*****Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By- We Want The World And We Want It Now!

*****Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By- We Want The World And We Want It Now!    

 

 

 

 

***Songs To While Away The Class Struggle By- We Want The World And We Want It Now! 

Sam Lowell comment September 2014:

A while back, maybe a half a decade ago now, I started a series in this space that I presented under the headline Songs To While Away The Struggle By where I posted some songs, you know, The Internationale (reflecting the long-time need for international brother and sister solidarity sorely lacking these days), Which Side Are You On? (yeah, which side are you on when the deal goes down and you can’t hide and have to say yeah or nay), Viva La Quince Brigada (in homage to the heroic “pre-mature” anti-fascists from the United States who fought for the Republican side in the 1930s Spanish Civil War), Solidarity Forever(reflecting the desperate need to organize the  organized and reorganize the previously organized like the mass of autoworkers into unions) and others like Deportee (in serious need of a renewed hearing these days where it is a toss-up between resident minorities here and the undocumented for who has gotten the rawest deal out of this system, it ain’t pretty), Where Have All The Flowers Gone (reflecting the need to keep the fight for nuclear disarmament on the front burner with international tensions now approaching the Cold War of my youth levels), Blowin’ In The Wind (reflecting, well, reflecting that the new breeze a-borning for new generations that has not happened again in the long “night of the long knives” since the 1970s), This Land Is Your Land (reflecting that this land is your land, that you or your forbears created the wealth, your land if you have the chutzpah to grab it back) while not as directly political had their hearts in the right place, that I thought would help get us through the “dog days” of the struggle for our socialist future.

Those “dog days” in America anyway, depending on what leftist political perspective drove your red-bannered, seek a newer world, turn the world upside down heart’s imagination then or drives it now looking back in retrospect could have gone straight back as far as the late 1960s and early 1970s when all things were possible and the smell of revolution could be whiffed in the air for a while before we were defeated. Many have put their particular brand on when the whole thing ebbed, fell down of its own hubris but all agree from my inquiries no later than say 1975. I personally, having been on the streets of Washington that week, date the ebb from May Day 1971 when we attempted to shut down with numerically and politically inadequate forces the government if it did not shut down the war, the Vietnam War for those who need a name to their wars, and got nothing but teargas, police batons, and agonizingly huge numbers of arrests for our troubles.

Oh yeah and forty plus years of the short end of the stick of “cultural wars” still beating us down. Some have worked the defeats the other way not from the ebb of our experiments but the from high tide of reaction thinking of later when we all abandoned hope for the least bit of social justice in the lean, vicious, downtrodden Reagan years of unblessed memory or later still around the time of the great world- historic defeats of the international working class in East Europe and the former Soviet Union which left us with an unmatched arrogant unipolar imperialist world. That one pole being the United States, the “heart of the beast” the beast which we work within these days. Whatever your personal benchmark they were nevertheless if you had the least bit of political savvy clearly dog days.        

I began posting these songs at a time, 2009, when it was touch and go whether there would be some kind of massive uprising against the economic royalists who blew the economy, the freaking world economy, all to kingdom  come, who had just dealt the world a blow to the head through their economic machinations in what is now called the Great Recession of 2008 (those “economic royalists” later chastised under the popular sobriquet “the one-percent” come flash-in-the-pan Occupy movement that held out a flicker of hope before it died on the vine). Subsequently, while there were momentary uprisings, the Arab Spring which got its start in Tunisia and Egypt and enflamed most of the Middle East one way or another, here in America the defensive uprising of the public workers in Wisconsin and later as I said the quick-moving although ephemeral Occupy movement, and the uprisings in Greek, Spain and elsewhere in Europe in response to the “belt-tightening" demanded by international financial institutions to name a few, the response from the American and world working classes has for lots of reasons if anything further entrenched those interests.

So as the “dog days” continue here in 2014 I have resumed the series. I do not vouch for the political thrust of the songs selected; for the most part they are done by pacifists, social democrats, hell, even just plain old ordinary democrats. And, occasionally, an old-time communist (you know guys like Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Paul Robeson) although hard communist musicians have historically been scarce on the ground (and one would be truly hard-pressed to name even one musical one today in America carrying that designation unless they are hiding somewhere). Thus, here we have a regular "popular front" on the music scene. While this kind of formation would mean political death for any serious revolutionary upheaval and would not be acceptable for our political prospects, it will suffice for our purposes here.

I like to invite others to make additional comments on certain pivotal songs, groups and artists and here is one by my old friend Josh Breslin, whom I met out in California during the heyday of the summer of love 1967, that reflects those many possibilities to “turn the world upside down” back in the 1960s and early 1970s mentioned earlier before the “night of the long knives” set in. Listen up:

WE WANT THE WORLD AND WE WANT IT NOW!

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin

My old friend from the summer of love 1967 days, the late Peter Paul Markin always used to make a point then of answering, or rather arguing which tells a lot about the kind of guy he was when he got his political hind legs up with anybody who tried to tell him back in the day that “music is the revolution.” Markin whom I met along with Sam Lowell when I first arrived out in California, out on a nameless hill, or if it had a name in that hilly San Francisco night I never found out what it was, looking for some dope or a place to stay in that order was the most political guy I had ever met then (maybe ever) and I had known some guys who helped form SDS back East in so I knew some “heavies.”

Strangely when I first met him in San Francisco that summer you would have been hard-pressed to tell him, under the influence of dope, the new acid rock musical dispensation, and the flowering of new lifestyle  that could not have been the case but after a few hits on the head by the coppers, a tour of duty in the military at the height of the Vietnam War, and what was happening to other political types trying to change the world for the better like the Black Panthers he got “religion,” or at least he got that music as the agency of social change idea out of his head.  Me, well, I was (and am not now ) as political as Markin had been so that I never got drowned in the counter-culture where music was a central cementing act. Nor did I have anything that happened to me subsequently that would have given me Markin’s epiphany, particularly that Army stint that gave him “religion” on the questions of war and peace but which I think, given his later fate, left something hollow inside him since I had been declared 4-F (unfit for military service) due to a childhood physical injury that had left one arm withered. (Markin, is now buried in a nameless grave in a potter’s field down in Sonora, Mexico after he was found on a dusty back road with two slugs in him after what we had heard was some busted cocaine deal in either 1976 or 1977, probably the summer of the former from what a private detective hired by one of our friends to go down and find out what happened told him from the shaky information he had received down there from a guy, a doper, who claimed to know Markin.)  

 I would listen half-attentively (a condition aided by being “stoned,” all doped up or in thrall to some ephemeral woman a lot of the time) when such conversations erupted and Markin with go through his position for a candid world to hear (candid, his word). That position meaning, of course that contrary to the proponents, including many mutual friends of his, and ours, who acted out on that very idea and got burned by the flame, some dropping out, some going back to academia, some left by the wayside and who are maybe still wandering out in the Muir Woods, by some Big Sur tidal pool or, god forbid, out in rain-soaked Oregon that eight or ten Give Peace A Chance, Kumbaya, Woodstock or even acid-etched Someone To Love songs would not do the trick, would not change this nasty, brutish, old short-lived world into the garden, into some pre-lapsarian Eden. (We all called it “looking for the garden” in short-hand meaning the lost Garden of Eden which we were hung up on seeking, and not always only in our dope-flamed moments either.)

