***Sometimes There Really Ain’t No Cure For The Summertime Blues-Hats Off To Mr. Eddie Cochran

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Eddie Cochran performing his schools out for the summer 1950s classic, Summertime Blues.

“Hey, school is going to be out for the summer next week Billy (or you fill in the name, the1950s billyjohnniejimmybobby name, or bettyjoannconnielinda name if you prefer), What you gonna do?” yelled girl magnet Frankie Larkin, Francis James Larkin, king of the North Adamsville Junior High School corner boy night and a guy who has his card filled for the summer. And if you are a billyjohnniejimmybobby teenage boy, maybe just made it to teenage boy (or girl but this is strictly a guy thing and the girls, well, the girls can speak for themselves and from what I hear they do every Monday morning at mandatory girl talk what happened over the weekend pre-school “lav” world-historic session) then your answer, my billy answer, is mope. Ya, you heard it right (and you secretly knew it was coming, sledgehammer coming, once I started talking about teen boys, or that Monday morning girls “lav” line-up). Mope.

Mope, maybe mope plus. Reason: one bettyjoannconnielinda, hell, let me just say it and get it over with, connie, did not give me encouragement one at the last dance of the last school dance. And so mope, and maybe leave my sweaty humid room for a drink of water, is what summer has in store for me to while away the summer until school gets back in session come September and back to the connie wars. Until then just dream trance that we, billy and connie we, are one (and more, importantly known as one), down at the seawall of old Adamsville Beach. Ya, you know the spot right between the toney Adamsville Yacht Club and the broken down North Adamsville Boat Club. And where billy mind’s eye can already see Frankie holding court with some bevy of Monday morning talked-out junior high high pecking order chicks (okay, okay girls).

But let me back up and give you the details, the gruesome details of that last dance school dance and mope. I got kooky about this connie (alright Connie) when she sat next to me in art class and we started, as things like that happen in junior high, spatting. Ya, spatting back and forth about this and that, the subject matter is not important but the meaning, the significance, the world- historic significance (did I say that before, oh well, I like the expression) of those exchanges, for those clueless about how 1950s boys and girls relate, is that spatting, you know, if you say this, she says that, and then you say that and she says this, is we are, well, interested in each other. Otherwise why go to all the bother of being contrary. Jesus, do you guys need a diagram? Well all this this-ing (sic) and that-ing (double sic) led to my asking her to the last chance to dance end of school dance to be held on a Friday night. I was happy, and I thought she was too.

I won’t kid you. I was sky high getting ready for this dance, got a new shirt, double- showered, put on some sticky deodorant, and some father’s bay rum concoction on my hair. And I looked okay (and she said I looked okay). And she looked great when I went to her house to walk her to school (come on you know as well as I do these junior high school dances aren’t going to be held at the Ritz or some place like that. And that would be a waste anyway because what matters is who you are with, or not with, not where the damn thing is held. Christ it could be in an airplane hangar for all we cared as long as the certain hes and shes were there and the music was loud (except that last chance dance, then you wanted it dreamy).

But enough of this, Let me get to that last dance and why I am moping, maybe moping plus. Things were set; the last song was The Dubs Could This Be Magic? Home run, right? Well, usually right. But the problem with the slow-mo last dance is that you can hear enough to actually talk. So when Connie asked me “Will you miss me this summer when my parents take the family for a vacation until mid-August?” I answered “No.” Wrong answer, way wrong answer. See I was still playing she says this and I say that. Kid’s spat stuff. When the dance was over she just walked away, and she hasn’t spoken to me since. So when Mister Eddie Cochran says in his song about his mopes that just finished on the radio “There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues,” he’s got it right, damn right. Excuse me; I have to go for a drink of water.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-The New Course - Magical Realism 101

The great Mandela cried, cried to the high heavens, for revenge against the son’s hurt, now that the son had found his way, a strange way but a way. Freed from prisons and placed in solitary barred, steel-barred root rooms to wager his personal bet, bet of his life, on freedom. Freed from manacle shackled past get aheads, go aheads, keep your head down to get ahead, eyes straight forward, no lefts or rights, hell, no, meet some nice working class girl, find some forty years, a pension and a gold watch, and produce, produce what. And prison freed from now sour bourgeois dreams, bobby (kennedy) dreams, okay, okay but that is what they were and one need not be a Marxist (or marxist) to know that road led to perdition and without even trying.

Ya, and that road, that bobby road, represented the character flaw, that certain tilting to the winds instead of against them like some old baby boy donkey ride Sancho Panza and his pal and all the windmills in Holland or Palm Springs could not change that. Ya, free, prison free and his dream hair grows a little longer each day and his dream beard begins to be bushy like some old time Old Testament archangel avenger of hurts, his own first and the other hurts. And like some righteous John Brown, just to name a name, a Calvinist avenger name, blown out of Kansas prairie fires and set smack daub in Harpers Ferry hellholes he cultivates that long flow hair and beard, dreamed.

But a dame, pardon me, 1971 women’s consciousness-raising and righteous too, a woman always comes with it, the dream hair and beard. One hard night, one tossed night some apparition out of a Puritan dream, all quakerly and severe, he saw some Croton-on-the-Hudson vision. A woman passed momentarily in fierce struggles, fierce outside the walls struggle, not noticed, not noticed until that night, not pretty, not blonde, not, well, not everywoman, but fierce, fierce in about six difference ways and maybe, just maybe capable of fierce loves.

Another hard night, tossed too, a free-form dream of Chicago, hog butcher to the world, wheat fields and wholesomeness just beyond in now no longer John Brown-like prairies. A daughter, some brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-skinned semite butcher’s, kosher butcher, maybe, daughter, who spoke of spirit dreams, and wrote blue-eyed poems and of goyim sillies, and he was happy, happy that she wrote of fierce blue-eyes just when he had been ready to throw in the towel. And then that certain character flaw, that fidget, that endless fidget, neither left or right, came in as he tried to have the whole world. Imagine that, imagine some fierce blue-eyed boy could shake all that, and forget those blue-eyed words in that blue-eyed poem. And shake (and forget) to endless sorrows. Hell, damn, hell.

