This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
On The
100th Anniversary Of Newly-Fledged German Communist Leader Rosa
Luxemburg And Karl Liebknecht-Oh, What Might Have Been-Honor Lenin.
By
Frank Jackman
History
in the conditional, what might have happened if this or that thing, event,
person had swerved this much or that, is always a tricky proposition. Tricky as
reflected in this piece’s commemorative headline. Rosa Luxemburg the
acknowledged theoretical wizard of the German Social-Democratic Party, the
numero uno party of the Second, Socialist International, which was the logical
organization to initiate the socialist revolution before World War II and Karl
Liebknecht, the hellfire and brimstone propagandist and public speaker of that
same party were assassinated in separate locale on the orders of the then
ruling self-same Social-Democratic Party. The chasm between the
Social-Democratic leaders trying to save Germany for “Western Civilization” in
the wake of the “uncivilized” socialist revolution in Russia in 1917 had grown
that wide that it was as if they were on two different planets, and maybe they
were.
(By
the way I am almost embarrassed to mention the term “socialist revolution”
these days when people, especially young people, would be clueless as to what I
was talking about or would think that this concept was so hopelessly
old-fashioned that it would meet the same blank stares. Let me assure you that
back in the day, yes, that back in the day, many a youth had that very term on
the tips of their tongues. Could palpably feel it in the air. Hell, just ask
your parents, or grandparents.)
Okay
here is the conditional and maybe think about it before you dismiss the idea
out of hand if only because the whole scheme is very much in the conditional.
Rosa and Karl, among others made almost every mistake in the book before and
during the Spartacist uprising in some of the main German cities in late 1918
after the German defeat in the war. Their biggest mistake before the uprising
was sticking with the Social Democrats, as a left wing, when that party had
turned at best reformist and eminently not a vehicle for the socialist
revolution, or even a half-assed democratic “revolution” which is what they got
with the overthrow of the Kaiser. They broke too late, and subsequently too
late from a slightly more left-wing Independent Socialist Party which had split
from the S-D when that party became the leading war party in Germany for all
intents and purposes and the working class was raising its collective head and
asking why.
The
big mistake during the uprising was not taking enough protective cover, not
keeping the leadership safe, keeping out of sight like Lenin had in Finland
when things were dicey in 1917 Russia and fell easy prey to the Freikorps
assassins. Here is the conditional, and as always it can be expanded to some
nth degree if you let things get out of hand. What if, as in Russia, Rosa and
Karl had broken from that rotten (for socialism) S-D organization and had a
more firmly entrenched cadre with some experience in independent existence.
What if the Spartacists had protected their acknowledged leaders better. There
might have been a different trajectory for the aborted and failed German
left-wing revolutionary opportunities over the next several years, there
certainly would have been better leadership and perhaps, just perhaps the Nazi
onslaught might have been stillborn, might have left Munich 1923 as their
“heroic” and last moment.
Instead
we have a still sad 100th anniversary of the assassination of two
great international socialist fighters who headed to the danger not away always
worthy of a nod and me left having to face those blank stares who are looking
for way forward but might as well be on a different planet-from me.
**************** FROM THE ARCHIVES- EVERY JANUARY WE HONOR, LENIN OF RUSSIA, ROSA LUXEMBURG OF POLAND
AND KARL LIEBKNECHT OF GERMANY AS THREE LEADERS OF THE INTERNATIONAL WORKING
CLASS MOVEMENT. HERE’S WHY WE HONOR LIEBKNECHT. In honor of the 3 Ls . The authority
of Lenin, leader of the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia in 1917, and Luxemburg, the
Rose of the Revolution, need no special commendation. I would however like to comment
on Karl Liebknecht who has received less historical recognition and has had
less written about him. Nevertheless, Karl Liebknecht apparently had the capacity to
lead the German Revolution. A man whose actions inspired 50,000 Berlin workers, under penalty of being
drafted to the front, to strike against his imprisonment in the middle of a
World War is self- evidently a man with the authority to lead a revolution. His
tragic personal fate in the aftermath of the Spartacus uprising of 1919, being
killed by counterrevolutionaries aided by his former comrades in the German
Social Democratic Party, helped condition the later dismal fate of the German
revolution in1923. History has posed certain questions
concerning the establishment of socialism that remains unresolved primarily to
due the crisis of leadership of the international labor movement. Although
Liebknecht admittedly was not a theoretician I do not believe that someone of Lenin's
or Trotsky's theoretical level was necessary after the Russian experience. To these
eyes Trotsky’s Theory of Permanent Revolution and Lenin’s Bolshevik
organizational concepts hold up pretty well after all this time, even with all
the negative experiences.What was
necessary was a leadership that assimilated those lessons. Liebknecht, given
enough time to study those lessons, seems to have been capable of that. A
corollary to that view is that one must protect leading cadre when the state
starts bearing down. Especially small propaganda groups like the Spartacists with
fewer resources for protection of leadership. This was not done. If you do not
protect your leadership you wind up with a Levi, Brandler or Thalheimer
(successively leaders of the German Communist Party in the early 1920’s) who
seemed organically incapable of learning those lessons. One of the problems with being the son of a
famous politician is that as founder of the early German Social Democratic
Party Wilhelm Liebknecht's son much was expected of Karl, especially on the question
of leading the German working class against German militarism. Wilhelm had done
a prison term (with August Bebel) for opposition to the Franco-Prussian War. As
for Karl I have always admired that famous picture of him walking across the PotsdamPlaza in uniform, subject to
imprisonment after loss of his parliamentary immunity, with briefcase under arm
ready to go in and do battle with the parliamentary cretins of the
Social Democratic Party over support for the war budget.That is the kind of leadership cadre we
desperately need now. REMEMBER HIS FAMOUS SLOGANS- ‘THE MAIN ENEMY IS AT
HOME’-‘NOT ONE PENNY, NOT ONE PERSON (updated) FOR THE WAR’. Wilhelm would have
been proud.
The
Trials And Tribulations Of Legendary Artist Jasper Johns-The Double Yoke Of
Being A Closeted Gay Man And Growing Up In Bible- Belt Southern America-It Was A
Close Thing.
By Ronan
Saint James
Ordinarily
I would not put the relationship between an artist and where he or she grew up
and under what conditions under too strong a microscope letting happenstance
and innate ability run its course as more determinative. But a recent trip to
the South, close to where the artist under discussion, legendary Jasper Johns he
of the Amerikkka flags, figures symbols, maps and other stuff hanging out of
his artwork like the inevitably spending a life measured by coffee spoons and
hence the need for coffee cans, grew up made me realize how close a thing it
was that he escaped from the desperate ghost town he grew up in down in
Allendale, South Carolina.
The
first thing you notice, no, that I noticed in one town, Travelers Rest, I
passed through was how many Baptist churches there were in a few mile area. I
counted something like fifteen along one short stretch which seemed impossible
given the size of the town and the actual population. Without knowing whether this
number of churches represented a church for each person in the town or reflected
various arcane theological differences it seemed frankly weird.
Living
in a Northeastern secular cultural enclave, a bubble if you like, this bears
more observation and study. All I know is that it goes a long way in describing
why we are as Frank Jackman of this publication has described on many occasions
a cold civil-these are partisans on the other side. Unless we can bridge some
unbridgeable gap the die seems to be cast-and not our way necessarily so we had
better dig in and organize like our lives depended on it.
Of
course when you talk about the South, about this South that a gay man like
Tennessee Williams wrote plays about and the general attitude of Baptists and other
evangelical toward gays then you have to address the long-term lovers’
relationship between Johns and fellow artist Ricard Rauschenberg and can
totally understand why Johns had to flee that berg for his life in the closeted
gay life 1950s. As a post-Stonewall, almost post-gay marriage man I feel though
I have very little understanding how hard it must have been to thrive under
those South Carolina circumstances. So hats off brother, hats off to your art
too which has given me many an enjoyable and thoughtful moment.
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of our international working class anthem ,"The Internationale".
