact is to the good for old time folk (and
rock) aficionados like me.
What that
fact of returning to the road by Thompson and a slew of others has meant is
that my friend and I, (okay, okay my sweetie who prefers that I call her my
soulmate but that is just between us so friend) now have many opportunities to
see acts like Thompson’s Trio, his current band configuration, to see if we
think they still “have it” (along with acts of those who never left the road like
Bob Dylan who apparently is on an endless tour whether we want him to do so or
not). That idea got started about a decade ago when we saw another come-back
kid, Geoff Muldaur of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, solo, who had taken something
twenty years off. He had it. So we started looking for whoever was left of the
old folks acts (rock and blues too) to check out that question-unfortunately
the actuarial tables took their toll before we could see some of them at least
one last time like Dave Von Ronk.
That brings
us to Richard Thompson. Recently we got a chance to see him in a cabaret
setting with tables and good views from every position, at least on in the
orchestra section, at the Wilbur Theater in Boston with his trio, a big brush
drummer and an all-around side guitar player (and other instruments like the
mando). Thompson broke the performance up into two parts, a solo set of six or
seven numbers high-lighted by Vincent Black Lightning, and Dimming Of
The Day which was fine. The second part based on a new album and a bunch of
his well-known rock standards left us shaking our heads. Maybe the room could
not handle that much sound, although David Bromberg’s five piece band handled
it well a couple of weeks before, or maybe it was the melodically sameness of
the songs and the same delivery voice and style but we were frankly
disappointed and not disappointed to leave at the encore. Most tunes didn’t resonant although a few in
all honesty did we walked out of the theater with our hands in our pockets. No
thumbs up or down flat based on that first old time set otherwise down.
However, damn it, Bob Dylan does not have to move over, now. Our only consolation that great working-class
love song, Vincent Black Lightning, still intact.
Which brings
us to one of those sketches I did based on Brother Thompson’s glorious Vincent
Black Lightning. When I got home I began to revise that piece which I have included
below. Now on to the next act in the great quest- a reunion of the three
remaining active members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, Jim Maria Muldaur, and of
course Geoff at the Club Passim (which traces its genesis back to the folk
minute’s iconic Club 47 over on Mount Auburn Street in Harvard Square. We’ll
see if that gets the thumbs up.
Out In The Corner Boy
Night- Rock “Em Daddy, Be My Be-Bop Daddy
This is the way Betsy McGee, an old
time, a very old time Clintondale Elementary School flame (locally known as the
Acre school, as in Hell’s Little Acre and everybody knew where you were talking about, talking about the
lower depth of society who were forced, or wanted to live in the projects, the
dead-ass, dead-end all ye who enter here give up hope projects, everybody
around Clintondale anyway) wanted the story told. That old flame thing was a
crushing blow, maybe around the edges a still lingering pain since I had been
invited to her eleventh birthday party under the assumption that I was her
“date” since I had worked my tail off trying to pursue her, her my first
“crush,” and she threw me over for Timmy Flanagan because he had money to take
her to the Saturday afternoon double-bill black and white movies sitting in the
balcony heaven and I didn’t. See Timmy lived not in the projects but in the new
ranch style house going up about half a mile up the only street to get out of
the projects. Me, I didn’t even have money to go to the movies myself and had
to do the dipsy-doodle to sneak in the side entrance. But enough of old flames,
enough of me as me and more of me as a press agent. Now (1961 now, in case
anybody reads this later) Betsy, a fellow sophomore classmate at North
Clintondale High, wanted the story told, the story of her ill-fated brother,
twenty-two year old John “Black Jack” McGee so this is the way it will be told.
Why she wanted me to tell the story is beyond me if she remembered the sneers I
used to throw her way after she threw me over for Timmy, except that she knows,
knows even in her sorrows over her brother that I hang around with corner boys,
Harry’s Variety Store corner boys over on Young Street by the ball field of the
same name, so I might have a sympathetic ear. Although, despite my strong
admiration for corner boys and for the legendary Black Jack McGee I am more
like a “pet,” or a “gofer,” Red Riley’s pet or gofer than a real corner boy.
But that story has already been told, told seven ways to Sunday (or is it six),
so let’s get to Black Jack’s story.
John “Black Jack” McGee like a million
guys who came out of the post-World War II Cold War night and I might as well
add “red scare” night as well since drove a lot of the teen angst and defense
of nihilism of the time what with threats of the Russkies bombing the hell out
of us and us with only some dinky desk to duck our heads under between us and
Armageddon didn’t figure in the world that was a-borning then. And had come
kicking and screaming to be recognized for more than another stiff like his
father (and Betsy’s remember) out of the no prospect projects, in his case the
Clintondale Housing Project (the Acre, the same hellhole I came out of, okay,
and hell’s little acre at that to save a lot of fancy sociological talk stuff),
looking for kicks.