Meaning that the gathering of youth nation unto itself out in places like million butterfly Woodstock, flying kites Golden Gate Park, pop bop Monterrey, hell, the Boston Common when things headed east, or even once word trickled down the way the word has always trickled down to the sticks once the next new thing gets a workout, Olde Saco Park, in the town up in Maine where I grew up would not feed on itself and grow to such a critical mass that the quite nameable enemies of goodness, kindness starting with one Lyndon Johnson and one Richard M. Nixon and working down to the go-fers and hangers-on, and leave us alone would sulk off somewhere, defeated or at least defanged.

Many a night, many a dope-blistered night before some seawall ocean front Pacific Coast campfire I would listen to Markin blast forth against that stuff, against that silliness. As for me, I was too “into the moment,” too into finding weed, hemp, mary jane and too into finding some fetching women to share it with to get caught up in some nebulous ideological struggle. It was only later, after the music died, after rock and roll turned in on itself, turned into some exotic fad of the exiles on Main Street that I began to think through the implications of what Markin, and the guys on the other side too, were arguing about.

Now, belated now, it makes perfect sense that music, or any mere cultural expression standing alone, would be unable to carry enough weight to turn us back to the garden (I won’t use that “pre-lapsarian" again to avoid showing my, and Markin’s, high Roman Catholic up-bringing and muddy what I want to say which is quite secular). I guess that I would err on the side of the “angels” and at least wish that we could have carried the day against the monsters of the American imperium we confronted back in the day. Although like I said I had a draft deferment due to a serious physical condition, not helped by the “street” dope I was consuming by the way, I supported, and sometimes vehemently and with some sense of organization, a lot of the political stuff Markin was knee deep into, especially the Black Panther defense when we lived in Oakland after he got out of the Army and all hell was raining down on the brothers and sisters.                  

Thinking about what a big deal was made of such arguments back then recently in preparing my remarks for this effort (arguments carried deep into the night, deep in smoke dream nights, and sometimes as the blue–pink dawn came rising up to smite our dreams) I thought back to my own musical appreciations. In my jaded youth (if one could be jaded in Podunk Olde Saco, although more than one parent and more than one teacher called me “beatnik” back then whatever that meant to them) I developed an ear for roots music, whether I was conscious of that fact or not. Perhaps it was some off-shoot DNA thing since my people on my mother’s side (nee LeBlanc) were French-Canadian which had a deep folk heritage both up north and in Maine although such music was not played in the house, a house like a lot of other ethnics where in the 1950s everybody wanted to be vanilla America (Markin had mentioned to me that same thing about his Irish-etched parents). So it initially started as a reaction to my parents’ music, the music that got them through the Great Depression of the 1930s and later waiting for other shoe to drop (either in Normandy where my father first went to Europe under some very trying conditions or at home waiting in Olde Saco like my mother), and that became a habit, a wafting through the radio of my childhood home habit.

You know who I mean Frank (Sinatra for the heathens), Harry James, the Andrews Sisters, Peggy Lee, Doris Day and the like. Or, maybe, and this is something that I have come closer to believing was the catalyst along with the DNA stuff I already mentioned, my father’s very real roots in the Saturday night mountain barn dance, fiddles blazing, music of his growing up poor down in Appalachia. (Again such music except every once in a while Hank Williams who I didn’t know about at the time was not played in the house either. Too “square” I guess.) 

The origin of my immersion into roots music first centered on the blues, country and city with the likes of Son House(and that raspy, boozy country voice on Death Letter Blues), Skip James ( I went nuts over that voice first heard after he had been “discovered” at the Newport Folk Festival I think in 1963 when he sang I’d Rather Be With The Devil Than Be That Woman’s Man on the radio after I had just broken up with some devil woman, read girl and later caught hell, including recently, from later women companions when I mentioned the idea in a heated love argument), Mississippi John Hurt (that clear guitar, simple lyrics on Creole Belle and that sly salacious run through Candy Man), Muddy Waters (yes, Mannish-Boy and those manly appetites off-stage), Howlin’ Wolf ( I again went nuts when I heard his righteous Little Red Rooster  although I had heard the Stones version first, a version originally banned on Boston and hence Maine radio if you can believe that ) and Elmore James ( his Dust My Broom version of the old Robert Johnson tune I used to argue was the “beginning” of rock and roll to anybody who would listen but that later proved to be only marginally true even to me once I heard Ike Turner’s Rocket 88).

Then early rock and roll, you know the rockabillies and R&B crowd, Elvis (stuff like One Night With You, Jailhouse Rock and the like before he died in about 1958 or whatever happened to him when he started making stupid movies that mocked his great talent making him look foolish and which various girlfriends of the time forced me to go see at the old Majestic Theater in downtown Olde Saco), Jerry Lee (his High School Confidential, the film song, with him flailing away at the piano in the back of a flat-bed truck blew me away  although the film was a bust, as was the girl I saw it with), Chuck (yeah, when he declared to a candid  world that while we all gave due homage to classical music in school Mister Beethoven and his brethren better move on over with Roll Over Beethoven), Roy (Roy the boy with that big falsetto voice crooning out Running Scared, whoa), Big Joe (and that Shake, Rattle and Roll which I at one point also argued was the “beginning” of rock and roll, okay, I liked to argue those fine points)   and Ike Turner (who I ultimately settled on with his Rocket 88 as that mythical beginning of rock and roll).

Then later, with the folk revival of the early 1960’s, the folk music minute before the British invasion took a lot of the air out of that kind of music, especially the protest to high heaven sort, Bob Dylan (even a so-so political guy like me, maybe less than so-so then before all hell broke loose and we had to choose sides loved Blowin’ in the Wind), Dave Von Ronk (and that raspy old voice, although he was not that old then sing Fair And Tender Ladies  one of the first folk songs I remember hearing) Joan Baez (and that long ironed-hair singing that big soprano on those Child ballads), etc.

I am, and have always been a city boy, and an Eastern city boy at that. Meaning rootless or not meaningfully or consciously rooted in any of the niches mentioned above. Nevertheless, over time I have come to appreciate many more forms of roots music than in my youth. Cajun, Tex-Mex, old time dust bowl ballads a la Woody Guthrie, cowboy stuff with the likes of Bob Wills and Milton Brown, Carter Family-etched mountain music (paying final conscious tribute to the mountain DNA in my bones) and so on.

All those genres are easily classified as roots music but I recall one time driving Markin crazy, driving him to closet me with the “music is the revolution” heads he fretfully argued against when I mentioned in passing that The Doors, then in their high holy mantra shamanic phase with The End and When The Music’s Over epitomized roots music. That hurt me to the quick, a momentary hurt then, but thinking about it more recently Markin had been totally off base in his remarks.