As is always appropriate on international working class holidays and days of remembrance here is the song most closely associated with that movement “The Internationale” in English, French and German. I will not vouch for the closeness of the translations but certainly of the spirit. Workers Of The World Unite!
The Internationale [variant words in square brackets]
Arise ye workers [starvelings] from your slumbers
Arise ye prisoners of want
For reason in revolt now thunders
And at last ends the age of cant.
Away with all your superstitions
Servile masses arise, arise
We'll change henceforth [forthwith] the old tradition [conditions]
And spurn the dust to win the prize.
So comrades, come rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale unites the human race.
So comrades, come rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale unites the human race.
No more deluded by reaction
On tyrants only we'll make war
The soldiers too will take strike action
They'll break ranks and fight no more
And if those cannibals keep trying
To sacrifice us to their pride
They soon shall hear the bullets flying
We'll shoot the generals on our own side.
No saviour from on high delivers
No faith have we in prince or peer
Our own right hand the chains must shiver
Chains of hatred, greed and fear
E'er the thieves will out with their booty [give up their booty]
And give to all a happier lot.
Each [those] at the forge must do their duty
And we'll strike while the iron is hot.
________________________________________
L'Internationale
Debout les damnés de la terre
Debout les forçats de la faim
La raison tonne en son cratère
C'est l'éruption de la fin
Du passe faisons table rase
Foules, esclaves, debout, debout
Le monde va changer de base
Nous ne sommes rien, soyons tout
C'est la lutte finale
Groupons-nous, et demain (bis)
L'Internationale
Sera le genre humain
Il n'est pas de sauveurs suprêmes
Ni Dieu, ni César, ni tribun
Producteurs, sauvons-nous nous-mêmes
Décrétons le salut commun
Pour que le voleur rende gorge
Pour tirer l'esprit du cachot
Soufflons nous-mêmes notre forge
Battons le fer quand il est chaud
L'état comprime et la loi triche
L'impôt saigne le malheureux
Nul devoir ne s'impose au riche
Le droit du pauvre est un mot creux
C'est assez, languir en tutelle
L'égalité veut d'autres lois
Pas de droits sans devoirs dit-elle
Egaux, pas de devoirs sans droits
Hideux dans leur apothéose
Les rois de la mine et du rail
Ont-ils jamais fait autre chose
Que dévaliser le travail
Dans les coffres-forts de la bande
Ce qu'il a crée s'est fondu
En décrétant qu'on le lui rende
Le peuple ne veut que son dû.
Les rois nous saoulaient de fumées
Paix entre nous, guerre aux tyrans
Appliquons la grève aux armées
Crosse en l'air, et rompons les rangs
S'ils s'obstinent, ces cannibales
A faire de nous des héros
Ils sauront bientôt que nos balles
Sont pour nos propres généraux
Ouvriers, paysans, nous sommes
Le grand parti des travailleurs
La terre n'appartient qu'aux hommes
L'oisif ira loger ailleurs
Combien, de nos chairs se repaissent
Mais si les corbeaux, les vautours
Un de ces matins disparaissent
Le soleil brillera toujours.
________________________________________
Die Internationale
Wacht auf, Verdammte dieser Erde,
die stets man noch zum Hungern zwingt!
Das Recht wie Glut im Kraterherde
nun mit Macht zum Durchbruch dringt.
Reinen Tisch macht mit dem Bedranger!
Heer der Sklaven, wache auf!
Ein nichts zu sein, tragt es nicht langer
Alles zu werden, stromt zuhauf!
Volker, hort die Signale!
Auf, zum letzten Gefecht!
Die Internationale
Erkampft das Menschenrecht
Es rettet uns kein hoh'res Wesen
kein Gott, kein Kaiser, noch Tribun
Uns aus dem Elend zu erlosen
konnen wir nur selber tun!
Leeres Wort: des armen Rechte,
Leeres Wort: des Reichen Pflicht!
Unmundigt nennt man uns Knechte,
duldet die Schmach langer nicht!
In Stadt und Land, ihr Arbeitsleute,
wir sind die starkste Partei'n
Die Mussigganger schiebt beiseite!
Diese Welt muss unser sein;
Unser Blut sei nicht mehr der Raben
und der machtigen Geier Frass!
Erst wenn wir sie vertrieben haben
dann scheint die Sonn' ohn' Unterlass!
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of our international working class anthem ,"The Internationale".
As is always appropriate on international working class holidays and days of remembrance here is the song most closely associated with that movement “The Internationale” in English, French and German. I will not vouch for the closeness of the translations but certainly of the spirit. Workers Of The World Unite!
The Internationale [variant words in square brackets]
Arise ye workers [starvelings] from your slumbers
Arise ye prisoners of want
For reason in revolt now thunders
And at last ends the age of cant.
Away with all your superstitions
Servile masses arise, arise
We'll change henceforth [forthwith] the old tradition [conditions]
And spurn the dust to win the prize.
So comrades, come rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale unites the human race.
So comrades, come rally
And the last fight let us face
The Internationale unites the human race.
No more deluded by reaction
On tyrants only we'll make war
The soldiers too will take strike action
They'll break ranks and fight no more
And if those cannibals keep trying
To sacrifice us to their pride
They soon shall hear the bullets flying
We'll shoot the generals on our own side.
No saviour from on high delivers
No faith have we in prince or peer
Our own right hand the chains must shiver
Chains of hatred, greed and fear
E'er the thieves will out with their booty [give up their booty]
And give to all a happier lot.
Each [those] at the forge must do their duty
And we'll strike while the iron is hot.
________________________________________
L'Internationale
Debout les damnés de la terre
Debout les forçats de la faim
La raison tonne en son cratère
C'est l'éruption de la fin
Du passe faisons table rase
Foules, esclaves, debout, debout
Le monde va changer de base
Nous ne sommes rien, soyons tout
C'est la lutte finale
Groupons-nous, et demain (bis)
L'Internationale
Sera le genre humain
Il n'est pas de sauveurs suprêmes
Ni Dieu, ni César, ni tribun
Producteurs, sauvons-nous nous-mêmes
Décrétons le salut commun
Pour que le voleur rende gorge
Pour tirer l'esprit du cachot
Soufflons nous-mêmes notre forge
Battons le fer quand il est chaud
L'état comprime et la loi triche
L'impôt saigne le malheureux
Nul devoir ne s'impose au riche
Le droit du pauvre est un mot creux
C'est assez, languir en tutelle
L'égalité veut d'autres lois
Pas de droits sans devoirs dit-elle
Egaux, pas de devoirs sans droits
Hideux dans leur apothéose
Les rois de la mine et du rail
Ont-ils jamais fait autre chose
Que dévaliser le travail
Dans les coffres-forts de la bande
Ce qu'il a crée s'est fondu
En décrétant qu'on le lui rende
Le peuple ne veut que son dû.
Les rois nous saoulaient de fumées
Paix entre nous, guerre aux tyrans
Appliquons la grève aux armées
Crosse en l'air, et rompons les rangs
S'ils s'obstinent, ces cannibales
A faire de nous des héros
Ils sauront bientôt que nos balles
Sont pour nos propres généraux
Ouvriers, paysans, nous sommes
Le grand parti des travailleurs
La terre n'appartient qu'aux hommes
L'oisif ira loger ailleurs
Combien, de nos chairs se repaissent
Mais si les corbeaux, les vautours
Un de ces matins disparaissent
Le soleil brillera toujours.
________________________________________
Die Internationale
Wacht auf, Verdammte dieser Erde,
die stets man noch zum Hungern zwingt!
Das Recht wie Glut im Kraterherde
nun mit Macht zum Durchbruch dringt.
Reinen Tisch macht mit dem Bedranger!
Heer der Sklaven, wache auf!
Ein nichts zu sein, tragt es nicht langer
Alles zu werden, stromt zuhauf!
Volker, hort die Signale!
Auf, zum letzten Gefecht!