Kicks anyway he could get them to take
the pain away, the pain of edge city living if he anybody was asking, by the
way, politely asking or for your indiscretion you might get your head handed to
you on a platter asking. Needless to say Black Jack was rough stuff, rough
stuff even when he was nothing but another Acre teenage kid, with a chip, no,
about seven chips, on his wide shoulders. Needless to say, as well, there was
nothing that school could teach him and he dropped out the very day that he
turned sixteen. As a sign of respect for what little North Clintondale High had
taught him he threw a rock through the headmaster’s window, John Kerrigan
strictly a nobody except he came from over in the Mount Hope section where what
passed for Mayfair swells lived, and then just stood there arms folded in front
of him, the sun glistening on his whip-saw chain hanging from his right side
belt loop. The headmaster did not made peep one about it (he was probably
hiding under his desk, he is that kind of guy) and Black Jack just walked away
laughing. Yes, Black Jack was rough stuff, rough stuff all the way around. That
story made him a legend all the way down to the Acre school, and so much so
that every boy, every red-blooded boy, in her class made his pitch to get along
with Betsy. (You already know my fate on that score so we can move on.)
The problem with legends though is
unless you keep pace other legends crowd you out, or somebody does some crazy
prank and your legend gets lost in the shuffle. That’s the way the rules are,
make of them what you will. And Black Jack, wide-shouldered, tall, pretty
muscular, long brown hair, and a couple of upper shoulder tattoos with two
different girls’ names on them was very meticulous about his legend. So every
once in a while you would hear a rumor about how Black Jack had “hit” this
liquor store or that mom and pop variety store, small stuff when you think
about it but enough to stir any red-blooded Acre elementary schoolboy’s already
hungry imagination.
And then all of sudden, just after a
nighttime armed Esso gas station robbery that was never solved, Black Jack
stepped up in society, well, corner boy society anyway. This part everyone who
hung around Harry’s Variety knew about, or knew parts of the story. Black Jack
had picked up a bike (motorcycle, for the squares), and not some suburban
special Harley-Davidson chrome glitter thing either but a real bike, an Indian.
The only better bike, the Vincent Black Lightning, nobody had ever seen around,
only in motorcycle magazines. And as a result of having possession of the
“boss” bike (or maybe reflecting who they thought committed that armed robbery)
he was “asked” (if that is the proper word, rather than commissioned, elected,
or ordained) to join the Acre Low-Riders.
And the Acre Low-Riders didn’t care if
you were young or old, innocent or guilty, smart or dumb, or had about a
million other qualities, good or bad, just stay out of their way when they came
busting through town on their way to some hell-raising. The cops, the cops who
loved to tell kids, young kids, to move along when it started to get dark or
got surly when some old lady jaywalked caught the headmaster’s 'no peep' virus when
the Low Riders showed their colors. Even “Red” Riley who was the max daddy king
corner boy at Harry’s Variety made a very big point that his boys, and he
himself, wanted no part of the Low-Riders, good or bad. And Red was a guy who
though nothing, nothing at all, of chain-whipping a guy mercilessly half to
death just because he was from another corner. Yes, Black Jack had certainly
stepped it up.
Here’s where the legend, or believing
in the legend, or better working on the legend full-time part comes in. You can
only notch up so many robberies, armed or otherwise, assaults, and other forms
of hell-raising before your act turns stale, nobody, nobody except hungry
imagination twelve-year old schoolboys, is paying attention. The magic is gone.
And that is what happened with Black Jack. Of course, the Low-Riders were not
the only outlaw motorcycle “club” around. And when there is more than one of
anything, or maybe on some things just one, there is bound to be a
"rumble" (a fight, for the squares) about it. Especially among guys,
guys too smart for school, guys who have either graduated from, or are working
on, their degrees from the school of hard knocks, the state pen. But enough of
that blather because the real story was that the Groversville High-Riders were looking
for one Black Jack McGee. And, of course, the Acre Low-Riders had Black Jack’s
back.
Apparently, and Betsy was a little
confused about this part because she did not know the “etiquette” of biker-dom,
brother John had stepped into High-Rider territory, a definite no-no in the
biker etiquette department without some kind of truce, or peace offering, or
whatever. But see Black Jack was “trespassing” for a reason. He had seen this
doll, this fox of a doll, this Lola heart-breaker, all blonde hair, soft curves,
turned-up nose, and tight, short-sleeved cashmere sweater down at the
Adamsville Beach one afternoon a while back and he made his bid for her. Now
Black Jack was pretty good looking, okay, although nothing special from what
anybody would tell you but this doll took to him, for some reason. What she did
not tell him, and there is a big question still being asked around Harry’s
about why not except that she was some hell-cat looking for her own strange
kicks, was that she had a boyfriend, a Groversville guy doing time up the state
pen. And what she also didn’t tell him was that the reason her boyfriend,
“Sonny” Russo, was in stir was for attempted manslaughter (reduced, just barely,
from murder two, to get the conviction) and was about to get out in August. And
what she also did not tell him was that Sonny was a charter member of the
High-Riders.