The Doors are roots music? Well, yes, in the sense that one of the branches of rock and roll derived 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 that drove the beat of many of his trance-like songs like The End. Add in heavy doses of peyotes or some other herbals known to produce that very effect and you have a pretty good case for what the group was trying to do out on those whirling dervish stages. More than one rock critic, professional rock critic, has argued that on their good nights when the dope and booze were flowing, Morrison was in high trance, and they were fired up the Doors were the best rock and roll band ever created. Those critics will get no argument here, and it is not a far stretch to go further and classify their efforts on those night as in the great American roots tradition.  I argued then and will argue here almost fifty years later when that original statement of mine was more prophetic The Doors put together all the stuff rock critics in one hundred years will be dusting off when they want to examine what it was like when men (and women, think Bonnie Raitt, Wanda Jackson, et. al) played rock and roll, played the people’s music, played to respond to a deep-seeded need of the people before them to hear such sounds, for keeps.

So where does Jim Morrison fit in an icon of the 1960s if he was not some new age latter day cultural Lenin/Trotsky. Some icon that Markin could have latched onto.  Jim was part of the trinity, the “J” trinity for the superstitious – Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix who lived fast, lived way too fast, and died young, way too young. The slogan of the day (or hour) – “Drugs, sex, and rock and roll.” And we liked that idea however you wanted to mix it up. Then.

Their deaths were part of the price we felt we had to pay if we were going to be free. And be creative. Even the most political among us, including Markin in his higher moments (you figure out what that “higher,” means since you are bright people) felt those cultural winds blowing across the continent and counted those who espoused this alternative vision as part of the chosen whatever he thought of their political perspective. The righteous headed to the “promise land,” yeah, back to the garden.  Unfortunately those who believed that we could have a far-reaching positive cultural change via music or “dropping out” without a huge societal political change proved to be wrong long ago. But, these were still our people.

Know this as well if you are keeping score. Whatever excesses were committed by our generation and there were many, many made some by sheer ignorance, some by willfully refusing to draw the lessons of the past and re-inventing the wheel yet again, by the generation that came of political and cultural age in the early 1960s, the generation I call the generation of ’68 to signify its important and decisive year internationally, but were mainly made out of inexperience and a foolish naiveté.  Our opponents, exemplified by outlaw big cowboy red neck President Lyndon B. Johnson and one weaseling Richard Milhous Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal, and their minions like J. Edgar Hoover (a truly demonic figure and treated like a rattlesnake even by people who liked him, or kowtowed to him), Mayor Richard Daley (evil, pure evil, in a business suit and a serious representative of what old-timey poet Carl Sandburg called his city, Chicago, hog-butcher to the world) and Hubert Humphrey ( insidious because he was such a toothless hack sucking up to whoever was in front of him when he had his poor boy wanting habits on but on that  joyous face it took longer to see he was as evil as the rest)  spent every day of their lives as a matter of conscious, deliberate policy raining hell down on the peoples of the world, the minorities in this country, and anyone else who got in their way. Forty plus years of “cultural wars” in revenge by their protégés, hangers-on and now their descendants has been a heavy price to pay for our youthful errors. And the sorely missed and mourned late Markin would surely have endorsed this sentiment. Enough.

*A "Honky Tonk Man" Encore- A Tribute To The Musical Genius Of Hank Williams

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Hank Williams Doing "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry".

DVD Review

In The Hank Williams Tradition Hank Williams, Jr. and various artists, White Star Productions, 2002

In a May 2009 review of a Hank Williams 50th Anniversary of his death tribute album, “Timeless”, and in a September 2009 review of the informative and balanced, “Honky-Tonk Blues”, a PBS "American Masters” production of the life and times of one of the legends of American roots music -country and western branch I made the following comments most of which are germane to this 2002 tribute album to him from various artists who worked with him or were influenced by his music:

“A musical performer knows that he or she has arrived when they have accumulated enough laurels and created enough songs to be worthy, at least in some record producer's eyes, of a tribute album. When they are also alive to accept the accolades as two out of the four of the artists under review are, which in these cases is only proper, that is all to the good. That said, not all tribute albums are created equally. Some are full of star-studded covers, others are filled with lesser lights that have been influenced by the artist that they are paying tribute to. As a general proposition though I find it a fairly rare occurrence, as I have noted in a review of the “Timeless” tribute album to Hank Williams, that the cover artist outdoes the work of the original recording artist. With that point in mind I will give my “skinny” on the cover artists here……

And that is the essential point that separates the musical greats like Hank Williams from the transitory stars of the day. Over fifty years after his death his songs, heartfelt, tragic, depressive, and on a few occasions whimsical still “speak” to musicians and modern listeners alike. His life‘s story, as told here through commentary by those who knew and worked with him, including various members of his “Drifting Cowboys” back-up bands, his widow, his son and grandson Hank II and III respectively, his stepdaughter and various other hometown folks, musical collaborators and music historians unrolls very much like a....Hank Williams ballad. And that again is the point-here is a case where life and art are not far apart....”

I also mentioned the following which also applies here as the various performers, including son Hank Williams, Jr., give their takes on the meaning of his music, some of the specifics of the ups and downs of his too short and troubled life and his permanent place in the American Songbook:

“Since the music is what is eternal in this troubled man’s life let me finish up here with a reposting of that “Timeless” tribute album review mentioned above. It is that simple yet profound music that gives the essence of the man, his seemingly eternal marriage troubles (and some joys too, I think), his losing battle against drugs and alcohol and his search back for the happier days of his poor boy roots in Alabama after fame and fortune proved too narrow to satisfy whatever was eating at him inside.”

With all that build-up all that is left to do is mention some of the performers that give their comments and cover his songs here. Let me mention that I am not generally a country and western aficionado but from what I can tell this line-up is something of a who’s who of the last fifty years or so of this genre. That statement kind of says it all. Chet Atkins does an instrumental version of “So Lonesome I Could Die”. Roy Acuff sings and talks about Hank. Grand Ole Opry fixture Minnie Pearl just talks. Randy Travis and Ricky Skaggs sing out a couple of nice covers. Willie Nelson does a nice version of “My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It”. Waylon Jennings (“The News Is Out All Over Town”) and Kris Kristofferson (doing one of Hank’s recitation pieces) represent the “country outlaw” tradition (as does Willie) that is the catch that has always drawn this reviewer to Hank Williams. Emmylou Harris, as always, sparkles in a couple of songs. Hank Williams, Jr. does his own song about his take on the relationship between his mother and father and leads the all-cast finale. In short, this hour presentation crams in covers of virtually every well-known Williams song. Nice stuff, Hank Williams aficionado or not.

"COLD COLD HEART"

I tried so hard my dear to show that you're my every dream.
Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme
A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

Another love before my time made your heart sad and blue
And so my heart is paying now for things I didn't do
In anger unkind words are said that make the teardrops start
Why can't I free your doubtful mind,and melt your cold cold heart


"HONKY TONK BLUES"

[E]Well I left my home down on the rural route
I told my paw I'm going steppin out and get the
[A7] Honky tonk blues,
Yeah the honky tonk [E] blues
Well [B7] lord I got 'em,
I got the ho-on-ky tonk [E] blues.

[E] Well I went to a dance and I wore out my shoes
woke up this mornin wishin I could lose
them jumpin [A7] honky tonk blues,
Yeah the honky tonk [E]blues
Well [B7] lord I got 'em,
I got the ho-on-ky tonk [E] blues.