Die Internationale
Erkampft das Menschenrecht
Es rettet uns kein hoh'res Wesen
kein Gott, kein Kaiser, noch Tribun
Uns aus dem Elend zu erlosen
konnen wir nur selber tun!
Leeres Wort: des armen Rechte,
Leeres Wort: des Reichen Pflicht!
Unmundigt nennt man uns Knechte,
duldet die Schmach langer nicht!
In Stadt und Land, ihr Arbeitsleute,
wir sind die starkste Partei'n
Die Mussigganger schiebt beiseite!
Diese Welt muss unser sein;
Unser Blut sei nicht mehr der Raben
und der machtigen Geier Frass!
Erst wenn wir sie vertrieben haben
dann scheint die Sonn' ohn' Unterlass!
Click on title to link to the John Reed Internet Archive's 1919 "The Revolutionary Age" article by John Reed about his remembrances of the martyred great German communist leader, Karl Liebknecht.
EVERY JANUARY WE HONOR LENIN OF RUSSIA, ROSA LUXEMBURG OF POLAND, AND KARL LIEBKNECHT OF GERMANY AS THREE LEADERS OF THE INTERNATIONAL WORKING CLASS MOVEMENT. HERE’S WHY WE HONOR KARL LIEBKNECHT
In honor of the 3 L's. The authority of Lenin, leader of the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 in Russia, and Luxemburg, the Rose of the Revolution, need no special commendation. I would however like to comment on Karl Liebknecht who has received less historical recognition and has had less written about him. Nevertheless, Karl Liebknecht apparently had the capacity to lead the German Revolution. A man whose actions inspired 50,000 Berlin workers, under penalty of being drafted to the front, to strike against his imprisonment in the middle of a World War is self- evidently a man with the authority to lead a revolution. His tragic personal fate in the aftermath of the Spartacus uprising, killed by counterrevolutionaries, helped condition the later dismal fate of the German revolution, especially in 1923.
History has posed certain questions concerning the establishment of socialism that remains unresolved today primarily to due the crisis of leadership of the international labor movement. Although Liebknecht admittedly was not a theoretician I do not believe that someone of Lenin's or Trotsky's theoretical level of achievement was necessary after the Russian experience. To these eyes the Trotsky's theory of Permanent Revolution and Lenin's Bolshevik organizational concepts have stood the test of time, if mainly by negative experience.
What was necessary was a leadership that assimilated those lessons. Liebknecht, given enough time to study those lessons, seems to have been capable of that. A corollary to that view is that one must protect leading cadre when the state starts bearing down. Especially small propaganda groups like the Spartacists with fewer resources for protection of leadership. This was not done. If you do not protect your leadership you wind up with a Levi, Brandler or Thalheimer (successively leaders of the German Communist Party) who seemed organically incapable of learning those lessons.
One of the problems with being the son of a famous politician is that, as founder of the early German Social Democratic Party Wilhelm Liebknecht's son, much was expected of Karl, especially on the question of leading the German working class against German militarism. Wilhelm had done a prison term (with August Bebel) for opposition to the Franco-Prussian War. As for Karl I have always admired that famous picture of him walking across the Potsdam Plaza in uniform, subject to imprisonment after lost of his parliamentary immunity, with briefcase under arm ready to go in and do battle with the parliamentary cretins of the Social Democratic Party over support for the war budget. That is the kind of leadership cadre we desperately need now. REMEMBER HIS FAMOUS SLOGANS- ‘THE MAIN ENEMY IS AT HOME’-‘ NOT ONE PENNY, NOT ONE PERSON (updated) FOR THE WAR’.
EVERY JANUARY WE HONOR, LENIN OF RUSSIA, ROSA LUXEMBURG OF POLAND AND KARL LIEBKNECHT OF GERMANY AS THREE LEADERS OF THE INTERNATIONAL WORKING CLASS MOVEMENT. HERE’S WHY WE HONOR KARL LIEBKNECHT
******* Karl Liebknecht 1914
Liebknecht’s Protest Against the War Credits
Source: Liebknecht “Liebknecht’s Protest Against the War Credits,” Justice, 17th December 1914, p.1;
Transcribed: by Ted Crawford.
The “Berner Tagewacht” publishes the full text of Karl Liebknecht’s protest in the Reichstag against the voting of the war credits. The protest was suppressed in the Reichstag, and no German paper has published it. It appears that seventeen Social-Democratic members expressed their opposition to the credits on December 2, but Karl Liebknecht’s was the only vote recorded against them.
Liebknecht’s protest declares that “this war, which none of the peoples involved desired, was not started for the benefit of the German or of any other people. It is an Imperialist war, a war for capitalist domination of the world markets and for the political domination of the important countries in the interest of industrial and financial capitalism. Arising out of the armament race, it is a preventative war provoked by the German and Austrian war parties in the obscurity of semi-absolutism and of secret diplomacy.
“It is also a Buonapartist attempt tending to demoralise and destroy the growing Labour movement.”
“The German word of command ‘against Czarismus,’ like the English or French word of command ‘against militarism,’ has been the means of bringing forth the most noble instincts, the revolutionary traditions and hopes of the peoples, for the purpose of hatred among the peoples. Accomplice of ‘Czarismus,’ Germany, a model country of political reaction, possesses not the qualities necessary to play the part of a liberator of peoples ...
“This war is not a defensive war for Germany. Its historical character and the succeeding events make it impossible for us to trust a capitalist Government when it declares that it is for the defence of the country that it asks for the credits.
“A peace made as soon as possible and which will humiliate no one is what must be demanded. All efforts in that direction should be supported. A simultaneous and continual demand for such peace in all the belligerent countries will be able to stop the bloody massacre before the complete exhaustion of all the peoples concerned .....”
Liebknecht concludes his protest by declaring that he will vote in favour of anything that will lighten the hard lot of “our brothers on the field of battle, and those wounded and sick, for whom I have the warmest compassion .... But my protest is against the war, against those responsible for it, against those who are directing it; against the capitalistic ends for which it is being pursued, against the violation of the neutrality of Belgium and Luxemburg, against military dictation, and against the complete neglect of social and political duties of which the Government and the dominant class are guilty to-day.”
EVERY JANUARY WE HONOR, LENIN OF RUSSIA, ROSA LUXEMBURG OF POLAND AND KARL LIEBKNECHT OF GERMANY AS THREE LEADERS OF THE INTERNATIONAL WORKING CLASS MOVEMENT. HERE’S WHY WE HONOR ROSA LUXEMBURG
******* Reposted from the American Left History blog
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
*ROSA LUXEMBURG-THE ROSE OF THE REVOLUTION
BOOK REVIEW
ROSA LUXEMBURG, A LIFE IN THE INTERNATIONAL, RICHARD ABRAHAM, BERG PUBLICATIONS, OXFORD, UK, 1989
WOMEN'S LIBERATION THROUGH THE FIGHT FOR SOCIALISM
MARCH IS WOMEN'S HISTORY MONTH
If you need to know in depth, and you should, what Rosa Luxemburg’s contributions to Marxist theory were and about her struggles within various European left-wing socialist parties to fight for her revolutionary perspective then this is not the book for you. You need to read the compilation of her own works edited in Rosa Luxemburg Speaks or read one of her eminent political biographers like P. Froelich or P. Nettl. If, however, you need a short primer about Rosa’s theories and political struggles then this book can provide some insights about what it was like to be a leading revolutionary socialist woman in early 20th century Europe.
Mr. Abraham takes some trouble to go through the details of Rosa Luxemburg’s political education in the early socialist movement in Poland; her rise in the German Social Democratic Party that was her home base for most of her career before her assassination by right-wing soldiers in 1919; and, her various trials and tribulations in connection with the Bolsheviks, particularly over the question of the national right to self-determination for Poland and other oppressed nations. He, thankfully, spends far less time on Rosa’s personal life than that of Ms. Elizabetza Etttinger (see archives) whose biography of Rosa, while admirable in its way, nevertheless almost consciously avoids politics.