This last time, the last restless night, came one out of hell Manhattan and one thousand and one anxieties, neuroses, and her own father time hurts. No righteous Hudson puritan or Midwestern semite daughter she. No, princess semite she. What a pair they will be. Remind me to tell you sometime how they met, dream met, in some snowy do-good cabin/assembly hall build to curse the darkness of one thousand wars and one hundred fights against those damn wars. And for a minute she, he, they were happy, happy in each other’s vagrant landless company. Then certain madnesses came forth. And short dope snorts, and peyote dream buttons, all mixed in sometimes blank, sometimes the door of perception but I just cribbed that, not the perceptions the thought, okay.

What a ride, lord, what a ride, and lusts and screams and crazed rants were just a little part of it before that damn fidget, what, redhead, blonde, dirty blonde, path crossed his way.

And fame, local lore fame, built out of impossible combinations of minute fortitude, hour righteousness, and day of reckoning, day of reckoning and passing with flying colors. And a certain swagger came to his feet in the high heaven black Madonna of a night. But no such feeling can (or, truth, should), last too long and in that Black Madonna night he began to fidget, fidget just a little. Some fidget ignited by refused dreams of white picket fences, dogs, and two point three kids (exactly two point three he never tired of saying as she, the Black Madonna, reddened at the thought). And he, he made for great leaps, and straw dogs. Hell it could have been easy, very easy but she couldn’t see it that way, and he didn’t except when he needed her refuge, lovingly or just shelter.


And on those shelter days no cigarette hanging off the lip now (she would not allow it see, not cool and it aggravated her condition, whichever one it was at the time. So no Winston filter-tipped seductions, no need, and no rest except the rest of waiting, waiting on the days to pass until the next coming, and the next coming after that.

Ah, sweet Mandela, turn for me, turn for me and mine just a little. He cursed the darkness on those days, and the light too, for he had made that leap that he only heard about in his head when he had had a few dreams and was feeling warrior king brave to take on all comers, tricky dick, vance packard, spiro agnew, hell even sparring a norman mailer now that they were on the same side (or at least he thought they were on the same side, same side advertising for themselves and their heroics, their armies of the night collective moment). And dreams of being right, ha.

Then one day some news came from above, no, hell no, not that above, the above of mundane chain-of-command drop down and let you know freedom day was near. Anti-climactic, anticlimactic for a man who expected to grow old in stir, and kind of dug it (excuse beat reversion memory of Harvard Square leavings when he thought this world would be some literary break-out and not righteous avenger of hurts, did I said his own first of all. If he didn’t, he lied).

Free at last but with a very, very sneaking feeling that this was a road less traveled for a reason, and no ancient robert frost blasted two roads to guide one… Just look at blooded Kent State, or better, blooded Jackson State. Christ.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-An Unexplained Interlude - Magical Realism 101

Twenty come and gone, dead. Old new uniform, resplendent college joe uniform complete with white-socked penniless loafers, gone, passed on to some Goodwill basket and mercifully back to all- weather, all-season patterned, usually, brown though, flannel shirts (yes, summers too, despite whacked out metabolisms that are out of synch, sweating, okay, perspiring, but we have been through that all before and the writer will just continue to write, write through rums sweats and wine sweats and whiskey neat sweats, gone are the slugfest whiskey working-class brave beer chaser days, and the quarters too, and take his chances, black chinos and, as if to put paid to those who wondered at the change and made surly comments about beat-ness, beatitude and the such, moccasins, comfortable, soft-feel moccasins, in a sea of penniless (mainly) white-socked loafers. Topped off, and gladly, since junior high Frankie Larkin king hell king of the junior league corner boy night times, remind me to tell you sometime about that mad man and his mad escapades but not now because we are discussing somber moods, midnight sunglasses to keep the rubes, the cheerleaders, and the plain nosy at bay.

New uniform too. Drunk, whisky high-shelf drunk, when in the chips, whisky back alley low shelf liquor store rotgut whisky drunk, when on the bum, drunk in some atlantic bayside bar, complete with mushrooming arrivisite boats of all sizes and descriptions although most look as seaworthy as the Titanic, looking at delicious nubile sights all dressed, or rather undressed in bikinis, halters and shorts, or any cool and look-able combination which I am too weary, too eye-candy weary to fully describe just now, for a while anyway.

Or some Southie hard week’s work done and quarters clinking gents only bar (ladies by invitation and accompaniment only so mostly manly rough-house and steady-handed drinking ) no adornments, nothing but hard stools and wet mahogany countertops with pickled eggs and other strange jerky things to work up hard thirsts, as if the thirst that I (and not just I) came in that unadorned, unpainted door (squeaky too) to quench needed aphrodisiac drunk, with beer chasers (just plunk down the extra quarter and bang).

Or some mondaytuesday wednesdaythrursday hangover drunk night spent neon-lighted in Kenmore Square chick-heavy dives like Skirt-Chaser’s Pub, High Heaven Angel Cafe, or Come And Get It Brother, If You Can Club (don’t look those google names up but I don’t need to draw you, you of all people, a diagram that here were meat market-worthy establishments filling the night with bare flesh, plenty is the hope, up from nowhere hope, high-end whiskeys (in the chips or don’t bother), and early morning romps along the Charles.