Forget dramatic tension, forget
suspense, this situation, once Sonny found out, and everybody in that mad hatter
world would know he would know, sooner
or later, turned into “rumble city," all banners waving, all colors
showing. And so it came to pass that on August 23, 1961, at eight o’clock in
the evening the massed armies of Acre Low-Riders and Groversville High-Riders
gathered for battle. And the rules of engagement for such transgressions, if
there is such a thing, rules of engagement that is rather than just made up,
was that Sonny and Black Jack were to fight it out in a circle, switchblades
flashing, until one guy was cut too badly to continue, or gave up, or…
So they went back and forth for a while
Black Jack getting the worst of it with several cuts across his skin-tight
white tee-shirt, a couple of rips in his blue jeans, bleeding but not enough to
give up. Meanwhile true-blue Lola is egging Sonny on, egging him on something
fierce, like some devil-woman, to cut the love-bug John every which way. But
then Black Jack drew a break. Sonny slipped and John cut him, cut him bad near
the neck. Sonny was nothing but bleeding, bleeding bad, real bad. Sonny called
it quits. Everybody quickly got the hell out of the field of honor,
double-quick, Sonny’s comrades helping him along.
That is not the end of the story, by no
means. Sonny didn't make it, and in the cop dust-up Lola, sweet Lola, told them
that none other than lover-boy Black Jack did the deed. And now Black Jack is
earning his hard knock credits up in stir, state stir, for manslaughter
(reduced from murder two, again just barely so the state could get the no
hassle conviction).
After thinking about this story again I
can also see where, if I played my cards right, I could be sitting right beside
maybe not-so-old-flame Betsy, helping her through her brother’s hard times,
down at the old Adamsville beach some night talking about the pitfalls of
corner boy life while we are listening to One Night of Sin by Elvis
Presley; Boppin’ High School Baby by Don Willis; Long Blonde Hair,
Rose Red Lips by Johnny Powers (watch out Johnny); Sunglasses After Dark
by Lo Lou Darrell Rhodes (Clintondale's pizza parlor max daddy Frankie
Doyle’s favorite song); Red Hot by Bob Luman (yes, red hot); Long
Gone Daddy by Pat Cupp; Put Your Cat Clothes On by Carl Perkins; Duck
Tail by Joe Clay; Switch Blade Sam by Jeff Daniels (maybe not); Susie-Q
by Dale Hawkins; Who Do You Love by Ronnie Hawkins; Summertime Blues
by Eddie Cochran; Rumble Rock by Kip Taylor, Whole Lot Of Shakin’
Going On by Jerry Lee Lewis; and, Get Hot Or Go Home by John Kerby
on the old car radio. Everything every self-respecting corner boy even if he is
only Red’s ep tot gofer needs to steam things up. What do you think?
The Latest
From The "Fight For $15"-The Seemingly One-Sided Struggle
Continues-It's High Time To Push Back-Push Back Hard-30 For 40 And “Fight For
$15” Are The Slogans Of The Day.
Click below to link to the Fight For $15 website for the latest national and international labor news, and of the efforts to counteract the massively one-sided class struggle against the international working class movement.
http://fightfor15.org/april15/
“Victory To The Fast-Food Workers......Fight For $15 Is Just A Beginning-All Labor Must Support Our Sisters And Brothers- Free All The Striking Fast Food Protesters!
Comments of a supporter of the “Fight for $15” action in Downtown Boston on September 4, 2014 as part of a national struggle for economic justice and dignity for the our hard working sisters and brothers:
No question in this wicked old world that those at the bottom are “the forgotten ones.” Here 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-Marts jobs do not come with forty hours of work attached but whatever some cost-cutting manager deems right. 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 descent 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. And 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 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!
******
With Unemployment Too High, Way Too High - The Call "30 For 40"- Now More Than Ever- The Transitional Socialist Program
Click Below To Link To The Full Transitional Program Of The Fourth International Adopted In 1938 As A Fighting Program In The Struggle For Socialism In That Era. Many Of The Points, Including The Headline Point Of 30 Hours Work For 40 Hours Pay To Spread The Work Around Among All Workers, Is As Valid Today As Then.
http://www.marxists.org/archive/trotsky/1938/tp/index.htm
Guest Commentary
From The Transitional Program Of The Fourth International In 1938- Sliding Scale of Wages and Sliding Scale of Hours
Under the conditions of disintegrating capitalism, the masses continue to live the meagerized life of the oppressed, threatened now more than at any other time with the danger of being cast into the pit of pauperism. They must defend their mouthful of bread, if they cannot increase or better it. There is neither the need nor the opportunity to enumerate here those separate, partial demands which time and again arise on the basis of concrete circumstances – national, local, trade union. But two basic economic afflictions, in which is summarized the increasing absurdity of the capitalist system, that is, unemployment and high prices, demand generalized slogans and methods of struggle.
The Fourth International declares uncompromising war on the politics of the capitalists which, to a considerable degree, like the politics of their agents, the reformists, aims to place the whole burden of militarism, the crisis, the disorganization of the monetary system and all other scourges stemming from capitalism’s death agony upon the backs of the toilers. The Fourth International demands employment and decent living conditions for all.
Neither monetary inflation nor stabilization can serve as slogans for the proletariat because these are but two ends of the same stick. Against a bounding rise in prices, which with the approach of war will assume an ever more unbridled character, one can fight only under the slogan of a sliding scale of wages. This means that collective agreements should assure an automatic rise in wages in relation to the increase in price of consumer goods.