I, however, take issue with Mr. Abraham on two points, at least in part. He attempts off-handedly to sneak Rosa into the feminist camp. While feminism may be the fashion in late 20th and early 21st century it is not belaboring the point to note the contempt Rosa held for the feminism of her time. One cannot in fact understand her political career other than as one of seeing that women’s liberation would occur though socialist revolution, or not at all. That, dear reader, has nothing to do with feminism.
The second point is his emphasis on the efforts that Luxemburg made to create a ‘third way’ for Marxist development away from the sterility of bureaucratic German social democracy and the rigidity of Russian Bolshevism. This again is more of a posthumous attempt to use her orthodox Marxist approach to create something more than her theoretical projections would warrant. Otherwise what is one to make of her long term bloc with those very Bolsheviks in the pre-World War I period and of her almost pathological fear of breaking with the German SPD when it was time, in fact past time, to do so, I will definitely take arguments on these disputes.
I read political biographies mainly to get a background look at what makes the subject of the biography tick. After reading this book it struck me, as it did after reading Ms. Ettinger’s more personal account, that even revolutionaries, and particularly revolutionary women, cannot fully transcend the facts of their personal upbringing and their times. Clearly, Rosa was a liberated woman by any measure. However, I got the overwhelming feeling that she could never fully transcend the 'outsiderness' of being Jewish or of the terrible strain of breaking free of the mores of Victorian Europe. It may be a truism of Marxism but true nevertheless that it will take some generations before the ‘new’ man and women fully take on the attributes of socialist comradeship but after reading this book it is also clear that even the ‘vanguard’ intellectuals of the movement can only go so far in transcending their capitalist environment. Nevertheless, Remember Rosa Luxemburg-the Rose of the Revolution.
***Those
Oldies But Goodies…Out In The Be-Bop ‘60s Song Night- Betty Everett’s “It’s In
His Kiss”-The Hallmark Channel Should Have Hired Her As Technical Adviser
A link to a YouTube film clip of
Betty Everett performing her classic, It's In His Kiss.
By Sam Lowell
[For those not in the know of late I have
been in a so-called running battle with devotees of the Hallmark Channel especially
of late with their never-ending 24/7 Christmas programs which started back
around Halloween, I think. I have attempted, humorously attempted I thought
before the daggers came out, to give some “guidance” the scriptwriters, if there
are scriptwriters and the whole thing is not done on autopilot as I will
describe below, about taking some cues from Hollywood about the pacing and “sexing
up” of romance-etched films.
Those tongue in cheek efforts have resulted
in a firestorm of indignant responses (I am being kind here) from the
demographic that lives and dies by these annual feel good tear-in-the-eyes
productions from the channel. Productions which are only outdone by some of the
greeting cards they have put out for the last million years. I won’t bore the
reader with what most of the irate devotees had to say but go to the “source.” The
source being one Laura Perkins, my long-time companion and fellow writer at
this publication these days, who lives and dies by these shows seemingly like I
said before from about Halloween. She has cut me to the quick with remarks
starting from mild “heartless” to “lacking in manly virility and understanding
(ouch!)” to the sullen maybe I should go into “Babylonian captivity” meaning
exile, or worse, for the duration at least.
Yet if anything this onslaught has resolved
me to fight the good fight for social reality and more compelling fare on television
and the movies. A fight I have been fighting for the last forty some years as a
film critic/editor at a million publications, including various free-lance stints.
Let me run down the gist of these Christmas-etched productions since I have
accumulated a wealth of experience by osmosis having to work from home occasionally
with one of these episodes as background. Generally, the lead female actor, and
it is always centered on the anguished fate of some young twenty something white
professional female, is heading to her snow-flake filled suburban, small town growing
up hometown (No Los Angeles, Miami, New Orleans locales need apply although the
young woman may have fled the big city). That anguished part mentioned above is
that she has either dumped or been dumped, or is ready for either, with some wrong
gee guy as the foil (no young women need apply at least not for the lead).
At home she inevitably warms to the
hometown Christmas spirt she loved as a child before going out into the big
wide indifferent world. And, a big “and,” she runs into, or is run into, by
hometown Mr. Right whom she dumped in high school or ignored. That becomes the central
play as they draw closer, close enough to attempt to grab an errant kiss, or
kisses before the finale. The finale is always that consummated kiss (and
nothing else). No silky sheets, lust or cheap motels. Nada.
And you wonder why I mentioned that Betty
Everett could have been a technical advisor here, spiced things up. Yes,
indeed. Even Laura might grant that I am onto something here. S.L.]
It’s In His Kiss- Betty Everett
Does he love me? I wanna know! How can I tell if he loves me so? (Is it in his eyes?) Oh no! You need to see! (Is it in his size?) Oh no! You make believe! If you wanna know If he loves you so It’s in his kiss!
(That's where it is!) (Oh yeah! Or is it in his face?) no girls! It's just his charms! (In his warm embrace?) no girls! That's just his arms! If you wanna know If he loves you so It's in his kiss! (That's where it is!) yeah!! It’s in his kiss! (That's where it is!) Oh, oh, oh, honey ! Squeeze him tight! Find out what you wanna know! promise love, and if it really is, It's there in his kiss!
(How 'bout the way he acts?) no no no! That's not the way! You're not listenin' to all I'm sayin'! If you wanna know If he loves you so It's in his kiss! (That's where it is!) Oh, yeah! It’s in his kiss! (That's where it is!) Oh, oh, oh, hold him ! Squeeze him tight! Find out what you wanna know! promise love, and if it really is, well It's there in his kiss! (How 'bout the way he acts?) no no no! That's not the way! You're not listenin' to all I'm sayin'! If you wanna know If he loves you so It's in his kiss! (That's where it is!) Oh, yeah ! It’s in his kiss! (That's where it is!) mmmm ! It’s in his kiss! (that's where it is) mmmm is in his kiss
Well everyone knows by now that Jenny Dolan
and John, John O’Connor, the running back gridiron hero of the North Adamsville
football team, the one who almost single-handedly won them their state class
championship are postponing their plans to be married now that John has been
given a football scholarship to Boston College. See the love-bugs want to wait
to see how that pans out, and besides they have each other through thick and
thin so to wait is no big deal. But just in case that is not in the cards they
are together more these days and so John is not to be seen around Salducci’s
Pizza Parlor as much as in his old single days, or even as much as in his
“married” days, the days since he and Jennie became an item a couple of years
back.
For that matter Frankie Riley, the leader of
the pack, hasn’t been seen lately either, ever since his 247th “break-up"
with flame, Joanne, Joanne Doyle. That can only mean one thing; old Frankie is
out catting around before Joanne reins him in again. And Chrissie knows, Chrissie
McNamara knows damn well that Frankie is on the prowl because about twenty
minutes after he got his “walking papers” from Joanne this time he was on the
phone to Chrissie seeing if she was ‘available.’ “No dice,” said Chrissie and
not because she wasn’t interested in Frankie. A lot of girls were, a little.
Except “ball and chain” Joanne history meant that this was just Frankie lark
time. Besides Chrissie and Joanne had been friends longer than Joanne had known
Frankie and Chrissie liked Joanne, which is not what you could say about most
girls who knew Joanne. But this is not about Joanne and so it need not be gotten
into here.
What needs to be gotten into though is why
Chrissie is ambling into Salducci’s Pizza Parlor at ten o’clock at night, a
Thursday school night ten o’clock all by herself. Well, it ain’t for the pizza,
although the way Tonio, the zen master pizza maker and owner of the parlor,
makes those pizzas slather and slither is worth coming in for almost any time.
And it ain’t for Peter Paul Markin’s company, no way, not for a long time.