Drunk and no memories of old time North Adamsville, Irish town, faux Little Dublin town, Irish granite city old time quarries and sweat town, back in the day old time Wasp city of presidents but not lately town, simple storefront father and older brother bars used simply to get a few quick ones before home and bed, or after some convenient excuse softball games until one in the morning (or maybe two depending on blue law local rules for public houses versus cafes versus, hell, bowling alleys and brothels) And no memories of the first time Uncle Jim set me up for an underage wink, wink drink and the first few tastes went down hard, and I almost threw up and then the beer chaser (clink those quarters, please), settled me, and sleep, head on countertop sleep. And the shawlies howled at the moon for days (and secretly wink, wink proclaimed manhood, poor Uncle Jim’s sister there will be hell to pay before that young lad is done, no question) and then some midnight scandal between Miss Molly somebody and a very married (and child heavy) Mister Midnight Rider somebody took all of their attention away from some half-arsed (no sic here) teenage boy trying to quickly to raise manhood’s bar. That scene, that Uncle Jim who was held in bad odor for other misdemeanors by the shawlies on his own hook, would be filed for future reference and sixteen forms of comparison with their own sparkling white just gone to confession (daily confession it seems now that I think of it, why?) jimmies and kathies.

And damn if they were not right, maybe not future reference right but right on the basics the named bars, Joe’s, Jim’s, Irish Pub, Dublin Grille, Café, Club, to infinity, Artie’s Bayside Club, The Sea ‘n Surf (and six forms of cuddle up dancing, drunk as a skunk, but cutting a figure, and best, walking out midnight doors, hand in hand with some foxy red-headed twist out for just the night and heading to some small town home in the morning, some dark-eyed, black-haired beauty with dancing eyes and loose morals who was slumming just then looking for ocean-aired adventure and not kansas hayseeds and she, yes, she, and I quote, hit pay dirt, or some skinny brunette with a hollow leg who just wanted to walk along the adjacent beach but who for one more hollow leg drink, some gin and tonic thing, could be persuaded to watch the “submarine races”), The Shakers (strictly high-end WASP Philly girls looking for shanty irish thrills before marrying some third cousin stockbroker and bliss).

Names, nameless, no legion. Girls and gin get it, no gin no girl, no girl no gin, get it and no bliss and no dreams, no endless night dreams of dainty curves and longing caresses, get it. Endless dreams and endless longings. And whiskey, whiskey with fewer beer chasers.

And the 24/7/365 years fell down drunk. Then some staggered midnight vista street, some 1967 staggered midnight, no dough having spent the last quarters on some fruitless pina colada senorita no go, walking drunken streets cabs stopping for quick jack roller fares, or funny, real jack rollers coming up empty and mad, maybe killing mad. Walking, legs weak from lack of work and hour on hour of stool-sitting and stewing over pina colada no gos, brain weak, maybe wet, push on, push on, find some fellaheen relieve for that unsatisfied bulge, that gnawing at the brain or really at the root of the thing. A topsy-turvy time, murder, death, the death of death, the death of fame, murder, killing murder, and then resolve, wrong resolve and henceforth the only out, war, war to the finish although who could have known that then. Who could have known that tet, lyndon, bobby, Hubert, tricky dick war-circus thing then. And not drunk, get it.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-A New World A-Borning - Magical Realism 101

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Barry McGuire performing his generation of ’68 classic, Eve Of Destruction.

CD Review

1965: The Beat Goes On, various artists, 1988; Classic Rock 1965, various artists, 1987: Classic Rock 1965: Blow Your Mind, various artists, 1990: 1965:Shakin’ All Over, various artists, 1989, Time-Life Music.

North Adamsville teenage hometown mucks break-out, crying to be broken out of, desperately crying to be broken out of, aided and abetted by break-out musical sensibilities where the message and the messenger were at one. And who were trying to break out of, desperately trying to break-out of the piddle paddle language and the paddle piddle beaten note formulae that had been solid gold guaranteed to thrill, thrill to the marrow, every red-blooded generation of ’68 parent. The kids, well, the kids fell asleep, fell transistor blazing asleep in the cool night dreaming of adventure car hop hostesses, james dean shadow boys, and seaside lore pillowed back seat fogged window noche siestas.

Only at that moment, just that confused and unformed moment, break-out worthy or not, maybe unformed or not, others were trail-blazing after all we were, truth, clueless as to how far that music would take us, and how many acid-etched Dixie cup magic elixirs would have to be consumed before the music died, died of old age, old age at five or ten, and hubris, queen of the downfall night. And we danced, hampton beach surf danced, high building new york city tenement danced, iowa cornfield danced, some tulsa good night two-step danced, rockymountainhigh danced, taos caverns ancient flame shadow ghost-danced, and slipped in oblivion big sur danced, and danced, and died of old age and hubris at five or ten.

That break-out by the way, maybe not so much the physical break-out as getting mentally de-rutted, you know box out get ahead, go ahead, don’t make many waves, maybe a couple of faux waves for laughs, nothing serious and not taken so, just kid’s stuff done since kids eternity, get schooled, get married, get white picket fence housed, make fewer waves, have two point three kids, make fewer waves, have them do likewise and fade into that tepid splash apologetic wave of some long ago, ancient battered to smithereens clam shell stone cold night at Adamsville beach edge. So, yes, maybe not physical far break-out but far psychic break-out from small town, really small neighborhood, irish neighborhood, and ever those don’t air your dirty linen in public grapevine tap-tapping before the larcenies, adulteries, christ, using the lord’s name in vain, and you know what and whose lord, and worst, not church-going non-scared sacred heart parish show-ups that had the “shawlies” in a stew, gone done.

Gone, strangely gone, that minute anyway gone, as well was last year’s beat, really faux-beat style- which played to the rubes (and inflamed the ”shawlies”) AND fit very nicely, very nicely indeed, with midnight Harvard Square journey haunts, but that was last year, and big cloud puff imitation james dean shadow teen angst and alienation was the style. So gone also, like I said, this minute gone, were those all-weather, all-season (ya, summer too) brown-checkered flannel shirts, those mandatory, Frankie Larkin mandatory, king hell king of the schoolboy beat, ah faux-beat night, black chinos, uncuffed, of course, and those hades-bent work boots, clodhoppers really, although not gone, gone gone, those midnight sunglasses to protect against angst, alienation and barbs.