Under the menace of its own disintegration, the proletariat cannot permit the transformation of an increasing section of the workers into chronically unemployed paupers, living off the slops of a crumbling society. The right to employment is the only serious right left to the worker in a society based upon exploitation. This right today is left to the worker in a society based upon exploitation. This right today is being shorn from him at every step. Against unemployment,“structural” as well as “conjunctural,” the time is ripe to advance along with the slogan of public works, the slogan of a sliding scale of working hours. Trade unions and other mass organizations should bind the workers and the unemployed together in the solidarity of mutual responsibility. On this basis all the work on hand would then be divided among all existing workers in accordance with how the extent of the working week is defined. The average wage of every worker remains the same as it was under the old working week. Wages, under a strictly guaranteed minimum, would follow the movement of prices. It is impossible to accept any other program for the present catastrophic period.
Property owners and their lawyers will prove the “unrealizability” of these demands. Smaller, especially ruined capitalists, in addition will refer to their account ledgers. The workers categorically denounce such conclusions and references. The question is not one of a “normal” collision between opposing material interests. The question is one of guarding the proletariat from decay, demoralization and ruin. The question is one of life or death of the only creative and progressive class, and by that token of the future of mankind. If capitalism is incapable of satisfying the demands inevitably arising from the calamities generated by itself, then let it perish. “Realizability” or “unrealizability” is in the given instance a question of the relationship of forces, which can be decided only by the struggle. By means of this struggle, no matter what immediate practical successes may be, the workers will best come to understand the necessity of liquidating capitalist slavery.
************
As Isaac Deutscher said in his speech “On Socialist Man” (1966):
“We do not maintain that socialism is going to solve all predicaments of the human race. We are struggling in the first instance with the predicaments that are of man’s making and that man can resolve. May I remind you that Trotsky, for instance, speaks of three basic tragedies—hunger, sex and death—besetting man. Hunger is the enemy that Marxism and the modern labour movement have taken on.... Yes, socialist man will still be pursued by sex and death; but we are convinced that he will be better equipped than we are to cope even with these.”
@gimmekimmy
@timfranzen
Click below to link to the Fight For $15 website for the latest national and international labor news, and of the efforts to counteract the massively one-sided class struggle against the international working class movement.
http://fightfor15.org/april15/
Ralph Morris and Sam Eaton a couple of old-time radicals, old-time
now in the early 2000s unlike in their youth not being the Great Depression
labor radicals who had been their models after a fashion and who helped built
the now seemingly moribund unions, (or unions now rather consciously led by
union leaders who have no or only attenuated links to past militant labor
actions like strikes, plant sit-downs, hot-cargo struck goods, general strikes
and such and would go into a dead faint if such actions were forced upon them
and are so weakened as to be merely dues paying organizations forwarding monies
to the Democratic “friends of labor” Party). They had come of political age as
anti-war radicals from the hell-bent street in-your-face 1960s confrontations
with the American beast during the Vietnam War reign of hell. Ralph from the
hard-shell experience of having fought for the beast in the Central Highlands
in that benighted country and who became disgusted with what he had done, his
buddies had done, and his government had done to make animals out of them
destroying simple peasants catch in a vicious cross-fire and Sam, having lost
his closest high school hang around guy, Jeff Mullin, blown away in some
unnamed field near some hamlet that he could not pronounce or spell correctly.
The glue that brought them together, brought them together for a lifetime
friendship and political comity (with some periods of statutory neglect to
bring up families in Carver, Massachusetts and Troy, New York respectively) the
ill-fated actions on May Day 1971 In Washington when they attempted along with
several thousand others to shut down the government if it did not shut down the
war. All those efforts got them a few days detention in RFK stadium where they
had met almost accidently and steel-strong bonds of brotherhood from then
on.
They had seen high times and ebbs, mostly ebbs once the 1960s
waves receded before the dramatic events of 9/11 and more particularly the
disastrous invasion of Iraq in 2003 called off what they had termed the “armed
truce” with the United States government over the previous couple of decades.
So Ralph and Sam were beside themselves when the powder-puff uprising of the
Occupy movement brought a fresh breeze to the tiny American left-wing landscape
in the latter part of 2011. That term
“powder puff” not expressing the heft of the movement which was not
inconsiderable for a couple of months especially in hotbeds like New York,
Boston, L.A. and above all the flagship home away from home of radical
politics, San Francisco but the fact that it disappeared almost before it got
started giving up the huge long-term fight it was expected to wage to break the
banks, break the corporate grip on the world and, try to seek “newer world”).
Ralph and Sam were not members in good standing of any labor unions, both
having after their furtive anti-war street fights and the ebbing of the
movement by about the mid-1970s returned to “normalcy,” Ralph having taken over
his father’s electrical shop in Troy when his father retired and Sam had gone
back to Carver to expand a print shop that he had started in the late 1960s
that had been run by a hometown friend in his many absences. However having
come from respectable working-class backgrounds in strictly working-class
towns, Carver about thirty miles from Boston and the cranberry bog capital of
the world and Ralph in Troy near where General Electric ruled the roost, had
taken to heart the advice of their respective grandfathers about not forgetting
those left behind, that an injury to one of their own in this wicked old world
was an injury to all as the old Industrial Workers of the World (IWW, Wobblies)
motto had it. Moreover despite their backing away from the street
confrontations of their youth when that proved futile after a time as the
Vietnam War finally wound down and yesterday’s big name radicals left for parts
unknown they had always kept an inner longing for the “newer world,” the more
equitable world where the people who actually made stuff and kept the wheels of
society running and their down-pressed allies ruled.