Peter Paul is “holding down the fort” just now while his “boss” Frankie is, as
is already known, out catting around. He probably already has made a note, a
mental note, that Frankie for the 27th time has “struck out” with Chrissie and
so maybe she wants his company. No way, no way that way, anyway. Peter Paul and
Chrissie have gotten friendlier, or Chrissie has, ever since Peter Paul started
getting into the be-bop folk music scene now growing by leaps and bounds in
Boston. They actually went to some coffeehouse over on Joy Street in Boston one
night with Frankie and Joanne. The latter pair couldn’t wait to leave (probably
because Frankie’s calling card, flannel shirt, jeans, work boots, and yah,
midnight sunglasses didn’t raise an eyebrow. Half the guys in the place looked
just like him, except maybe the sunglasses). But Chrissie and Peter Paul
thought it was fantastic. Just no romance, no way, got it.
What does have Chrissie’s attention is one
James Joseph Kelly, Fingers Kelly, who is sitting right next to Peter Paul at
the moment. Now Fingers Kelly used to have the moniker of "Five Fingers"
Kelly and for the squares out there that meant he was a clip artist and for the
real squarey squares that meant he took things from stores…without paying. In
other words he swiped things. But a couple of juvenile court appearances and some
manhandling by James Joseph Kelly, Sr. shorten his moniker to Fingers, fast.
Now what Chrissie wants to talk to Fingers about is why, why just a couple of
hours ago, did Fingers state to the best of his recollection that he did not want
to see one Christine Anne McNamara on Saturday night. And on that night take
her to the annual North Adamsville High School “Hi-Jinx” dance.
Now Fingers, Fingers Kelly, is wise enough to
the ways of the world, to know that if he doesn’t grab Christine Anne McNamara
with both arms when she is “after” him then some other guy (or guys) will be
more than happy to do so. See Chrissie, besides being the head cheerleader at
North is nothing but a fox. And Frankie, Fingers, hell even Peter Paul know
this fact. Tall, brownish blonde hair, a few freckles, nice legs, and a very
nice personality (has to be if Peter Paul thinks so) to go with that physical
description. And she is interested in lots of things besides corn-ball cheer
leading like that folk music stuff that was just mentioned. But Fingers has the
freeze on for her.
Fingers is not bad looking, kind of tall, somewhat
athletic (you had to be in his former career), not bad to talk to, but is
nothing if not just an okay guy. So the number one question, well, really the
number two question after how many days will it be before Joanne reins her
lover boy, Frankie, in, is why Chrissie is after Fingers so bad. And why
Fingers, knowing what he knows about North Adamsville high school guys, is not
waiting with bells on to take Chrissie to the dance. Well, you have not been
paying attention on that Finger’s part (Chrissie we will get to in a minute).
Finger, when he was Five Fingers, always had kale (cash, money, dollars, okay)
and was not afraid to spend it. But in his new life as just Fingers he is broke
more often than not. And see, he cannot go back to the five fingers way of life
because one Senior Kelly will bop him good. And old Senior, while we are at it,
is not lending sonny boy any dough (kale, okay) after forking out a ton of
money to keep one James Joseph Kelly, Junior out of reform school. So that is
the skinny, pure and simple. So if you have any loose change hanging around
ship it over Finger’s way, and thanks.
Now Chrissie is another matter. As already mentioned
Fingers is okay but just okay so it has to be something else. And it ain’t
dough (although she does not know that Fingers is broke, totally broke). And it
ain’t the no car for a Saturday night date. She said that she would borrow her
father’s car. Even Peter Paul is puzzled by this situation and usually he is
clueless about such “high” romance. The only thing anybody has come up with is
something that people noticed after Chrissie first’s heavy “parking” date (you
know what that is right, nobody is that square) with Fingers (a double date
because of Finger’s car-deprivation so it’s not what you think, not back seat
all hands and twists sex stuff ). For a couple of days after that she was all
dreamy-faced, all glowy and stuff. Humm.
Hint: For the serious squares, the clueless,
and any parents, any generation think about the title here.
From The Archives Of Marxism-Honor Lenin, Luxemburg and Liebknecht-Karl Liebknecht's Statement In Opposition To The German War Budget In 1914
Markin comment: The name Karl Liebknecht stands on its own and needs no additional comment from me. Except this. Every time some bourgeois congressman decides to get up the nerve to vote against one of the various parts of the American war budget just remember he or she, at worst, at least at worst for now, might not get reelected. Karl Liebknecht's stand led to charges of treason and jail. Yes, Karl Liebknecht's name stands on its own and needs no additional comment from me. Workers Vanguard No. 972 21 January 2010
Honor Lenin, Luxemburg and Liebknecht
(From the Archives of Marxism) In the tradition of the early Communist International, each January we commemorate the “Three Ls”: Bolshevik leader V.I. Lenin, who died on 21 January 1924, and revolutionary Marxists Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg, who were assassinated in Berlin on 15 January 1919 by the reactionary Freikorps as part of the German Social Democratic government’s suppression of the Spartakist uprising. Although not well known today, Karl Liebknecht’s name is synonymous with intransigent opposition to one’s “own” bourgeoisie in the crucible of imperialist war. Despite his individual opposition to German imperialism from the outset of World War I, on 4 August 1914 Liebknecht submitted to the discipline of the Social Democratic Party and voted for war credits along with the rest of the party fraction in the Reichstag (parliament). But Liebknecht became increasingly vocal in his opposition to the party’s betrayal of the proletariat. When the party fraction resolved to support a new vote for the Kaiser’s military budget at the Reichstag session of 2 December 1914, Liebknecht broke ranks and cast the sole vote opposing war credits. Liebknecht was prohibited from delivering a statement motivating his vote on the floor of the Reichstag or having it printed in the body’s official record. Barred from the German press, the statement was published in a Dutch socialist newspaper and translated into English in the Socialist New York Call. Below we reprint the statement as it appeared in the February 1915 issue of the U.S. leftist journal The Masses. Liebknecht’s stand inspired proletarian militants in Germany and internationally, not least in Russia, where the working class under the leadership of the Bolshevik Party would seize power in the October Revolution of 1917. In a May 1915 leaflet, Liebknecht declared, “The main enemy is at home,” which for generations afterward became the watchword for revolutionaries at a time of war between imperialist powers. As he denounced the slaughter of World War I at a May Day rally in 1916, Liebknecht was dragged from the platform and thrown into prison on charges of treason. Released in October 1918, Liebknecht along with Luxemburg founded the German Communist Party at the end of the year. They were assassinated two weeks later. In honoring the Three Ls, we fight to carry on their revolutionary tradition. As Liebknecht declared the day before his murder: “Whether or not we are alive when it arrives, our program will live, and it will reign in a world of redeemed humanity. Despite everything!” * * * My vote against the war credit is based upon the following considerations: This war, which none of the peoples engaged therein has wished, is not caused in the interest of the prosperity of the German or any other nation. This is an imperialistic war, a war for the domination of the world market, for the political domination over important fields of operation for industrial and bank capital. On the part of the competition in armaments this is a war mutually fostered by German and Austrian war parties in the darkness of half absolutism and secret diplomacy in order to steal a march on the adversary. At the same time this war is a Bonapartistic effort to blot out the growing labor movement. This has been demonstrated with ever-increasing plainness in the past few months, in spite of a deliberate purpose to confuse the heads. The German motto, “Against Czarism,” as well as the present English and French cries, “Against Militarism,” have the deliberate purpose of bringing into play in behalf of race hatred the noblest inclinations and the revolutionary feelings and ideals of the people. To Germany, the accomplice of Czarism, an example of political backwardness down to the present day, does not belong the calling of the liberator of nations. The liberation of the Russian as well as the German people should be their own task. This war is not a German defense war. Its historical character and its development thus far make it impossible to trust the assertion of a capitalistic government that the purpose for which credits are asked is the defense of the fatherland. The credits for succor have my approval, with the understanding that the asked amount seems far from being sufficient. Not less eagerly do I vote for everything that will alleviate the hard lot of our brothers in the field, as well as that of the wounded and the sick, for whom I have the deepest sympathy. But I do vote against the demanded war credits, under protest against the war and against those who are responsible for it and have caused it, against the capitalistic purposes for which it is being used, against the annexation plans, against the violation of the Belgian and Luxemburg neutrality, against the unlimited authority of rulers of war and against the neglect of the social and political duties of which the government and the ruling classes stand convicted.