Solo [E] [A] [E] [B7]

[E]Well I stopped into every place in town
this city life has really got me down
I got [A7] the honky tonk blues,
Yeah the honky tonk [E]blues
Well [B7] lord I got em,
got the ho-on-ky tonk [E] blues.

[E] I'm gonna tuck my worries underneath my arm
And scat right back to my pappy's farm
And leave these [A7] honky tonk blues,
Yeah the honky tonk [E] blues
[B7] Well lord I got 'em,
I got the ho-on-ky tonk [E] blues.

unrecorded last verse (from KPFA, ~1993)

When I get home to my Ma and Pa,
I know they're gonna lay down the law.
About the honky tonk blues,
Them jumpin' honkty tonk blues.
Lord I'm suffrin' with the honky tonk blues.


You'll never know how much it hurts to see you sit and cry
You know you need and want my love yet you're afraid to try
Why do you run and hide from life,to try it just ain't smart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart

There was a time when I believed that you belonged to me
But now I know your heart is shackled to a memory
The more I learn to care for you,the more we drift apart
Why can't I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart


"HEY, GOOD LOOKIN'"

Words and music by Hank Williams, Sr.

Hey, [C] Hey, Good Lookin', whatcha got cookin'
[D7] How's about cookin' [G7] somethin' up with [C] me ... [G7]
[C] Hey, sweet baby, don't you think maybe
[D7] We could find us a [G7] brand new reci-[C] pe. ... [C7]

I got a [F] hot rod Ford and a [C] two dollar bill
And [F] I know a spot right [C] over the hill
[F] There's soda pop and the [C] dancin's free
So if you [D7] wanna have fun come a-[G7] long with me.

Say [C] Hey, Good Lookin', whatcha got cookin'
[D7] How's about cookin' [G7] somethin' up with [C] me.

I'm free and ready so we can go steady
How's about savin' all your time for me
No more lookin', I know I've been (*tooken)
How's about keepin' steady company.

I'm gonna throw my date book over the fence
And find me one for five or ten cents.
I'll keep it 'til it's covered with age
'Cause I'm writin' your name down on ev'ry page.

Say Hey, Good Lookin', whatcha got cookin'
How's about cookin' somethin' up with me.

A View From The International Left-Against Black Nationalist Slanders of Marx and Engels

Workers Vanguard No. 1095	9 September 2016

Against Black Nationalist Slanders of Marx and Engels

We reprint the following article, with one minor factual correction, from Spartacist South Africa No. 13 (Spring 2015), newspaper of the South African section of the International Communist League (Fourth Internationalist).

Recently we have increasingly been hearing the charge that Marx and Engels were indifferent to the suffering and subjugation meted out by the European colonialists and that the founders of scientific socialism harboured racist views. This slanderous lie—long peddled by the Black Consciousness Movement, Pan-Africanists and other nationalists—is particularly common on university campuses. For instance, during our sub-drive campaign amidst the “Rhodes Must Fall” protests [against monuments to colonial pigs like Cecil Rhodes], we frequently argued with students who dismissed the ideas of Marx and Engels as inappropriate for the African context simply because they were European (white). This is the logic of so-called “intersectionality”—a view promoted by feminists, black nationalists and reformist leftists, among others—according to which if you haven’t personally experienced a particular form of oppression you can’t fight it. Such an approach denies the possibility of mobilising the proletariat to champion the cause of all the exploited and oppressed.

One proponent of this narrow nationalist anti-Marxist slander is Jackie Shandu, a nationalist demagogue who is head of Policy, Research and Political Education for the Economic Freedom Fighters (EFF) in KwaZulu-Natal. In an opinion piece filled with distortions, inaccuracies and outright lies, Shandu asserts: “In Marx, therefore, we are still dealing with a white supremacist that believed and stated that the only way forward for all of humanity is through Western intervention, paternalism and leadership” (“Battle for the soul of the Economic Freedom Fighters: Class first or race first?”, Daily Maverick, 18 December 2014).

What a load of crap! It truly beggars belief to claim that Marx was a “white supremacist.” During the bloody Civil War of 1861-65 that smashed slavery in the United States, Marx and Engels not only fully supported the abolitionist cause, but also actively fought to mobilise the British working class in support of a Northern victory. This effort contributed to preventing the British bourgeoisie from intervening on the side of the Southern Confederacy (the slave owners). Marx and Engels wrote extensively about the Civil War, which they saw as one of the century’s major battles, a social overturn and a harbinger of socialist revolutions to come. As Marx later wrote, in Volume I of Capital, “every independent movement of the workers was paralyzed so long as slavery disfigured a part of the Republic. Labour cannot emancipate itself in the white skin where in the black it is branded.”

As for their attitude toward the bloody crimes of the European colonialists, you just have to read Marx and Engels’ writings on the suppression of the anti-British Sepoy rebellion in India to see that they were anything but cheerleaders for colonial “paternalism.” For example, in May 1858, Engels wrote an article denouncing the atrocities in Lucknow, where the British army took the city, pillaged it, and then stole the land of the people they had just conquered and massacred. In that article, Engels wrote: “The fact is, there is no army in Europe or America with so much brutality as the British. Plundering, violence, massacre…are a time-honored privilege, a vested right of the British soldier.” Does that sound like indifference to colonial subjugation?!

While Marx and Engels always condemned the monumental crimes committed by the colonial powers against the peoples of Asia, Africa and the Americas, they also initially held the view that colonial penetration of such backward regions would be a vehicle for promoting their economic and social modernisation. For example, in 1853 Marx wrote, “England has to fulfill a double mission in India: one destructive, the other regenerating.” This view turned out to be incorrect. History would subsequently show that even though the advanced capitalist countries introduced certain elements of modern industrial technology into their colonies and semicolonies, the overall effect was to arrest the social and economic development of those areas.

Scientific socialism is based not on received wisdom but on observation and analyses of social reality as it develops. Marx and Engels learned from their observations, and would go on to develop a very different attitude toward colonialism. Particularly important in prompting the change in their views on the oppression of weak, backward states by stronger, more advanced ones was the major role that Britain’s hold on Ireland played in retarding the political consciousness of the English proletariat. By the 1870s, they began to advocate independence for Ireland. An indication of their later views on the colonial question is given by a letter that Engels wrote to Karl Kautsky in September 1882. In it, Engels points to the corrupting influence of stolen colonial booty on the proletariat of the advanced capitalist countries, and advocates independence for the colonies.

The most powerful refutation of the nationalists’ slanders of Marx and Engels is seen, however, not in their own writings and political activity, but in the revolutionary-internationalist legacy carried forward by later Marxists. Above all, by the Bolsheviks under the leadership of V. I. Lenin and Leon Trotsky, who led the working class to victory in the 1917 October Revolution. By ripping power out of the hands of the capitalist-imperialists, the October Revolution blazed the way not only for the proletariat of the West, but also the oppressed masses of the colonial world. After taking power, the Bolsheviks put an end to Russia’s involvement in the imperialist mass slaughter of World War I, and made public the secret treaties and deals that the various European powers had made to carve up the world among themselves. For example, in 1918 they published the Sykes-Picot treaty outlining the division of the Near East between the British and French imperialists.