New age aborning new look. New minute look, so be forewarned. Multi-colored schoolboy jock, okay, okay, faux-jock, jacket worn, raider red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises of glory, won by default for long running service and not for glory, not for glory but for slows, but keep that between us, plaid shirt, all the possible shades of plaid if they exist purchased in the bargain center, pre-Wal-Mart night by frugal Ma but for once she hit it right, slacks, with cuffs, thank you, and loafers (sans pennies). Ya, strictly a college guy and no more mister nobody from nowhere but a guy who fit in, and he did, all the girls, all the blue-eyed, blond eight-million people weary Long Island transplants, all the dark-eyed senoritas tired of their own backwater small town grapevine whispers, all the Philly somebodies from somewhere out of a John O’Hara high society novel, were crazy to “check out” this specimen, this talk all night rap, rap irish boyo. And most importantly, most importantly for this boyos, check out or not, they were all not North Adamsville and shames, hidden desires and blunt candid-less-ness Irish girls.

New inner look too, cool, not beat cool but joe college cool, disaffected, looking off to far reaches and not suffering fools gladly cool, learned at Humphrey Bogart’s knee and perfected by some cat on a hot tin roof Paul Newman puffing madly to forget lost dreams of youth but who knew, although the newspapers were full of warning, hell we were going to live forever, cigarette, Winston or Marlboro, filtered, natch, just in case, just in case we were not going to live forever, not by mortality but by bomb boom boom in the cold war night. Yes, cool man jack cigarette, hanging from off the lip at some jagged angle, drawn deeply in and circles and smoke dreams created. More, amused girls also puffing to prove some equality, and some reflected man cool in that sexed-up, sex- maddened free time.

And get this, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, black, black against all advise, black since late schoolboy Hayes-Bickford Harvard Square drowses searching for that next word, and the next break-out, literary, political, hell, even social, in hand, a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. But mainly a look, a look of cool distain, of remove, of next please in the never-ending look game. Soon wearied of, very wearied, although not of looks, and glances.

One’s act, fitfully, artlessly but rightly was thereafter moved onto Boston fresh streets, and a little fame. Joe College minute gone, vanished like so much train smoke, and bad dreams. Dressed in blue flannel shirt, blue denim, moccasins and midnight, eternal midnight sunglasses, and dressed, ah, in freedom but no one saw that. Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not necessarily of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame. And then the music stopped, the crowds thinned out, the hardened Long Island transplants kept looking at guys in multi-colored jackets (although not always red and black), the Philly girls turned inward to their own crowd and began to dream of stockbroker mansions and riviera suntans, and the dark-eyed senoritas only knew of one night remembrances, and lust. Then sunk in the abyss of non-fame, non- recognition and not seen snarls, gentle or otherwise. A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.

And all this very big build-up to “sell” this compilation to those who want to know what music drove us on, how the music and the break-out meshed and how, frankly, we kept this side of paradise before the veil came down and we, one by one, got further schooled, got white picket fence housed and were satisfied, just a little too satisfied, to watch tepid apologetic waves hit the stone cold shore. But also for just one minute knew deep down in our collective spines, and it was collective from Beatles-crazed British invasion teenage be-bopper throngs trying to storm heaven when they touched down at some trembling New York airport to sweet-bitter summers of love rollicking in city commons to the great rural tribal gathering before the storm burst Woodstock Nation gluing to the Stones-etched Altamont flame-out crash and the ebb, what it was like for women and men to play rock and roll music for keeps. Ya.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-An Explained Interlude - Magical Realism 101

Shaved-head, close anyway, too close to distinguish that head, mine, or rather private soldier government- issue mine on loan after drafted 1969 drafted purgatories and anguishes, go, not go, go, not go, not go, go, jail, not jail, go, from the ten-thousand, no one hundred-thousand other heads, all shave-headed. No way that close-cropped head, or those ten thousand, no, one hundred thousand others , would survive the Harvard Square (square is right), Village, burned-over Haight-Ashbury night as anything but soldier tourists looking at long-haired freaks smoking dope in some impromptu Kasbah or some vagrant common lawn.

But that wistful thought is so much ancient history, so much bad karma, ghost danced against ancient painted cavern-etched shamanic bad karmic night, as the certitude, the absolute certitude, after only three, hell one for truth but three, on more, half-humid, half ground frozen (and I know, know from close observation just minutes ago after having “done ten” that half frozen) southern winter days (Georgia, hell-bent segregated Georgia places like Albany and Augusta, if not Atlanta) that go, no go, jail, not jail was decided the wrong way and that life from here on in would get quirky (nice way to put it, right, put it just short of facing phantom firing squads).

Start. Four in the morning madness but this time not falling into too much to dream sweet good night but cursing some stoolie “orderlie” who has just kicked off my blanket cover and yelled, yelled if you can believe that, right in my ear that if I was not up before he turned his head to yell at some other shaved head across from my bunk that I would be “doing ten (or was it one hundred, or one thousand)” in front of the whole company of fellow raw recruits on some sweet red clay Georgia earth, frozen okay, when the sun came up. Naturally the trap was set as he could turn his ugly government-issue head bunk away before I could even uncover that frizzy green blanket and so I was to be parlayed, relayed, surveyed and displayed before a motley of bleary eyed raws and done. An example, a horribly example of slovenliness that would get some rolling hills hayseed Ohio farm boy too scared to say yessir or no sir, some Kentucky un-shoed hills and hollows (ya, I know hollas) toothless illiterate dragged from mother womb coal veins, or some jet black ebony angel New York City street corner boy caught up in the court system, some petty larceny count to his credit, and warned, judge-warned, into the service, killed for lack of speed. Yes, that go, no go thing went the wrong way, way wrong, as I sensed those phantom firing squads closing in.