“Advertisements for Myself”-Introduction by Allan Jackson, a founding member of the American Left History publication back in 1974 when it was a hard copy journal and until 2017 site manager of the on-line edition. [He’s back. Jack Kerouac, as described in the headline, “the king of the beats” and maybe the last true beat standing. That is the basis of this introduction by me as we commemorate the 50th anniversary of his untimely death at 47. But before we go down and dirty with the legendary writer I stand before you, the regular reader, and those who have not been around for a while to know that I was relieved of my site manage duties in 2017 in what amounted to a coup by the younger writers who resented the direction I was taking the publication in and replaced me with Greg Green who I had brought on board from American Film Gazette to run the day to day operations while I oversaw the whole operation and planned my retirement. Over the past year or so a million rumors have, had mostly now, swirled around this publication and the industry in general about what had happened and I will get to that in a minute before dealing with Jack Kerouac’s role in the whole mess. What you need to know first, if you don’t know already is that Greg Green took me back to do the introductions to an encore presentation of a long-term history of rock and roll series that I edited and essentially created after an unnamed older writer who had not been part of the project balled it all up, got catch flat-footed talking bullshit and other assorted nonsense since he knew nada, nada nunca and, about the subject having been apparently asleep when the late Peter Markin “took us to school” that history. Since then Greg and I have had an “armed truce,” meaning I could contribute as here to introductions of some encore and some origin material as long as I didn’t go crazy, his term, for what he called so-called nostalgia stuff from the 1950s and 1960s and meaning as well that Greg will not go crazy, my term, and will refrain from his ill-advised attempt to reach a younger audience by “dumbing down” the publication with odd-ball comic book character reviews of films, graphic novels and strange musical interludes. Fair is fair. What I need to mention, alluded to above, is those rumors that ran amok while I was on the ropes, when I had lost that decisive vote of no confidence by one sullen vote. People here, and my enemies in the industry as well, seeing a wounded Allan Jackson went for the kill, went for the jugular that the seedy always thrive on and began a raggedy-ass trail on noise you would not believe. In the interest of elementary hygiene, and to frankly clear the air, a little, since there will always be those who have evil, and worse in their hearts when “the mighty have fallen.”Kick when somebody is down their main interest in life. I won’t go through the horrible rumors like I was panhandling down in Washington, D.C., I was homeless in Olde Saco, Maine (how could that be when old friend and writer here Josh Breslin lives there and would have provided alms to me so at least get an approximation of the facts before spinning the wild woolly tale), I had become a male prostitute in New York City (presumably after forces here and in that city hostile to me put in the fatal “hard to work with” tag on me ruining any chances on the East Coast of getting work, getting enough dough to keep the wolves from my door, my three ex-wives and that bevy of kids, nice kids, who nevertheless were sucking me dry with alimony and college tuitions), writing press releases under the name Leonard Bloom for a Madison Avenue ad agency. On a lesser scale of disbelief I had taken a job as a ticket-taker in a multi-plex in Nashua, New Hampshire, had been a line dishwasher at the Ritz in Philadelphia when they needed day labor for parties and convention banquets, had been kicking kids out of their newspaper routes and taking that task on myself, and to finish off although I have not given a complete rundown rummaging through trash barrels looking for bottles with deposits. Christ. Needless to say, how does one actually answer such idiocies, and why. A couple of others stick out about me and some surfer girl out in Carlsbad in California who I was pimping while getting my sack time with her andthis one hurt because it hurt a dear friend and former “hippie girl” lover of mine, Madame La Rue, back in the day that I was running a whorehouse with her in Luna Bay for rich Asian businessmen with a taste for kinky stuff. I did stop off there and Madame does run a high-end brothel in Luna Bay but I had nothing to do with it. The reason Madame was hurt was because I had lent her the money to buy the place when it was a rundown hotel and built it up from there with periodic additional funds from me so she could not understand why my act of kindness would create such degenerate noise from my enemies who were clueless about the relationship between us. I will, must deal with two big lies which also center of my reluctant journey west (caused remember by that smear campaign which ruined by job opportunities in the East, particularly New York City. The first which is really unbelievable on its face is that I hightailed it directly to Utah, to Salt Lake City, when I busted out in NYC looking for one Mitt Romney, “Mr. Flip-Flop,” former Governor of Massachusetts, Presidential candidate against Barack Obama then planning on running for U.S. Senator from Utah (now successful ready to take office in January) to “get well.” The premise for this big lie was supposedly that since I have skewered the guy while he was governor and running for president with stuff like the Mormon fetish for white underwear and the old time polygamy of his great-grand-father who had five wives (and who showed great executive skill I think in keeping the peace in that extended family situation. The unbelievable part is that those Mormon folk, who have long memories and have pitchforks at the ready to rumble with the damned, would let a sinner like me, a non-Mormon for one thing anywhere the Romney press operation. Christ, I must be some part latter day saint since I barely got out of that damn state alive if the real truth were known after I applied for a job with the Salt Lake Sentinel not knowing the rag was totally linked to the Mormons. Pitchforks, indeed. The biggest lie though is the one that had me as the M.C. in complete “drag” as Elsa Maxwell at the “notorious” KitKat Club in San Francisco which has been run for about the past thirty years or so by Miss Judy Garland, at one time and maybe still is in some quarters the “drag queen” Queen of that city. This will show you how ignorant, or blinded by hate, some people are. Miss Judy Garland is none other that one of our old corner boys from the Acre section of North Adamsville, Timmy Riley. Timmy who like the rest of us on the corner used to “fag bait” and beat up anybody, any guy who seemed effeminate, at what cost to Timmy’s real feelings we will never really know although he was always the leader in the gay-bashing orgy. Finally between his own feeling and Stonewall in New York in 1969 which did a great deal to make gays, with or with the drag queen orientation, a little less timid Timmy fled the Acre (and his hateful family and friends) to go to friendlier Frisco. He was in deep personal financial trouble before I was able to arrange some loans from myself and some of his other old corner boys (a few still hate Timmy for what he has become, his true self) to buy the El Lobo Club, his first drag queen club, and when that went under, the now thriving tourist trap KitKat Club. So yes, yes, indeed, I stayed with my old friend at his place and that was that. Nothing more than I had done many times before while I ran the publication. But enough of this tiresome business because I want to introduce this series dedicated to the memory of Jack Kerouac who had a lot of influence on me for a long time, mostly after he died in 1969 ****** All roads about Jack Kerouac, about who was the king of the beats, about what were the “beats” lead back to the late Pete Markin who, one way or another, taught the working poor Acre neighborhood of North Adamsville corner boys what was up with that movement. Funny, because we young guys were a serious generation removed from that scene, really our fathers’ contemporaries and you know how far removed fathers were from kids in those days especially among the working poor trying to avoid going“under water” and not just about mortgages but food on tables and clothing on backs, were children of rock and roll, not jazz, the beat musical medium, and later the core of the “Generation of ‘68” which took off, at least partially, with the “hippie” scene, where the dying embers of the beat scene left off. Those dying embers exactly the way to put it since most of our knowledge or interest came from the stereotypes-beards before beards were cool and before grandfather times -for guys, okay, berets, black and beaten down looks. Ditto on black for the gals, including black nylons which no Acre girl would have dreamed of wearing, not in the early 1960s anyway. Our “model” beatnik really came, as we were also children of television, from sitcom stories like Dobie Gillis with stick character Maynard G. Krebs standing in for all be-bop-dom. So it is easy to see where except to ostracize, meaning harass, maybe beat up if that was our wont that day, we would have passed by the “beat” scene, passed by Jack Kerouac too without the good offices, not a term we would have used then, if not for nerdish, goof, wild and woolly in the idea world Markin (always called Scribe for obvious reasons but we will keep with Markin here). He was the guy who always looked for some secret meaning to the universe, that certain breezes, winds, metaphorical breezes and winds, were going to turn things around, were going to make the world a place where Markin could thrive. Markin