These anti-imperialist acts were a concrete expression of the understanding that revolutionary Marxists must champion the national liberation of peoples subjugated by the advanced capitalist (imperialist) powers, as a necessary part of the struggle to overthrow the imperialist rulers through proletarian revolution from within. This understanding was hammered home by Lenin and other leaders of the early Communist International (Comintern), founded in 1919. For example, the “Twenty-One Conditions” adopted at the Comintern’s Second Congress in 1920 demanded that the Communist parties in the imperialist countries support “every liberation movement in the colonies not only in words but in deeds,” and carry out “systematic propaganda among their own country’s troops against any oppression of colonial peoples.” The “Theses on the National and Colonial Questions” adopted at the same Congress asserted the importance of “establishing the closest possible alliance between the West-European communist proletariat and the revolutionary peasant movement in the East, in the colonies, and in the backward countries generally.”

Compare this to the activities of the ANC and other African nationalists of the time, who were busy sending endless deputations to the British monarch and parliament, begging for this or that reform and all the while reassuring them of the loyalty of “his majesty’s subjects” in Africa. For example, the resolutions of the Second Pan-Africanist Congress, held in 1921 in London, demanded not the dismantling of the colonialist structures, but merely that “natives of Africa must have the right to participate in the [colonial] government as fast as their development permits.” These nationalist movements were not “revolutionary,” or even bourgeois-democratic, but rather advocated that the educated and “civilised” African elite be given an opportunity to work out with the imperialist powers a peaceful and ever-so-gradual transition from colonialism to neo-colonialism. While these would-be exploiters sometimes tried to mobilise popular support among the African toilers, their programme and class standpoint were always fundamentally hostile to the interests of the working people.

One just has to recall the saga of Kwame Nkrumah of Ghana, an idol of Pan-Africanism and “African socialism.” When the Trade Union Congress of Ghana prepared to call a 1950 General Strike in support of Nkrumah’s slogan, “Self-Government NOW,” he vacillated and tried to postpone the strike because he didn’t want to disrupt the negotiations with the colonial authorities then under way. When self-government was finally granted, in 1957, it was a “tidy” transition presided over by the colonial authorities, with the explicit blessing of the Duchess of Kent (acting as Queen Elizabeth’s official representative). After Nkrumah became Prime Minister of Ghana, the British imperialists continued to get their cut, while the bourgeois-nationalist government carried out a vicious anti-labour policy. In 1961, Nkrumah left his vacation in the Soviet Union early to participate in the crushing of the 1961 General Strike.

The same goes for the would-be heirs of Nkrumah, like Jackie Shandu and the EFF. Notwithstanding their rhetoric about “Marxism-Leninism” (which they combine with the Third World nationalism of Fanon), these self-declared “revolutionaries” seek to maintain capitalism and merely renegotiate the terms of imperialist subordination with “white monopoly capital” (with a bigger share of profits going to them and their cronies). For instance, prior to the 2014 elections Julius Malema, commander-in-chief of the EFF, invited investors to Alexandra township to assure them that their investments won’t be touched when they get into government. Slandering Marx and attacking Marxism is just the ideological expression of their class hostility to the proletariat.

Shandu and the EFF’s anti-Marxist, anti-working-class politics are combined with vicious nationalist demagogy in the service of the very same racist divide-and-rule that was promoted by the British imperialists and the apartheid rulers. Another one of Shandu’s recent opinion pieces (“A volatile case of Afrikan vs. Indian in KwaZulu-Natal,” 7 April 2015, Daily Maverick) peddles anti-Indian poison under the guise of championing the rights of black workers exploited by Indian bosses. In fact, the real aims of Shandu and the EFF have nothing to do with fighting the exploitation of workers at the hands of their bosses and everything to do with increasing the access of small-time black capitalists to tenders and markets at the expense of their Indian competitors. The same thing that animates outfits like the Mazibuye African Forum (which includes members of the EFF and the ANC, as well as the National Freedom Party, a split from Inkatha)—a black business forum that spews poisonous anti-Indian racism and organises anti-Indian mobilisations in support of the demand that Indians be excluded from access to BEE [Black Economic Empowerment] deals.

Among other distortions/lies peddled by the “economic freedom fighter” Shandu, is the claim that the Communist Party of South Africa (CPSA, the forerunner of the SACP) was “founded…under the slogan ‘White Workers of the World Unite’” and that the Communists “never ‘problematised’ race and racism in the South African context.” Though founded by white immigrant communists, the CPSA was not racist, as Shandu claims. Among its pioneering central leaders were people like David Ivon Jones and Sidney Percival Bunting, who were intransigent fighters against black oppression that fought to recruit black communists. Both Bunting and Jones had earlier split from the right-wing South African Labour Party (SALP) to form the International Socialist League (ISL). They split in opposition to both the racism of the SALP tops and their support for the imperialist First World War. At the First Congress of the ISL in 1916, Bunting moved that the new party “affirm that the emancipation of the working class requires the abolition of all forms of native indenture, compound and passport systems; and the lifting of the native worker to the political and industrial status of the white” (quoted in Allison Drew, Between Empire and Revolution: A Life of Sidney Bunting, 1873-1936). In 1919, Bunting condemned the white trade unions for their racist indifference to black workers, writing in The International: “It is humiliating to have to keep on emphasising that the essence of the Labour movement is Solidarity, without which it cannot win. The outstanding characteristic of the capitalist system in South Africa being its Native labour, the outstanding movement of the country must clearly be the movement of its Native labourers” (quoted in Edward Roux, S.P. Bunting: A Political Biography).

The ISL founded the CPSA in 1920 when it resolved to affiliate with the (Third) Communist International. Although people like Jones and Bunting fought for the party to turn its face towards the black working masses, other leaders of the early CPSA preferred an orientation toward the white trade union movement and were loath to combat the racism of this movement. In 1922, during the reactionary Rand Revolt strike, the Communist Party capitulated to the racist demands of white miners for preserving the colour bar in the mines. It was during this strike that the racist slogan of “Workers of the World Fight and Unite for a White S.A.” was raised (though not by the CPSA) amidst pogroms against blacks and Indians carried out by Afrikaner Commandos. While he was critical of the strike, Bunting didn’t raise his criticisms publicly during the strike. He rationalised their stance on the colour bar by maintaining that the party should struggle for improved working conditions for blacks.

In 1928, during the Sixth Congress of the Comintern, the Communist Party adopted the “Native Republic” slogan at the urging of the Comintern leadership. Although this slogan correctly pointed to the centrality of the task of black emancipation in South Africa, it saw the “Native Republic” as a capitalist republic, which was to be achieved as the first, bourgeois-democratic, “stage” of the South African revolution. Only later (at some unspecified time) was this supposed to be followed by a second, socialist, “stage.” Thus, the slogan basically took the fight for proletarian revolution off the agenda and instead cleared the way for the Communist Party to bury itself in the ANC (for more, see “South Africa—Early Years of the Communist Party”, reprinted in WV Nos. 991 and 992, 25 November and 9 December 2011).