At peek of light, no food in stomach, no eyes, no open eyes, and in bare tee-shirt, white government-issued and two sizes two big just then, I fall down to the earth, spitting mud-flecked red clay, spitting dust, spitting, spitting out the stars over Alabama (oops Georgia, all these southern red clays seem so very much the same, or would on further inspection) that portent no good, no earthy good. Cold, cold cold as only a day time hot winter place can be night cold.
And I do “ten.” And then that ten, or the cold red clay doing of that ten, started a mental civil war between one government-issued private soldier and one warring government. Of such incidents great wars, and great struggles against war, swarm the earth, although the latter less frequently than one would suspect. Or hope.

Then those DNA-etched righteous furies kick-assed with my brain, those old time grandmother Catholic Worker stop the goddam wars and stop them now (exactly quoting Irish “shawlie” grandma wisdom, or else) reared their pug ugly (ur-government-issued ugly) head. And that shave-headed (as if shave-headed-ness had exposed on its surface for all the world to see as if written out longhand all the quaint, if shadow, last night I had the strangest dream, stop the war madness covered up by long-haired no thoughts and no risks ancient thoughts) red clay foam-flecked private soldier dreamed of crusades and leading great crusades, and marching men back into barracks and locking doors against the killing fields. And arguing with sneer-snickering (remembering only no sir or yes sir) Ohio farm boys, Kentucky rednecks hell-bent on tunnel-rat-dom like some great cosmic chain held them together, and black as night New York City street-wise (well, half-wise)corner boys this-if this is not murder, if this is not to slay, then what is? Come and face the phantom firing squads too, come cry out to high heaven against the madness, the madness of men, and madnesses stopped by men, by little no no siring men.

The die is cast, not as usual truthfully cast, not pure warrior in the frozen ground red clay night, not massive warrior-king leading home swords turned into plowshare armies, but solitary avenging angel cast, but cast. Dreams of running away to elysian fields (or mudded Woodstock farm mires), dreams of lost love (of girls left behind and of secret betrayals), dreams of not doing this or that youth-desired thing keep rearing back and certain character flaws, certain wise guy, small town corner boy (unknown to black knight New York City corner boys all wide-eyed) know-it-all cut corners character flaws stream in the hot, humid, footsore march.
But in the end the drum beat beat his beat, and fate.

Wild dreams, senseless wild dreams follow, follow in succession, day and night. Time has no measure, no measure at all and calendars only form fear for burning red eyes. Angels rage at hell’s door to no avail. Rant, mere rant against the barb wired fix. Sweats, real human sweats, ever present sweats in small airless rooms. Rooms not picked by man, or fit. The days of rage, rage against the light, and then the glimmer of the light. Fame, maybe unearned nickel and dime fame, as poster boy for break-out soldiers crying against the high hellish anguished night and murders, murders called by their right name. Then phantom firing squads turn to dust, ashes really, and free.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-A New World A-Borning - Magical Realism 101

North Adamsville teenage hometown mucks break-out, crying to be broken out of, desperately crying to be broken out of, aided and abetted by break-out musical sensibilities where the message and the messenger were at one. And who were trying to break out of, desperately trying to break-out of the piddle paddle language and the paddle piddle beaten note formulae that had been solid gold guaranteed to thrill, thrill to the marrow, every red-blooded generation of ’68 parent. The kids, well, the kids fell asleep, fell transistor blazing asleep in the cool night dreaming of adventure car hop hostesses, james dean shadow boys, and seaside lore pillowed back seat fogged window noche siestas.

Only at that moment, just that confused and unformed moment, break-out worthy or not, maybe unformed or not, others were trail-blazing after all we were, truth, clueless as to how far that music would take us, and how many acid-etched Dixie cup magic elixirs would have to be consumed before the music died, died of old age, old age at five or ten, and hubris, queen of the downfall night. And we danced, hampton beach surf danced, high building new york city tenement danced, iowa cornfield danced, some tulsa good night two-step danced, rockymountainhigh danced, taos caverns ancient flame shadow ghost-danced, and slipped in oblivion big sur danced, and danced, and died of old age and hubris at five or ten.

That break-out by the way, maybe not so much the physical break-out as getting mentally de-rutted, you know box out get ahead, go ahead, don’t make many waves, maybe a couple of faux waves for laughs, nothing serious and not taken so, just kid’s stuff done since kids eternity, get schooled, get married, get white picket fence housed, make fewer waves, have two point three kids, make fewer waves, have them do likewise and fade into that tepid splash apologetic wave of some long ago, ancient battered to smithereens clam shell stone cold night at Adamsville beach edge. So, yes, maybe not physical far break-out but far psychic break-out from small town, really small neighborhood, irish neighborhood, and ever those don’t air your dirty linen in public grapevine tap-tapping before the larcenies, adulteries, christ, using the lord’s name in vain , and you know what and whose lord, and worst, not church-going non-scared sacred heart parish show-ups that had the “shawlies” in a stew, gone done.

Gone, strangely gone, that minute anyway gone, as well was last year’s beat, really faux-beat style- which played to the rubes (and inflamed the ”shawlies”) AND fit very nicely, very nicely indeed, with midnight Harvard Square journey haunts, but that was last year, and big cloud puff imitation james dean shadow teen angst and alienation was the style. So gone also, like I said, this minute gone, were those all-weather, all-season (ya, summer too) brown-checkered flannel shirts, those mandatory, Frankie Larkin mandatory, king hell king of the schoolboy beat, ah faux-beat night, black chinos, uncuffed, of course, and those hades-bent work boots, clodhoppers really, although not gone, gone gone, those midnight sunglasses to protect against angst, alienation and barbs.

New age aborning new look. New minute look, so be forewarned. Multi-colored schoolboy jock, okay, okay, faux-jock, jacket worn, raider red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises of glory, won by default for long running service and not for glory, not for glory but for slows, but keep that between us, plaid shirt, all the possible shades of plaid if they exist purchased in the bargain center, pre-Wal-mart night by frugal Ma but for once she hit it right, slacks, with cuffs, thank you, and loafers (sans pennies). Ya, strictly a college guy and no more mister nobody from nowhere but a guy who fit in, and he did, all the girls, all the blue-eyed, blond eight-million people weary Long Island transplants, all the dark-eyed senoritas tired of their own backwater small town grapevine whispers, all the Philly somebodies from somewhere out of a John O’Hara high society novel, were crazy to “check out” this specimen, this talk all night rap,rap irish boyo. And most importantly, most importantly for this boyos, check out or not, they were all not North Adamsville and shames, hidden desires and blunt candid-less-ness Irish girls.