So Ralph and Sam would during most of the fall of 2011 travel down to the Wall Street “private”
plaza (and site of many conflicts and stand-offs between the Occupy forces on
the ground and then Mayor Blumberg and his itchy cops) which was the center of
the movement on weekends, long weekends usually, to take part in the action
after the long drought of such activity both for them personally and for their
kind of politics. They were crestfallen to say the least when the thing
exploded after Mayor Blumberg and the NYPD the police pulled down the hammer
and forcibly disbanded the place (and other city administrations across the
country and across the world and police departments doing likewise acting in
some concert as it turned out once the dust settled and “freedom of
information” acts were invoked to see what the bastards were up to).
Of more concern since they had already known about what the
government could do when it decided to pull down the hammer having learned a
painfully hard lesson on May Day 1971 and on a number of other occasions later
when Ralph and Sam and their comrades decided to get “uppity” and been slapped
down more than once although they at least had gone into those actions with
their eyes wide open had been the reaction of the “leadership” in folding up
the tents (literally and figuratively). Thereafter the movement had imploded
from its own contradictions, caught up not wanting to step on toes, to let
everybody do their own thing, do their own identity politics which as they also
painfully knew had done much to defang
the old movements, refusing out of hand cohering a collective leadership that
might give some direction to the damn thing but also earnestly wanting to bring
the monster down.
Ralph and Sam in the aftermath, after things had settled down and
they had time to think decided to put together a proposal, a program if you
like, outlining some of the basic political tasks ahead to be led by somebody.
Certainly not by them since radical politics, street politics is a young
person’s game and they admittedly had gotten rather long in the tooth. Besides
they had learned long ago, had talked about it over drinks at Jack Higgins’
Grille in Boston more than once in their periodic reunions when Ralph came to
town, how each generation had to face its tasks in its own way so they would be
content to be “elder” tribal leaders and provide whatever wisdom they could, if
asked. Working under the drumbeat of Bob
Marley’s Get Up, Stand Up something
of a “national anthem” for what went on among the better elements of Occupy are
some points that any movement for social change has to address these days and
fight for and about as well. Sam, more interested in writing than Ralph who
liked to think more than write but who contributed his fair share of ideas to
the “program,” wrote the material up and had it posted on various site which
elicited a respectable amount of comment at the time. They also got into the
old time spirit by participating in the latest up and coming struggle- the fight
for a minimum wage of $15 an hour although even that seems paltry for the needs
of today’s working people to move up in the world:
“Victory To The Fast-Food Workers......Fight For $15 Is Just A Beginning-All Labor Must Support Our Sisters And Brothers- Free All The Striking Fast Food Protesters!
Comments of a supporter of the “Fight for $15” action in Downtown Boston on September 4, 2014 as part of a national struggle for economic justice and dignity for the our hard working sisters and brothers:
No question in this wicked old world that those at the bottom are “the forgotten ones.” Here 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-Marts jobs do not come with forty hours of work attached but whatever some cost-cutting manager deems right. 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 descent 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. And 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 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!
******
With Unemployment Too High, Way Too High - The Call "30 For 40"- Now More Than Ever- The Transitional Socialist Program
Click Below To Link To The Full Transitional Program Of The Fourth International Adopted In 1938 As A Fighting Program In The Struggle For Socialism In That Era. Many Of The Points, Including The Headline Point Of 30 Hours Work For 40 Hours Pay To Spread The Work Around Among All Workers, Is As Valid Today As Then.
http://www.marxists.org/archive/trotsky/1938/tp/index.htm
Guest Commentary
From The Transitional Program Of The Fourth International In 1938- Sliding Scale of Wages and Sliding Scale of Hours
Under the conditions of disintegrating capitalism, the masses continue to live the meagerized life of the oppressed, threatened now more than at any other time with the danger of being cast into the pit of pauperism. They must defend their mouthful of bread, if they cannot increase or better it. There is neither the need nor the opportunity to enumerate here those separate, partial demands which time and again arise on the basis of concrete circumstances – national, local, trade union. But two basic economic afflictions, in which is summarized the increasing absurdity of the capitalist system, that is, unemployment and high prices, demand generalized slogans and methods of struggle.
The Fourth International declares uncompromising war on the politics of the capitalists which, to a considerable degree, like the politics of their agents, the reformists, aims to place the whole burden of militarism, the crisis, the disorganization of the monetary system and all other scourges stemming from capitalism’s death agony upon the backs of the toilers. The Fourth International demands employment and decent living conditions for all.