The fact that nationalist demagogues like Shandu and Co. are today able to retail their alternative versions of nationalism as some kind of solution for the continued oppression of the black majority, is in no small part thanks to the continued betrayals of the SACP (and COSATU) reformist misleaders in pursuit of the Stalinist “two-stage” programme (called the “National Democratic Revolution” in South Africa). The “first stage” came in 1994 with the ascension of the ANC-led Tripartite Alliance to power and the establishment of a neo-apartheid system. As has been repeatedly demonstrated by a long history of Stalinist betrayals of proletarian revolution—from the 1927 Shanghai massacre to the decimation of the millions-strong communist movement of Indonesia in 1965—the “second stage” is not the socialist revolution but the bloody massacre of the workers by their erstwhile nationalist “allies,” like in the Marikana massacre of 2012.

Shandu, the EFF, and various other nationalists in the Black Consciousness and Pan-Africanist traditions, may today denounce the Marikana massacre and the ANC, but the reality is that the programmes they pursue are fundamentally no different from that of the ANC. Witness the ease with which the ANC has co-opted a good chunk of the AZAPO and PAC leaderships since 1994. In contrast, we Trotskyists never gave any support to the ANC-led Alliance, and told the truth in 1994, writing: “A vote for the ANC—including its Communist Party members and affiliated trade-union leaders of COSATU—is a vote to perpetuate the racist oppression and superexploitation of the black, coloured (mixed-race) and Indian toilers in a different political form.” We have a programme that points the way to the national liberation of the black majority and all of the non-white toilers through smashing neo-apartheid capitalism, establishing a black-centred workers government, and fighting like hell for the international extension of the revolution to the advanced capitalist countries. We fight for the political independence of the proletariat from all bourgeois parties—whether the ANC or EFF, PAC or AZAPO, or any other.

This programme is an application of Trotsky’s theory of permanent revolution to the specific conditions of South African capitalism, with its combined and uneven development and heavy overlap of racial oppression with class oppression. It represents a continuation of genuine Marxism. For this reason, we fight to politically smash the nationalist slanders of Marx and Engels, and to arm all those who want to get rid of racist capitalist exploitation with the political and theoretical weapons they left us.

From The Honduras Solidarity Movement-On The Assassination Of Berta Caceres

From The Honduras Solidarity Movement-On The Assassination Of Berta Caceres  

An Encore-Just Before The Sea Change - With The Dixie Cups Going To The Chapel Of Love In Mind

An Encore-Just Before The Sea Change - With The Dixie Cups Going To The Chapel Of Love In Mind

 

 

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

 

There were some things about Edward Rowley’s youthful activities, those that he thought would bring some small honor to his name, that he would rather not forget, things that defined his life, gave him that “fifteen minutes of fame,” if only to himself and his, that everybody kept talking about that everyone deserved before they departed this life. That “fifteen minutes of fame” business which he thought had been uttered by the Pop-artist Andy Warhol in one of his prankster moments, one of his New York high society put-downs, was fine by him even if it had been the result of some small honor thing.

The subject of that small honor done in the spurt of his youth that had defined a lot of what came later is what got him thinking one sunny afternoon in September about five years ago as he waited for the seasons to turn almost before his eyes about the times around 1964, around the time that he graduated from North Adamsville High School, around the time that he realized that the big breeze jail-break that he had kind of been waiting for was about to bust out over the land, over America. (His world view did not encompass the entire world or what was the same thing the "youth nation" part of that view but later after making plenty of international connections from here and there he could have said he was waiting for that breeze to bust out over the world.)

It was not like Edward was some kind of soothsayer, like some big think tank thinker paid well to keep tabs on social trends for those in charge so they didn’t get waylaid like they did with the “rebel without a cause” and “beat” phenomena or anything like that back in the 1950s that had them all scared like hell that society was going down in the ditch. No, it was like he could read tea leaves or tarot cards like some latter day Madame La Rue who actually did read his future once down at the Gloversville Fair when she had come to that location with her daughter, Gypsy Anne, one hot August week when he was about twelve. Madame that day read that he was made for big events. The big event that he was interested in just then was winning a doll, a stuffed animal or something like that for dark-haired, dark-eyed just starting to fill out  Gypsy Anne at the Skee game of which he was an expert at.


(For those clueless about Skee, have forgotten or have never spent their illicit youths around carnivals, small time circuses, or penny-ante amusement parks, the game is simplicity itself once you get the hang of it and play about 10,000 hours’ worth of games you roll small balls, which come down a chute once you pay your dough, or credit/debit card the way they have the machines worked nowadays, and you roll them like in bowling up to a target area like in archery and try to get a ton of points which gives you strips of coupons to win a prize depending on high your score is, and what you want. Like I say, simple.) 


And Edward did win his Gypsy Anne a stuffed animal, a big one, and got a very big long wet kiss for his heroics down by the beach when she gave her best twelve year old “come hither” look, not the last time he would be snagged by that look by her or any other women later (and by the way “copped a little feel” from that starting to fill out shape of hers and he finally solved, no, he solved for that one minute that budding girls turned to women were as interested in sex, or at least being “felt up” as the other guys around Harry’s Variety Store had told him  they were if approached the right way).  No way though that tarot reading when he was twelve left an impression, left him with that vague feeling about the big breeze coming, not then when his hormones drove his big thoughts, and not for a long while thereafter.

That big breeze blowing through the land thing had not been Edward’s idea anyway, not his originally although he swore by it once he thought about the possibilities of breaking out of Podunk North Adamsville, but came from “the Scribe,” the late Peter Paul Markin, a corner boy at Jack Slack’s bowling alleys on Thornton Street where he occasionally hung out in high school since he had been childhood friends with the leader of that crowd, Frankie Riley. Markin, despite a serious larcenous heart which would eventually do him in, read books and newspapers a lot and would go on and on about the jail-break thing on lonesome Friday nights when all the guys were waiting, well, just waiting for something to happen in woebegone North Adamsville where the town mainly went to sleep by ten, or eleven on Friday and Saturday night when Jack Slack’s closed late.  (For the younger set, Doc’s Drugstore, the place where he and Frankie hung in their younger days as well, the place where they all first heard rock and roll played loud on Doc’s jukebox by the soda fountain, every night was a nine o’clock close just when things were getting interesting as the shadows had time to spank vivid boy imaginations and you wonder, well, maybe not you, but parents wondered why their kids were ready to take the first hitchhike or hitch a freight train ride out of that “one-horse town” (an expression courtesy of the grandmothers of the town, at least the ones he knew, mostly Irish grandmothers with corn beef and cabbage boiling on their cast-iron stoves and smirks on their faces, if grandmothers could have smirks over anything, about how dear the price of everything was if you could get it a very big problem, including for Edward’s Anna Riley, where he first heard the words).

Here is where that big breeze twelve million word description thing Markin was talking about intersected with that unspoken trend for Edward (unknown and unspoken since the corner at Jack Slacks’ did not have a professional academic sociologist in residence to guide them since those “hired guns” were still hung up on solving the juvenile delinquency problem and so as usual were well behind the curve  and Markin, the Scribe as smart as he was, was picking his stuff up strictly from newspapers and magazines who were always way also behind the trends until the next big thing hit them in the face). Edward’s take on the musical twists and turns back then is where he had something the kids at North Adamsville High would comment on, would ask him about to see which way the winds were blowing, would put their nickels, dimes and quarters in the jukeboxes to hear based on his recommendations.