was the one who first read Kerouac’s breakthrough travelogue of a different sort novel On The Road. Now Markin was the kind of guy, and sometimes we let him go on and sometimes stopped him in his tracks, who when he was on to something would bear down on us to pay attention. Christ some weekend nights he would read passages from the book like it was the Bible (which it turned out to be in a way later) when all we basically cared about is which girls were going to show up at our hang-out spot, the well-known Tonio’s Pizza Parlor and play the jukebox and we would go from there. Most of us, including me, kind of yawned at the whole thing even when Markin made a big deal that Kerouac was a working-class guy like us from up in Lowell cut right along the Merrimac River. The whole thing seemed way too exotic and moreover there was too much homosexual stuff implied which in our strict Irish-Italian Catholic neighborhood did not go down well at all -made us dismiss the whole thing and want to if I recall correctly “beat up” that Allan Ginsberg character. Even Dean Moriarty, the Neal Cassidy character, didn’t move us since although we were as larcenous and “clip” crazy as any character in that book we kind of took Dean as a tough car crazy guide like Sonny Jones from our neighborhood who was nothing but a hood in Red Riley’s bad ass motorcycle gang which hung out at Harry’s Variety Store. We avoided him and more so Red like the plague. Both wound up dead, very dead, in separate attempted armed robberies in broad daylight if you can believe that. Our first run through of our experiences with Kerouac and through him the beat movement was therefore kind of marginal-even as Markin touted for a while that whole scene he agreed with us that jazz-be-bop jazz always associated with the beat-ness was not our music, was grating to our rock and roll-refined and defined ears. Here is where Markin was always on to something though, always had some idea percolating in his head. There was a point where he, we as well I think, got tired of rock and roll, a time when it had run out of steam for a while and along with his crazy home life which really was bad drove him to go to Harvard Square and check out what he had heard was a lot of stuff going on. Harvard Square was, is still to the extent that any have survived like Club Passim, the home of the coffeehouse. A place that kind of went with the times first as the extension of the beat generation hang-out where poetry and jazz would be read and played. But in Markin’s time, our time there was the beginnings of a switch because when he went to the old long gone Café Nana he heard folk music and not jazz, although some poetry was still being read. I remember Markin telling me how he figured the change when I think it was the late Dave Von Ronk performed at some club and mentioned that when he started out in the mid-1950s in the heat of beat time folk singers were hired at the coffeehouses in Greenwich Village to “clear the house” for the next set of poetry performers but that now folk-singing eclipsed poetry in the clubs. Markin loved it, loved the whole scene of which he was an early devotee. Me, well, strangely considering where I wound up and what I did as a career, I always, still do, hated the music. Thought it was too whinny and boring. Enough said though. Let’s fast forward to see where Kerouac really affected us in a way that when Markin was spouting forth early on we could not appreciate. As Markin sensed in his own otherworldly way a new breeze was coming down the cultural highway, a breeze push forward by the beats I will confess, by the folk music scene, by the search for roots which the previous generation, our parents’ generation, spent their adulthoods attempting to banish and become part of the great American vanilla melt, and by a struggling desire to question everything that had come before, had been part of what we had had no say in creating, weren’t even asked about. Heady stuff and Markin before he made a very bad decision to quit college in his sophomore years and “find himself,” my expression not his, spent many of his waking hours figuring out how to make his world a place where he could thrive. That is when one night, this is when we were well out of high school, some of us corner boys had gone our separate ways and those who remained in contact with the brethren spent less time hanging out at Tonio’s, Markin once again pulled out On The Road, pulled out Jack’s exotic travelogue. The difference is we were all ears then and some of us after that night brought our own copies or went to the Thomas Murphy Public Library and took out the book. This was the spring of the historic year 1967 when the first buds of the Summer of Love which wracked San Francisco and the Bay Area to its core and once Markin started working on us, started to make us see his vision of what he would later called, culling from Tennyson if I am not mistaken a “newer world.” Pulling us all in his train, even as with Bart Webber and if I recall Si Lannon a little, he had to pull out all the stops to have them, us, join him in the Summer of Love experience. Maybe the whole thing with Jack Kerouac was a pipe dream I remember reading about him in the Literary Gazette when he was down in Florida living with his ancient mother and he was seriously critical of the “hippies,” kind of banged on his own beat roots explaining that he was talking about something almost Catholic beatitude spiritual and not personal freedom, of the road or anything else. A lot of guys and not just writing junkies looking for some way to alleviate their inner pains have repudiated their pasts but all I know is that when Jack was king of the hill, when he spoke to us those were the days all roads to Kerouac were led by Markin. Got it. Allan Jackson
*************
In Honor Of Jean Bon Kerouac On The 60th Anniversary Of “On The Road” (1957)
By Book Critic Zack James
To be honest I know about On The Road Jack Kerouac’s epic tale of his generation’s search for something, maybe the truth, maybe just for kicks, for stuff, important stuff that had happened down in the base of society where nobody in authority was looking or some such happening strictly second-hand. His generation’s search looking for a name, found what he, or someone associated with him, maybe the bandit poet Gregory Corso, king of the mean New York streets, mean, very mean indeed in a junkie-hang-out world around Times Square when that place was up to its neck in flea-bit hotels, all-night Joe and Nemo’s and the trail of the “fixer” man on every corner, con men coming out your ass too, called the “beat” generation. (Yes, I know that the actual term “beat” was first used by Kerouac writer friend John Clemmon Holmes in an article in some arcane journal but the “feel” had to have come from a less academic source so I will crown the bandit prince Corso as genesis)
Beat, beat of the jazzed up drum line backing some sax player searching for the high white note, what somebody told me, maybe my oldest brother Alex who was washed clean in the Summer of Love, 1967 but must have known the edges of Jack’s time since he was in high school when real beat exploded on the scene in Jack-filled 1957, they called “blowing to the China seas” out in West Coast jazz and blues circles, that high white note he heard achieved one skinny night by famed sax man Sonny Johns, dead beat, run out on money, women, life, leaving, and this is important no forwarding address for the desolate repo man to hang onto, dread beat, nine to five, 24/7/365 that you will get caught back up in the spire wind up like your freaking staid, stay at home parents, beaten down, ground down like dust puffed away just for being, hell, let’s just call it being, beatified beat like saintly and all Jack’s kid stuff high holy Catholic incense and a story goes with it about a young man caught up in a dream, like there were not ten thousand other religions in the world to feast on- you can take your pick of the meanings, beat time meanings. Hell, join the club they all did, the guys, and it was mostly guys who hung out on the poet princely mean streets of New York, Chi town, Mecca beckoning North Beach in Frisco town cadging twenty-five cents a night flea-bag sleeps (and the fleas were real no time for metaphor down in the bowels where the cowboy junkies drowse in endless sleeps, raggedy winos toothless suck dry the dregs and hipster con men prey on whoever floats down), half stirred left on corner diners’ coffees and groundling cigarette stubs when the Bull Durham ran out).
I was too young to have had anything but a vague passing reference to the thing, to that “beat” thing since I was probably just pulling out of diapers then, maybe a shade bit older but not much. I got my fill, my brim fill later through my oldest brother Alex. Alex, and his crowd, more about that in a minute, but even he was only washed clean by the “beat” experiment at a very low level, mostly through reading the book (need I say the book was On The Road) and having his mandatory two years of living on the road around the time of the Summer of Love, 1967 an event whose 50th anniversary is being commemorated this year as well and so very appropriate to mention since there were a million threads, fibers, connections between “beat” and “hippie” despite dour grandpa Jack’s attempts to trash those connection when the acolytes and bandit hangers-on came calling looking for the “word.” So even Alex and his crowd were really too young to have been washed by the beat wave that crashed the continent toward the end of the 1950s on the wings of Allan Ginsburg’s Howl and Jack’s travel book of a different kind (not found on the AAA, Traveler’s Aid, Youth Hostel brochure circuit if you please although Jack and the crowd, my brother and his crowd later would use such services when up against it in let’s say a place like Winnemucca in the Nevadas or Neola in the heartlands).