Neither monetary inflation nor stabilization can serve as slogans for the proletariat because these are but two ends of the same stick. Against a bounding rise in prices, which with the approach of war will assume an ever more unbridled character, one can fight only under the slogan of a sliding scale of wages. This means that collective agreements should assure an automatic rise in wages in relation to the increase in price of consumer goods.
Under the menace of its own disintegration, the proletariat cannot permit the transformation of an increasing section of the workers into chronically unemployed paupers, living off the slops of a crumbling society. The right to employment is the only serious right left to the worker in a society based upon exploitation. This right today is left to the worker in a society based upon exploitation. This right today is being shorn from him at every step. Against unemployment,“structural” as well as “conjunctural,” the time is ripe to advance along with the slogan of public works, the slogan of a sliding scale of working hours. Trade unions and other mass organizations should bind the workers and the unemployed together in the solidarity of mutual responsibility. On this basis all the work on hand would then be divided among all existing workers in accordance with how the extent of the working week is defined. The average wage of every worker remains the same as it was under the old working week. Wages, under a strictly guaranteed minimum, would follow the movement of prices. It is impossible to accept any other program for the present catastrophic period.
Property owners and their lawyers will prove the “unrealizability” of these demands. Smaller, especially ruined capitalists, in addition will refer to their account ledgers. The workers categorically denounce such conclusions and references. The question is not one of a “normal” collision between opposing material interests. The question is one of guarding the proletariat from decay, demoralization and ruin. The question is one of life or death of the only creative and progressive class, and by that token of the future of mankind. If capitalism is incapable of satisfying the demands inevitably arising from the calamities generated by itself, then let it perish. “Realizability” or “unrealizability” is in the given instance a question of the relationship of forces, which can be decided only by the struggle. By means of this struggle, no matter what immediate practical successes may be, the workers will best come to understand the necessity of liquidating capitalist slavery.
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As Isaac Deutscher said in his speech “On Socialist Man” (1966):
“We do not maintain that socialism is going to solve all predicaments of the human race. We are struggling in the first instance with the predicaments that are of man’s making and that man can resolve. May I remind you that Trotsky, for instance, speaks of three basic tragedies—hunger, sex and death—besetting man. Hunger is the enemy that Marxism and the modern labour movement have taken on.... Yes, socialist man will still be pursued by sex and death; but we are convinced that he will be better equipped than we are to cope even with these.”
With Roger McGuinn’s “Ballad Of Easy Rider” In Mind The Search For The Great Working-Class Love Song - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind –Take Three
With Roger McGuinn’s “Ballad Of Easy Rider” In Mind The Search For The Great Working-Class Love Song - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind –Take Three
From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin:
Several years ago, maybe about eight years now that I think about it, I did a series of sketches on guys, folk-singers, folk-rockers, rock-folkers or whatever you want to call those who weened us away from the stale pablum rock in the early 1960s (Bobby Vee, Rydell, Darin, et al, Sandra Dee, Brenda Lee, et al) after the gold rush dried up in what is now called the classic age of rock and roll in the mid to late 1950s when Elvis, Jerry Lee, Buddy, Chuck, Bo and their kindred made us jump. (There were gals too like Wanda Jackson but mainly it was guys in those days.) I am referring of course to the savior folk minute of the early 1960 when a lot of guys with acoustic guitars, some self-made lyrics, or stuff from old Harry Smith Anthology times gave us a reprieve. The series titled Not Bob Dylan centered on why those budding folkies like Tom Rush, Tom Paxton, Phil Ochs, Jesse Winchester and the man under review Richard Thompson to name a few did not make the leap to be the “king of folk” that had been ceded by the media to Bob Dylan and whatever happened to them once the folk minute went south after the combined assault of the British rock invasion (you know the Beatles, Stones, Kinks, hell, even Herman’s Hermits got play for a while), and the rise of acid rock put folk in the shade (you know the Jefferson Airplane, the Dead, The Doors, The Who, hell, even the aforementioned Beatles and Stones got caught up in the fray although not to their eternal musical playlist benefit). I also did a series on Not Joan Baez, the “queen of the folk minute” asking that same question on the female side but here dealing with one Richard Thompson the male side of the question is what is of interest.
I did a couple of sketches on Richard Thompson back then, or rather sketches based on probably his most famous song, Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 which dove-tailed with some remembrances of my youth and my semi-outlaw front to the world and the role that motorcycles played in that world. Additionally, in light of the way that a number of people whom I knew back then, classmates whom I reconnected on a class reunion website responded when I posed the question of what they thought was the great working-class love song since North Adamsville was definitely a working class town driven by that self-same ethos I wrote some other sketches driving home my selection of Thompson’s song as my choice.
The latter sketches are what interest me here. See Thompson at various times packed it in, said he had no more spirit or some such and gave up the road, the music and the struggle to made that music, as least professionally. Took time to make a more religious bent to his life and other such doings. Not unlike a number of other performers from that period who tired of the road or got discourage with the small crowds, or lost the folk spirit. Probably as many reasons as individuals to give them. Then he, they had an epiphany or something, got the juices flowing again and came back on the road. That fact is to the good for old time folk (and rock) aficionados like me.