Even Markin deferred to him on this one, on his musical sense, the beat or the “kicks” as he called then although he, Markin, would horn in, or try to, on the glory by giving every imaginable arcane fact about some record’s history, roots, whatever which would put everybody to sleep, they just wanted to heard the “beat” for crying out loud. Edward did have to chuckle though when he thought about the way, the main way, that Markin worked the jukebox scene since he was strictly from poverty, from the projects, poorer even than Edward’s people and that was going some if you saw the ramshackle shack of a house that he and his four older brothers grew up in. The Scribe used to con some lonely-heart girl who maybe had just broken up with her boyfriend, maybe had been dateless for a while, or was just silly enough to listen to him into playing what he wanted to hear based on what Edward had told him.


But Markin was smooth in his way since he would draw a bee-line to the girl who just put her quarter in for her three selection on Jack Slack’s jukebox (Doc’s, sweet and kindly saint Doc whose place was a bee-hive after school for that very reason , had five for a quarter if you can believe that). He would become her “advisor,” and as the number one guy who knew every piece of teenage grapevine news in the town and whom everybody therefore deferred on that intelligence so he would let her “pick” the first selection, usually some sentimental lost love thing she could get weepy over, the second selection would be maybe some “oldie but goodie,” Breathless or At The Hop, which everybody still wanted to hear, and then on number three, the girl all out of ideas Markin would tout whatever song had caught his ear. Jesus, Markin was a piece of work. Too bad he had to end the way he did down in Mexico now lying in some unmarked grave in some town’s potter’s field back in the mid-1970s which guys from the old town were still moaning over.

That was Markin on the fringes but see Edward’s senses were very much directed by his tastes in music, by his immersion into all things rock and roll in the early 1960s where he sensed what he called silly “bubble gum” music that had passed for rock(what high priest Markin called something like the “musical counter-revolution” but he was always putting stuff in political bull form like that). Which, go figure, the girls liked, or liked the look of the guys singing the tunes, guys with flipped hair and dimples like Fabian and Bobby Rydell but was strictly nowhere with Edward. The breeze Edward felt was going to bury that stuff under an avalanche of sounds going back to Elvis, and where Elvis got his stuff from like Lonnie Johnson and the R&B and black electric blues guys, the rockabilly hungry white boys, and forward to something else, something with more guitars all amped to big ass speakers that were just coming along to bring in the new dispensation.

More importantly since the issue of jailbreaks and sea changes were in the air Edward was the very first kid to grasp what would later be called “the folk minute of the early 1960s,” and not just by Markin when he wrote stuff about that time later before his sorry end. Everybody would eventually hone in on Dylan and Baez, dubbed the “king and queen” of the moment by the mass media always in a frenzy to anoint and label things that they had belatedly found about out about and run into the ground.  But when folk tunes started showing up on the jukebox at Jimmy Jack’s Diner over on Latham Street where the college guys hung out and where families went to a cheap filling dinner to give Ma a break from the supper meal preparations it was guys like the Kingston Trio, the Lettermen, and the Lamplighters who got the play after school and some other girls, not the “bubble gum” girls went crazy over the stuff when Edward made recommendations.

He had caught the folk moment almost by accident late one Sunday night when he picked up a station from New York City and heard Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie songs being played, stuff that Mr. Dasher his seventh grade music teacher had played in class to broaden youthful minds, meaning trying to break the Elvis-driven rock and roll habit. So that musical sense combined with his ever present sense that things could be better in this wicked old world drilled into him by his kindly old grandmother, that Anna Riley with her boiling kettles and smirks mentioned before,   who was an old devotee of the Catholic Worker movement kind of drove his aspirations (and Markin’s harping with the political and so-called historical slant triggered by his own grandmother’s devotion to the Catholic Worker movement added in). But at first it really was the music that had been the cutting edge of what followed later, followed until about 1964 when that new breeze arrived in the land.

That fascination with music had occupied Edward’s mind since he had been about ten and had received a transistor radio for his birthday and out of curiosity decided to turn the dial to AM radio channels other that WJDA which his parents, may they rest in peace, certainly rest in peace from his incessant clamoring for rock and roll records and later folk albums, concert tickets, radio listening time on the big family radio in the living room, had on constantly and which drove him crazy. Drove him crazy because that music, well, frankly that music, the music of the Doris Days, the Peggy Lees, the Rosemary Clooneys, the various corny sister acts like the Andrews Sisters, the Frank Sinatras, the Vaughn Monroes, the Dick Haynes and an endless series of male quartets did not “jump,” gave him no “kicks,’ left him flat. As a compromise, no, in order to end the family civil war, they had purchased a transistor radio at Radio Shack and left him to his own devises.

One night, one late night in 1955, 1956 when Edward was fiddling with the dial he heard this sound out of Cleveland, Ohio, a little fuzzy but audible playing this be-bop sound, not jazz although it had horns, not rhythm and blues although sort of, but a new beat driven by some wild guitar by a guy named Warren Smith who was singing about his Ruby, his Rock ‘n’ Roll Ruby who only was available apparently to dance the night away. And she didn’t seem to care whether she danced by herself on the tabletops or with her guy. Yeah, so if you need a name for what ailed young Edward Rowley, something he could not quite articulate then call her woman, call her Ruby and you will not be far off. And so with that as a pedigree Edward became one of the town’s most knowledgeable devotees of the new sound.

Problem was that new sound, as happens frequently in music, got a little stale as time went on, as the original artists who captured his imagination faded from view one way or another and new guys, guys with nice Bobby this and Bobby that names, Patsy this and Brenda that names sang songs under the umbrella name rock and roll that his mother could love. Songs that could have easily fit into that WJDA box that his parents had been stuck in since about World War II.

So Edward was anxious for a new sound to go along with his feeling tired of the same old, same old stuff that had been hanging around in the American night since the damn nuclear hot flashes red scare Cold War started way before he had a clue about what that was all about. It had started with the music and then he got caught later in high school up with a guy in school, Daryl Wallace, a hipster, or that is what he called himself, a guy who liked “kicks” although being in high school in North Adamsville far from New York City, far from San Francisco, damn, far from Boston what those “kicks” were or what he or Edward would do about getting those “kicks” never was made clear. But they played it out in a hokey way and for a while they were the town, really high school, “beatniks.”  So Edward had had his short faux “beat” phase complete with flannel shirts, black chino pants, sunglasses, and a black beret (a beret that he kept hidden at home in his bedroom closet once he found out after his parents had seen and heard Jack Kerouac reading from the last page of On The Road on the Steve Allen Show that they had severely disapproved of the man, the movement and anything that smacked of the “beat” and a beret always associated with French bohemians and foreignness would have had them seeing “red”). And for a while Daryl and Edward played that out until Daryl moved away (at least that was the story that went around but there was a persistent rumor for a time that Mr. Wallace had dragooned Daryl into some military school in California in any case that disappearance from the town was the last he ever heard from his “beat” brother).

Then came 1964 and  Edward was fervently waiting for something to happen, for something to come out of the emptiness that he was feeling just as things started moving again with the emergence of the Beatles and the Stones as a harbinger of what was coming.