New inner look too, cool, not beat cool but joe college cool, disaffected, looking off to far reaches and not suffering fools gladly cool, learned at Humphrey Bogart’s knee and perfected by some cat on a hot tin roof Paul Newman puffing madly to forget lost dreams of youth but who knew, although the newspapers were full of warning, hell we were going to live forever, cigarette, Winston or Marlboro, filtered, natch, just in case, just in case we were not going to live forever, not by mortality but by bomb boom boom in the cold war night. Yes, cool man jack cigarette, hanging from off the lip at some jagged angle, drawn deeply in and circles and smoke dreams created. More, amused girls also puffing to prove some equality, and some reflected man cool in that sexed-up, sex- maddened free time.

And get this, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, black, black against all advise, black since late schoolboy Hayes-Bickford Harvard Square drowses searching for that next word, and the next break-out, literary, political, hell, even social, in hand, a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. But mainly a look, a look of cool distain, of remove, of next please in the never-ending look game. Soon wearied of, very wearied, although not of looks, and glances.

One’s act, fitfully, artlessly but rightly was thereafter moved onto Boston fresh streets, and a little fame. Joe College minute gone, vanished like so much train smoke, and bad dreams. Dressed in blue flannel shirt, blue denim, mocassins and midnight, eternal midnight sunglasses, and dressed, ah, in freedom but no one saw that. Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not necessarily of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame. And then the music stopped, the crowds thinned out, the hardened Long Island transplants kept looking at guys in multi-colored jackets (although not always red and black), the Philly girls turned inward to their own crowd and began to dream of stockbroker mansions and rivera suntans, and the dark-eyed senoritas only knew of one night remembrances, and lust. Then sunk in the abyss of non-fame, non- recognition and not seen snarls, gentle or otherwise. A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-Last Chance To Glance- Magical Realism 101

Main street walked, a brand new just off the assembly line wild dream 1964 Mustang just passed by (dark green, complete with sally, sassy blonde-haired sally from down the street, with big breasts and no brains, according to shawlie grapevine lore, but still with that green devil of a mustang paid for by some smitten man out for her midnight romp of local manhood, or men-hood according to Frankie Larkin school boy corner boy lore, and he should know). Cursed no car night shade walked, no dough for car walked, no dough for nothing walked, poor Pa out of work again. Out of work as the ships that keep North Adamsville afloat are now being built in more exotic locales, foreign places like Taiwan and Malta, wherever that is, and so he, unskilled, last hired, first fired, and built for hills and hollows coalmine childhoods and no waterlogged ocean belts, has no dough to spare. Nada.

So I walked, and only dreamed of cars, not some big deal car like Sally’s Mustang or the “boss” ’57 Chevy of my dreams (nothing but a girl magnet car, and choices too, take a number, girls), and the stuff of hard corner boy chieftain Billy Bradley’s reality but just something to get around in, something to make the girls raise their heads when I pass by, and not keep them pavement-bound while I flannel-shirted in all climes, black chinos un-cuffed in all climes, Chuck Taylor sneakers in all weathers, and midnight faux- beatnik sunglasses at all hours pass them walking by (by my lonesome, except when Frankie decides he has had enough of main squeeze Joann, or corners).

And not something, some car not girl, too complicated, mechanically complicated, either so that I would have to spent my time and no dough down the street at Stewball Stu’s homegrown garage waiting on his lordship to fix some silly thing in about one second like tightening something loose with the flick of a wrench, endlessly talk about his latest conquests (plural is correct, girl conquests, of course, what else could Stu talk about, and for real, I know because they, the girls, and not dogs either, talk about it at school, and giggle, giggle that giggle that means more than tender smooches, jesus), smell his stinking whiskey breathe (rotgut Johnny Walker something but not top shelf but more live Adams River streaked water, and his oil stained, oil-stained everything (clothes, tee-shirt, kitchen table, Christ, how can a guy live like that. Some girl magnet, who knows how or why but they take numbers to ride the curve with Stu, but that is just me being jealous because a couple of times I got his “left-overs.” So thanks, Stu, for the favors.

But see Pa out of work means no telephone, and no dough to put in a telephone or keep it at the ready that is how close to the vest we have to play it when Pa gets his slip, not even a cheapjack two-party line that they, AT&T, practically give away. So this night I am not just walking, Main Street walking for the hell of it, but to rub a few dimes together and find the nearest public telephone to do my talking into. What it’s about, the talking, I will get to in a minute but let me tell you that this nearest phone is located right next to the Minute Motel. Come on, don’t you get it, that is not the real name of the place but do I have to draw you a picture? This is strictly for the “high society” crowd that does their business by the hour, or less. Day and night it seems, there are always cars pulling in and out. Not ‘57 Chevies, those and their Billy Bradley corner boy owners are down at Adamsville Beach or a t Squaw Rock down across from the far end of the beach watching the “submarine races” at midnight for free but more old guy cars. Buicks and Pontiacs. And seeing the traffic going and out of that joint, and why, what goes on, only makes my “job” for this evening that much harder.

See I have been walking this night for a while, a couple of hours, trying to get up enough courage to call this Diana, a girl classmate for a date. Diana, a greek goddess wholesale (although I don’t think she is greek or wholesale but I have her headed that way, that pedestal way), on this atlantic ocean strictly from hunger working class town means streets is who has me walking (and truth to tell kind of muttering to myself, she was that kind of girl). Naturally, Diana is not her real name just like that hotel, motel, no tell was not really called the Minute Motel, I don’t want any trouble okay, and I will tell you why as I get along with what I want to talk to her about. Don’t worry it won’t be long.