What that fact of returning to the road by Thompson and a slew of others has meant is that my friend and I, (okay, okay my sweetie who prefers that I call her my soulmate but that is just between us so friend) now have many opportunities to see acts like Thompson’s Trio, his current band configuration, to see if we think they still “have it” (along with acts of those who never left the road like Bob Dylan who apparently is on an endless tour whether we want him to do so or not). That idea got started about a decade ago when we saw another come-back kid, Geoff Muldaur of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, solo, who had taken something twenty years off. He had it. So we started looking for whoever was left of the old folks acts (rock and blues too) to check out that question-unfortunately the actuarial tables took their toll before we could see some of them at least one last time like Dave Von Ronk.
That brings us to Richard Thompson. Recently we got a chance to see him in a cabaret setting with tables and good views from every position, at least on in the orchestra section, at the Wilbur Theater in Boston with his trio, a big brush drummer and an all-around side guitar player (and other instruments like the mando). Thompson broke the performance up into two parts, a solo set of six or seven numbers high-lighted by Vincent Black Lightning, and Dimming Of The Day which was fine. The second part based on a new album and a bunch of his well-known rock standards left us shaking our heads. Maybe the room could not handle that much sound, although David Bromberg’s five piece band handled it well a couple of weeks before, or maybe it was the melodically sameness of the songs and the same delivery voice and style but we were frankly disappointed and not disappointed to leave at the encore. Most tunes didn’t resonant although a few in all honesty did we walked out of the theater with our hands in our pockets. No thumbs up or down flat based on that first old time set otherwise down. However, damn it, Bob Dylan does not have to move over, now. Our only consolation that great working-class love song, Vincent Black Lightning, still intact.
Which brings us to one of those sketches I did based on Brother Thompson’s glorious Vincent Black Lightning. When I got home I began to revise that piece which I have included below. Now on to the next act in the great quest- a reunion of the three remaining active members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, Jim Maria Muldaur, and of course Geoff at the Club Passim (which traces its genesis back to the folk minute’s iconic Club 47 over on Mount Auburn Street in Harvard Square. We’ll see if that gets the thumbs up.
With Roger McGuinn’s“Ballad Of Easy Rider” In Mind, Take Two
This is the way Doug Powers told the story, Jeff’s story, the way he got it from Little Peach mostly, the road stuff, straight up, and then later when he checked up …
He, the ghost of… Peter Fonda he, Captain America he , Dennis Hooper he, Bill The Kid he, Hunter Thompson he, Doctor Gonzo on an Indian he, James Ardie he, Vincent Black Lightning he, hell, Sonny Barger or one of one hundred grunge, nasty mothers keep your daughters indoors under lock and key Hell's Angels brethren he (as if that would help, help once she, the daughter, saw that shiny silver sleek Indian , Harley, Vincent, name it, whatever and did some fancy footwork midnight creep out that unlocked suburban death house ranchero back door), Jeff Crawford he, Norton he, just wanted to drive down that late night Pacific Coast Highway. Where else in the American world could you have the hair-raising blown warm wind at your back and the sometimes hard-hearted, but mainly user-friendly, ocean at your right. Somehow Maine icy stretch Ellsworth Point did not make its case against that scenario. He knew those forlorn streets and back roads like the back of his hand but there was no going back, and no reason to since his divorce and his Ma dying.
Drive, ride really, motorcycle ride just in case you were clueless and thought that this was to be some sedan buggy family, dad and mom, three kids and Rover, car saga. Maybe with his new sweet mama behind holding on to her easy rider in back, holding tight, her breasts rising and falling hard against his waiting back, and riding, laughing every once in a while at the square world, his old square world (and hers too, she used to serve then off the arm while attending some dink college when he fell into her at the local breakfast place), against the pounding surf heading south heading Seals Rock, Pacifica, Monterrey, Big Sur, Xanadu, Point Magoo, Malibu, Laguna, Carlsbad, La Jolla, Diego, south right to the mex border, riding down to the sea, see. Riding down to the washed sea, the sea to wash him clean. Her, she had nothing to be washed, hadn’t been out in life long enough to build up soul dirts, except maybe a little off-hand kinky sex she picked up somewhere and had curled his toes doing so one night, and that didn’t count in the soul-washing department . Not in his book. Not some big old poet- wrangled washed clean either, some what did old ‘Nam Brad call it, some metaphor, if that was right, if that was how he remembered it, not for him, just washed clean.