Literary stuff for sure but the kind of stuff that moves generations, or I like to think the best parts of those cohorts. These were the creation documents the latter of which would drive Alex west before he finally settled down to his career life as a high-road lawyer (and to my sorrow and anger never looked back which has caused more riffs and bad words than I want to yell about here).
Of course anytime you talk about books and poetry and then add my brother’s Alex name into the mix that automatically brings up memories of another name, the name of the late Peter Paul Markin. Markin, for whom Alex and the rest of the North Adamsville corner boys, Frankie, Jack, Jimmy, Si, Josh (he a separate story from up in Olde Saco, Maine and so only an honorary corner boy after hitching up with the Scribe out on a Russian Hill dope-filled park), Bart, and a few others still alive recently had me put together a tribute book for in connection with that Summer of Love, 1967, their birthright event, just mentioned. Markin was the vanguard guy, the volunteer odd-ball unkempt mad monk seeker, what did Jack call his generation’s such, oh yeah, holy goofs, who got several of them off their asses and out to the West Coast to see what there was to see. To see some stuff that Markin had been speaking of for a number of years before 1967 (and which nobody in the crowd paid any attention to, or dismissed out of hand, what they called “could give a rat’s ass” about in the local jargon which I also inherited in those cold, hungry bleak 1950s cultural days in America) and which can be indirectly attributed to the activities of Jack, Allen Ginsburg, Gregory Corso, that aforementioned bandit poet who ran wild on the mean streets among the hustlers, conmen and whores of the major towns of the continent, William Burroughs, the Harvard-trained junkie and a bunch of other guys who took a very different route for our parents who were of the same generation as them but of a very different world.
But it was above all Jack’s book, Jack’s travel adventure book which had caused a big splash in 1957(after an incredible publishing travail since the story line actually related to events in the late 1940s and which would cause Jack no end of trauma when the kids showed up at his door looking to hitch a ride on the motherlode star, and had ripple effects into the early 1960s and even now certain “hip” kids acknowledge the power of attraction that book had for their own developments, especially that living simple, fast and hard part). Made the young, some of them anyway, like I say I think the best part, have to spend some time thinking through the path of life ahead by hitting the vagrant dusty sweaty road. Maybe not hitchhiking, maybe not going high speed high through the ocean, plains, mountain, desert night but staying unsettled for a while anyway.
Like I said above Alex was out on the road two years and other guys, other corner boys for whatever else you wanted to call them that was their niche back in those days and were recognized as such in the town not always to their benefit, from a few months to a few years. Markin started first back in the spring of 1967 but was interrupted by his fateful induction into the Army and service, if you can call it that, in Vietnam and then several more years upon his return before his untimely and semi-tragic end down some dusty Jack-strewn road in Mexico cocaine deal blues. With maybe this difference from today’s young who are seeking alternative roads away from what is frankly bourgeois society and was when Jack wrote although nobody except commies and pinkos called it that for fear of being tarred with those brushes. Alex, Frankie Riley the acknowledged leader, Jack Callahan and the rest, Markin included, were strictly “from hunger” working class kids who when they hung around Tonio Pizza Parlor were as likely to be thinking up ways to grab money fast any way they could or of getting into some hot chick’s pants any way they could as anything else. Down at the base of society when you don’t have enough of life’s goods or have to struggle too much to get even that little bit “from hunger” takes a big toll on your life. I can testify to that part because Alex was not the only one in the James family to go toe to toe with the law back then when the coppers were just waiting for corner boy capers to explode nay Friday or Saturday night, it was a close thing for all us boys as it had been with Jack when all is said and done. But back then dough and sex after all was what was what for corner boys, maybe now too although you don’t see many guys hanging on forlorn Friday night corners anymore.
What made this tribe different, the Tonio Pizza Parlor corner boys, was mad monk Markin. Markin called by Frankie Riley “Scribe” from the time he came to North Adamsville from across town in junior high school and that stuck all through high school. The name stuck because although Markin was as larcenous and lovesick as the rest of them he was also crazy for books and poetry. Christ according to Alex, Markin was the guy who planned most of the “midnight creeps” they called then. Although nobody in their right minds would have the inept Markin actually execute the plan. That was for smooth as silk Frankie now also like Alex a high-road lawyer to lead. That operational sense was why Frankie was the leader then (and maybe why he was a locally famous lawyer later who you definitely did not want to be on the other side against him). Markin was also the guy who all the girls for some strange reason would confide in and thus was the source of intelligence about who was who in the social pecking order, in other words, who was available, sexually or otherwise. That sexually much more important than otherwise. See Markin always had about ten billion facts running around his head in case anybody, boy or girl, asked him about anything so he was ready to do battle, for or against take your pick.
The books and the poetry is where Jack Kerouac and On The Road come into the corner boy life of the Tonio’s Pizza Parlor life. Markin was something like an antennae for anything that seemed like it might help create a jailbreak, help them get out from under. Later he would be the guy who introduced some of the guys to folk music when that was a big thing. (Alex never bought into that genre, still doesn’t, despite Markin’s desperate pleas for him to check it out. Hated whinny Bob Dylan above all else.) Others too like Kerouac’s friend Allen Ginsburg and his wooly homo poem Howl from 1956 which Markin would read sections out loud from on lowdown dough-less, girl-less Friday nights. And drive the strictly hetero guys crazy when he insisted that they read the poem, read what he called a new breeze was coming down the road. They could, using that term from the times again, have given a rat’s ass about some fucking homo faggot poem from some whacko Jewish guy who belonged in a mental hospital. (That is a direct quote from Frankie Riley at the time via my brother Alex’s memory bank.)
Markin flipped out when he found out that Kerouac had grown up in Lowell, a working class town very much like North Adamsville, and that he had broken out of the mold that had been set for him and gave the world some grand literature and something to spark the imagination of guys down at the base of society like his crowd with little chance of grabbing the brass ring. So Markin force-marched the crowd to read the book, especially putting pressure on my brother who was his closest friend then. Alex read it, read it several times and left the dog- eared copy around which I picked up one day when I was having one of my high school summertime blues. Read it through without stopping almost like Jack wrote the final version of the thing on a damn newspaper scroll in about three weeks. So it was through the Scribe via Alex that I got the Kerouac bug. And now on the 60th anniversary I am passing on the bug to you.
Book Review
Atop The Underwood: Early Stories And Other Writings, Jack Kerouac, edited by Paul Marion, Viking Press, New York, 1999
For starters, for the benefit of the younger set, I should explain the word Underwood used in the title of this compilation refers to a typewriter, an ancient tool used by writers and others in pre-historical times (before the digital age) in order to more quickly tell what they had to say to the world. How primitive, right? Except, typewriter or word processor, a writer is still obliged to have a plan (or plans) to tell his woes to the world. Now I have spent considerable time in this space reviewing many of the major works of the “beat writer Jack Kerouac, including masterpieces of his generation (and my later one) like “On The Road”, “Dharma Bums”, and “Desolation Angels”. And rightly so. Now we come to a compilation of his early writings, thoughts, half –thoughts, sketches for thoughts and a few poems thrown in. In short, we are now in the stage of interest to the aficionado.
The editor of the compilation, Paul Marion, a younger fellow Lowell compatriot and writer of Kerouac’s has what can only be described as a labor of love in organizing this work. Jack Kerouac may not have always written material that was unalloyed gold but he wrote a ton of stories and ideas for stories starting from his youth in junior high school in Lowell. Marion has separated out the best or otherwise most representative of the work from about 1936 to 1943 (just before the decisive meetings with the New York crowd, Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Lucien Carr, etc., with whom he would make literary history as the core of the “beat” generation writers). For those who want to trace Kerouac’s evolution as a writer, what animated him at any given time, how he created that spontaneous writing form that he became famous for, or those who just want to be entertained by stories form the old days of the 1930s and 1940s this is good stuff to run through. For the rest us you NEED to read those three novels listed in the first paragraph, and you had better get to it.