This Diana and I have been talking, hard and kind of deep talking in school about world issues, music, poets, crazed poets like mad monk Allen Ginsburg and not so crazed T.S. Eliot (we read Wasteland together in class, wow). Hard talking about the big break-out we know is coming, about how things are going to be totally different for us when our time comes with no Pa out of work and always no dough, or not enough, and we want to be part of it. (See, she told me in confidence, her Pa was on the chopping block down at the shipyards too so she knows about no dough, and sniffed dreams too.) So I take her seriously, and she, I think, takes me seriously although she never has had anything good to say about Frankie, Frankie Larkin, my corner boy, but that is because he tried to give her a tumble, I think, and she knew he was always ball and chain to Joann, or corners. That part isn’t important anyway. What is important is that I dream of her, no, I’d better say she disturbs my sleep and be closer to the truth.

And here is why. Diana, blonde, naturally blonde, Diana, fills out a cashmere-sweater nicely thank you, white tennis –shoed like every other girl in town but showing off some very nice, well-turned legs, thank you. So you can see where she might disturb my sleep because usually I go for girls who want to be part of the great breakout, just like me, but who well, since I am trying to keep my emotions in check before I make this call are only “cute,” at best. Although they too wear those white tennis shoes while reading their James Joyce or Albert Camus (ya, it’s that kind of crowd I run with over in Harvard Square when I have had my fill of North Adamsville squares, excepting Diana). See I am making this call, this midnight big time call to ask Diana to go on over to the Square with me, just as friends, see.

Right now as you can sense I bet I am only talking to stall, stall having to do this call, cold call really, because I don’t know that much about her personally and my intelligence network (Sunday night corner boy guys hanging around the boys’ lav on Monday morning speaking of conquests, and other lies) has run cold to the ground. All I really know about her is that she wants to break-out and that is good enough for me, and good enough to disturb my sleep lately until I play my hand out.

So I am seeking this public telephone, or rather courage-seeking, nickel and dime courage as it turns out; nickel and dime courage when due to no fault of my own (or Pa’s really when I thought about it) home provided no sanctuary for snuggle-eared delights. Maybe a date, maybe just a swirl at midnight drift, maybe a view of local lore submarine races, ah, to dream, no more than to dream, walking down friendly aisles, arm and arm along with myriad other arm and arm walkers on high school senior errands. Diana

I drop the dime in ring, ring, ring. Hi, Diana, hi spiel, and then, and then nothingness. No way, no way, damn intelligence no way, see she has a boyfriend, a college guy, probably all done up in plaid shirts, slacks, be serious, slack, and pennied loafers, and that is where her dream break-out was running. And then dead of night red-face right away, sorry, I didn’t know, alas, red-faced the next day, red faced until parted june freedom fly-out.

And red-faced even forty years later. Wow.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-The Slows Don’t Knows- Magical Realism 101

Sweated dust bowl nights, maybe dog day July or August, as my memory’s eye keeps returning to sweated scenes those months inevitably play their assigned sullen-producing role. After all who would, metabolism whacked out or not, temperature climes hard-wired genetically fixed or not, sweat (really perspire but we will not hang the writer on that, okay) in say January or early February in cold northern hemisphere artic winds drift. But let’s just call it sweated, hand the guy a towel or handkerchief and let him run himself silly this moonless dank night (something more was needed, something more of a handkerchief, than that old railroad man’s rusted red one found in some abandoned track siding on another sweated night, that time working his furrowed eyebrow to freedom roads, freedom roads before his time, before his generation’s on the road time, and certainly before magical mystery tour yellow brick road search for the great multi-hued America West nights time, and finding them, for a while).

The night part is easy, a little cooler time for our sweated boy, but the dust bowl part stands in need of explanation. Simple explanation really, for those who have been around a track. No, not tout track, bet your life on the next sure thing and happiness track, a running Olympic track and field track. A boyhood North Adamsville Hollis Field track which doubled as kickass practice football tract come fall. But year round a running track. Oh, I forgot, and this will tell you sometime about the damn place, five laps to a mile. Aficionados will laugh, so laugh knowing that in all the English –speaking world, at least in the 1961 English- speaking world, there are four laps to a mile. But there is more, more afterthought description. Said track was deeply rutted, summerfallwinterspring, from the lowest contract bidder surface materials scattered, generations scattered, on the pathway. And in all seasons, except the mucks, dry and dusty at the human step, and hence dust bowl. But enough of sweats, mop-moist red handkerchiefs, heavy breathe exhaustions, and dust. This was fun.

No, not the fun of innocent watching (and hoping) shaded windows for visions of irish maidens, ready with prepared notes (a spiel, okay) , frequently revised, and waiting for just that one moment that would bring forth the sweated exotic atlantic cheerleader glance nights but something else fun.

Something not endless walked about, something done, or with the promise of done, for something inside, and for the free spirit rant hammering my brain inside. At least at first after winning a couple of local races against slow (as it turned out) sullen corner boys full of mother’s corn beef, cold misbegotten cheapjack knickerbocker beer, cigarette smoke, unfiltered camels naturally, and larcenies, great and small. Strictly amateur stuff you see, done, done under coercion, truth, to keep a place in corner boy society, or else. Or else endless running, running the gauntlet, every time that corner came into view and some punk (inside I said punk, not for public disclosure even now, just in case, okay), some beef-fed, beer- bloated, cancerous- smoked felon in the making decided to impress some off-hand girl hanging off his off-hand arm (or better, sitting all dolled-up, cashmere sweater-wearing and worthy in his felon’s goods car, a ’57 Chevy maybe).