Easy, Jeff thought, just an easy rider and his sweet, sweet mama, her hair, her flaming red hair, or whatever color it was that week (he didn’t care what color really just as long as it was long. He had had enough of short- haired women all boyish bobbed, all snarling every which way, all kind of boyish do it this way and that way, all tense, and making him tense. He liked the swish of a woman’s hair in his face all snarly and flowing and letting things take their course easy. A ‘Nam lesson.) blowing against the weathers, against the thrust of that big old Norton engine, all tight tee-shirt showing her tiny breasts in outline that a shirt or sweater made invisible (he didn’t care about big breasts, or small, like a lot of guys around the bar, the biker hang-out, where he hung out over in Richmond, the Angel Tavern, the one run by Red Riley,), tight jeans (covering long legs which he did care about), tight. Maybe a quick stop off at Railroad Jim’s over on Geary before heading to ‘Frisco land’s end Seals Rock and the trip south (and if Railroad wasn’t in then Saigon Pappy’s, Billy Blast or Sunshine Sue’s) to cope some dope (weed, reefer, a little cousin cocaine to ease that ‘Nam pain, the one Charley kissed his way one night through his thigh when he decided to prove, prove for the nth time that he, Charley, was king of the night) to handle those sharp curves around Big Sur, and get her in the mood (she, ever since that midnight creep out Ma’s back door over in Albany a few months before when he had challenged her to do so when he wanted to test her to see if she was really his sweet mama, craved her cousin, craved it to get her into the mood, and just to be his outlaw girl).
Yah, it was supposed to be easy, all shoreline washed clean (no metaphor stuff, remember, just ocean naked stuff), stop for some vista here (about a million choices, he would let her pick since this was her first run, her first working run), some dope there and then down to cheap Mexico, cheap dope, and a haul back El Norte and easy street, easy street, laying around with sweet mama, real name, Susan White, road moniker, Little Peach (an inside joke, a joke about a certain part of her anatomy that is all she would give out) until Red Riley needed another run, another run against the washed sea night.
Then it turned into one thing after another. He took a turn around Pacifica way too fast, went way over the edge with his right hand throttle (Little Peach so excited by this her first outlaw run she slipped her hands low, too low while he was making that maneuver, thinking, maybe, they were in bed and well you know things happen, distracting things, just bad timing) and skidded hair- pin twirl skidded off the on-coming road. Little Peach was hurt a little but the bike was dented enough to require some work at Loopy Lester’s (Red Riley had guys, bike magic guys, up and down the coast) back in Daly City. So delay.
A couple of days delay too, they ran into rain down around Big Sur, pouring rain and Little Peach moaned about it and they had to shack up in a motel for a couple of days, days looking at that fierce ocean. More delay. Then he made his first serious mistake, short on funds he decided to rob a liquor store in Paseo Robles. Hell, not decided, he was hard-wired compelled to make that decision, hard –wired by his whole sorry, beautiful life, his father (a drunk) then mother (none too stable, a product of those too close Maine family relationships and those long, bad ass Maine winter nights) left him Maine dumped, his whore first wife from over in Richmond cheating on him with every blue jean guy in town while he was in ‘Nam, his very real ‘Nam pain (while saving Brad’s, metaphor Brad’s city boy, college boy sorry ass when Mister Charlie decided, probably hard-wired too to come prove who was boss of the night), and, a little his dope habit (picked up courtesy of ‘Nam too, he had been strictly always a whisky and beer man before). Little Peach, gentle in some womanly ways, no question, and the eternal ocean, gentle, when it co-operated, his only rays.
Hard-wired to just take now, take it fast, and get out fast. Hell, it was easy he had been doing since he was about sixteen and just needed that first Harley some Ellsworth guy was selling, selling cheap, since was headed to Shawshank for a long stretch. That time he wasn’t even armed, easy. As so it went. Easy, except that time down in Rockland where the clerk flipped the alarm and the cops were just a block away. Yah, he didn’t figure that one right, not at any point. That was when he got the choice- three to five in county or ‘Nam. He hadn’t messed with that kind of thing in California since he hooked up with Red’s operation about a month after he got out of the VA hospital over in ‘Frisco.
Trouble this time, the night he tried to rob the Paseo Robles liquor store, was the owner, and he identified himself as the owner, must have thought he was Charley, shot at him, nicking him in the shoulder. He grabbed the owner’s gun in the tussle and bang, bang. Grabbed the dough (almost five thousand dollars in that two bit town), and the extra ammo under the counter and roared off, Little Peach trembling, into the Pacific highway night.
A serious mistake, for sure, one the cops kind of pressed the issue on. They caught up with him just outside Carlsbad, South Carlsbad down near the airport road, near the state park camp sites, where he was resting up a little (bleeding a little too). He had left Little Peach back in Laguna to keep her out of it and with most of the dough, telling her to get out of town on the quiet, to use the dough to go back to school, and have a nice life. He was okay that she didn’t argue a lot about staying, or getting all weepy about his fate. She had been his ray and that was enough, enough for what was ahead. So alone, not wanting to face some big step-off ahead, he wasn’t built for jails and chambers, not wanting to face another downer in his sorry, beautiful life, taking a long look at the heathered, rock strewn, smashing wave shoreline just below, he took out that damn gun, loaded the last of the ammo, doubled around to face the blockading police cars, and throttled –up his Norton. Varoom, varoom…
ARTIST: Richard Thompson
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Lyrics and Chords
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Lyrics and Chords
Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike
A girl could feel special on any such like
Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme
And he pulled her on behind
And down to Box Hill they did ride
/ A - - - D - / - - - - A - / : / E - D A /
/ E - D A - / Bm - D - / - - - - A - - - /
Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man
I've fought with the law since I was seventeen
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae
For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside
Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do
They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52
He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
He said I've got no further use for these
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home
And he gave her one last kiss and died
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