That is where Edward had been psychologically when his mother first began to harass him about his hair. Although the hair thing like the beret was just the symbol of clash that Edward knew was coming and knew also that now that he was older that he was going to be able to handle differently that when he was a kid.  Here is what one episode of the battle sounded like:                   

“Isn’t that hair of yours a little long Mr. Edward Rowley, Junior,” clucked Mrs. Edward Rowley, Senior, “You had better get it cut before your father gets back from his job working on repairing that ship up in Maine, if you know what is good for you.” That mothers’-song was being endlessly repeated in North Adamsville households (and not just those households either but in places like Carver, Hullsville, Shaker Heights, Ann Arbor, Manhattan, Cambridge any place where guys were waiting for the new dispensation and wearing hair a little longer than boys’ regular was the flash point) ever since the British invasion had brought longer hair into style (and a little less so, beards, that was later when guys got old enough to grow one without looking wispy, after they had taken a look at what their Victorian great-grandfathers grew and though it was “cool.” Cool along with new mishmash clothing and new age monikers to be called by after giving up their "slave" names.)

Of course when one was thinking about the British invasion in the year 1964 one was not thinking about the American Revolution or the War of 1812 but the Beatles. And while their music has taken 1964 teen world by a storm, a welcome storm after the long lonely mainly musical counter-revolution since Elvis, Bo, Jerry Lee and Chuck ruled the rock night and had disappeared without a trace, the 1964 parent world was getting up in arms.

And not just about hair styles either. But about midnight trips on the clanking subway to Harvard Square coffeehouses to hear, to hear if you can believe this, folk music, mountain music, harp music or whatever performed by long-haired (male or female), long-bearded (male), blue jean–wearing (both), sandal-wearing (both), well, for lack of a better name “beatniks” (parents, as usual, being well behind the curve on teen cultural movements since by 1964 “beat”  except on silly television shows and by “wise” social commenters who could have been “Ike” brothers and sisters, was yesterday’s news).

Mrs. Rowley would constantly harp about “why couldn’t Edward be like he was when he listened to Bobby Vinton and his Mr. Lonely or that lovely-voiced Roy Orbison and his It’s Over and other nice songs on the local teen radio station, WMEX (he hated that name Eddie by the way, Eddie was also what everybody called his father so you can figure out why he hated the moniker just then). Now it was the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and a cranky-voiced guy named Bob Dylan that had his attention. And that damn Judy Jackson with her short skirt and her, well her… looks” (Mrs. Rowley like every mother in the post-Pill world refusing to use the “s” word, a throw-back to their girlish days when their mothers did not use such a word either and so everybody learned about sex is some strange osmotic way out in the streets, in the school boys' and girls' lavs Monday mornings before school when some Ben or Lisa would lie like crazy about their sex bouts weekend, and from older almost as clueless older brothers and sisters just like now.)     

Since Mrs. Rowley, Alice to the neighbors, was getting worked up anyway, she let out what was really bothering her about her Eddie’s behavior, "What about all the talk about doing right by the down-trodden Negros down in Alabama and Mississippi. And you and that damn Peter Markin, who used to be so nice when all you boys hung around together at Jimmy Jack’s Diner [Edward: corner boys, Ma, that is what we were and at Jack Slack’s alleys not Jimmy Jack’s that was for the jukebox and for checking out the girls who were putting dough in that jukebox] and I at least knew you were no causing trouble, talking about organizing a book drive to get books for the little Negro children down there. If your father ever heard that there would be hell to pay, hell to pay and maybe a strap coming out of the closet big as you are. Worse though, worse than worrying about Negros down South is that treasonous talk about leaving this country, leaving North Adamsville, defenseless against the communists with your talk of nuclear disarmament. Why couldn’t you have just left well enough alone and stuck with your idea of forming a band that would play nice songs that make kids feel good like Gale Garnet’s We’ll Sing In The Sunshine or that pretty Negro girl Dionne Warwick and Her Walk On By instead of getting everybody upset."

And since Mrs. Rowley, Alice, to the neighbors had mentioned the name Judy Jackson, Edward’s flame and according to Monday morning before school girls’ “lav” talk, Judy’s talk they had “done the deed” and you can figure out what the deed was let’s hear what was going on in the Jackson household since one of the reasons that Edward was wearing his hair longer was because Judy thought it was “sexy” and so that talk of doing the deed may well have been true if there were any sceptics. Hear this:      

“Young lady, that dress is too short for you to wear in public, take it off, burn it for all I care, and put on another one or you are not going out of this house,” barked Mrs. James Jackson, echoing a sentiment that many worried North Adamsville mothers were feeling (and not just those mothers either but in places like Gloversville, Hullsville, Shaker Heights, Dearborn, Cambridge any place where gals were waiting for the new dispensation and wearing their skirts a little shorter than mid-calf was the flash point) about their daughters dressing too provocatively and practically telling the boys, well practically telling them you know what as she suppressed the “s” word that was forming in her head. She too working up a high horse head of steam continued, "And that Eddie [“Edward, Ma,” Judy keep repeating every time Mrs. Jackson, Dorothy to the neighbors, said Eddie], and his new found friends like Peter Markin taking you to those strange coffeehouses in Harvard Square with all the unwashed, untamed, unemployed “beatniks” instead of the high school dances on Saturday night. And that endless talk about the n-----s down South, about get books for the ignorant to read and other trash talk about how they are equal to us, and your father better not hear you talk like that, not at the dinner table since he has to work around them and their smells and ignorance over in that factory in Dorchester.  


And don’t start with that Commie trash about peace and getting rid of weapons. They should draft the whole bunch of them and put them over in front of that Berlin Wall. Then they wouldn’t be so negative about America."

Scene: Edward, Judy and Peter Markin were sitting in the Club Nana in Harvard Square sipping coffee, maybe pecking at the one brownie between them, and listening to a local wanna-be folk singing strumming his stuff (who turned out to be none other than Eric Von Schmidt whose Joshua Gone Barbados and a couple of other songs would become folk staples and classics). Beside them cartons of books that they are sorting to be taken along with them when they head south this summer after graduation exercises at North Adamsville High School are completed in June. (By the way Peter’s parents were only slightly less irate about their son’s activities and used the word “Negro” when they were referring to black people, black people they wished their son definitely not to get involved with were only slightly less behind the times than Mrs. Rowley and Mrs. Jackson and so requires no separate screed by Mrs. Markin. See Peter did not mention word one about what he was, or was not, doing and thus spared himself the anguish that Edward and Judy put themselves through trying to “relate” to their parents, their mothers really since fathers were some vague threatened presence in the background in those households.)

They, trying to hold back their excitement have already been to some training sessions at the NAACP office over on Massachusetts Avenue in the Roxbury section of Boston and had purchased their tickets for the Greyhound bus as far as New York’s Port Authority where they will meet others who will be heading south down to Mississippi goddam and Alabama goddam on a chartered bus. But get this Peter turned to Edward and said, “Have you heard that song, Popsicles and Icicles by the Mermaids, it has got great melodic sense.” Edward made a very severe off-putting “no way” face. Yes, we are still in the time just before the sea change after which even Peter will chuckle about “bubble gum” music. Good luck on your journey though, young travelers, good luck.