He had to laugh, laugh out loud (and it was okay since the closest houses surrounding the field, ah, the dust bowl, were not within earshot and he could have disclaimed the Gettysburg Address in high octave and no one would have heard) that his corner boy fears, and desires, had driven him to this fun. This sweated, dank, summer night fun. And to gather in a sense of worth out of it. It was laughable, really laughable. Especially (and here the night proved an ally too) the absurd notion that there would be some sense of worth in the moldy white tee- shirt, mildewy white shorts, who knows what diseased sneakers, Chuck Taylor sneakers, he was wearing. All kind of, well, as Billy Bradley, king hell king of the North Adamsville hard corner boy night and nobody, I mean nobody, disputed that title, used to say, kind of faggoty-looking, or girlish.

But there he was night after night once the weather got too hot to face the blistering hot and foot-burying sands down at daytime Adamsville Beach, daytime girls noticing his appearance too and probably thinking kind of, just like Billy king hell king thinking, yes, kind of faggoty, and knowing, marrow bone knowing, not girlish.

There he was pushing the night away and the red-faced Irish winds, harder, harder around the oval, watch tick in hand, looking, looking I guess for immortality, immortality even then.

Later, in bobby darin times or percy faith times, who knows, call it jack kennedy time if you like, but sometime before the third British invasion and before jack death, sitting, sitting high against the lion-guarded pyramid statute front door dream, common dreams, common hero dreams, all gone asunder, all gone asunder, on this curious fact, no wind, Irish or otherwise propelled him forward. No champion dusted field sweeper of all before him, maybe genetically hard-wired that way too although he always favored being poorly coached as excuse better. And hence he, dream champion on sweated July (or maybe August like I said before) dust bowl nights lived with the slows, the anaerobic slows, and was left with only desire, wet clothes and one minute good feels when he hit his practice strides. And many years later he felt that same good feeling whenever he logged more than one jogged mile. Who would have figured that one?

A Girl Has Got To Do What A Girl Has Got To Do-19th Century-Style- “Jane Eyre” –A Film Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for the latest film adaptation of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre.

DVD Review

Jane Eyre, directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga and starring Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender, 2011.

Okay, okay I will freely confess that as a boy I did not, I steadfastly did not, read a girls’ book, Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. And I did not, as we live a confessional age, read her sisters’ books or even, damned to hell, Jane Austen’s stuff. And you would not have either (or at least not have said so publicly) any place near my corner boys society growing up absurd in the 1950s old North Adamsville neighborhood. See you either didn’t read, and made a big virtues out of it preferring chasing cars and girls, or for those like my corner boy, Frankie Larkin, and me, who did we read mad Jack Kerouac, or besotted Scott Fitzgerald, or best of all, the max daddy mad adventurer Ernest Hemingway. Period.

Moreover if we didn’t read guy novelists then we were crazy (and make that I was crazy) for history books. But not girls’ books, no way. Which is a shame in a way because the trials and tribulations of Jane Eyre (and other female characters created by 19th European women writers, and not just women writers either, like the aforementioned Jane Austen) related experiences of class, race and social oppression (intertwined with a little off-hand romance to sell books then, and now, to the female reading public) that resonate with this writer today.

So it is something of a gift from the heavens that over the past couple of decades many of the writers that I did not read, steadfastly did not read in case you forgot, have had their work adapted to the screen. Happily this is true for the film under review. That means that this reviewer gets to, as he has on other occasions, see the story line of the book unfold in order to determine whether he would decide to read this book after viewing the film.

And the judgment? There is now a high bar for British romances set by Ms. Austen, most notably with her Miss Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darby in Pride and Prejudice in the matter of 19th century sensibility. While that standard was not surpassed in this film Ms. Bronte (and the actors here) did give a very decent sense of the oddball (to our eyes), anti-democratic and socially savage way that women, women of no means (or no known means), were shunted off in the backwoods of society.

But spunk is a value we can all appreciate and to use a more modern phrase than would be proper in jolly old England back in the day to describe the evolving plot line- a girl has got tot do what a girl has got to do. On that level this thing is a classic girl (okay woman, Ms. Eyre) meets boy (okay man, Mr. Rochester) story. And, lo and behold, the girl is actually ten times stronger than the boy. And, frankly, twenty times more interesting. Maybe that is why I, steadfastly, did not read Jane Eyre and the others then. But I will now.

Ancient dreams, dreamed-The Women Question -Redux- Magical Realism 101

Lindo, lindos Spanish is the loving tongue and has been for a while now against the harsh light of English faux forked loving tongues but that is not what I mean, me a man now well-versed in pocas palabras, okay. And English forked tongues too. But then, the time I am talking about then, 1960 then, holy hell’s fool, muttering a mile a minute as if to stop would break the spell, and break any chance for, well, happiness, kiddish happiness. Muttering that mile a minute for Irish girls don’t go nears (same parish even, Sacred Heart, Christ, no double christ), don’t even think about nears (same parish or not), or half-irish nears either (heathens like me, as my very, very Irish grandfather would say, giving his sonny boy, me, a dispensation for some mother‘s fault, but of that later).

What I mean is this girl sitting next to me, this 1960 eighth- grade girl, Irish or half-Irish (Irish by surname but mix is the name of the game in golden age America, in Jacks’ America being born and to call Irish is the beginning of wisdom and eight hundred year tyrannies by bloody English forebears don’t hurt either the big question though, the dispensating grandfather high on high mass incense question is she “one of us”), sitting next to me in art class. She has to be Irish or half Irish, no question, because in the Little Dublin section of old North Adamsville everybody is one or the other, or else. But that question out of the way (and I thought of several scenarios, several genealogical scenarios to entice her to talk) she disturbs my sleep although to her I do not exist, have not existed, will not exist, ever.

And whatever glory she would go on to, or I, that would always be the case because I came last year, 1959 last year in case you forgot, from over in the Adamsville projects. Or I had not lived in North Adamsville all that long and had not started out with her at North Adamsville Junior High School (like that was a reason, but it was, such are the ways of junior high social pecking disorder learned if at no other place then at the weekly “no dance” school dance, and it smarts). Or guys who were smugly smart-assed (learned from Frankie Larkin, Peter’s brother, who, as it turned out later I found out she loathed because he would not give her a “tumble.” Or I was too catholic church damn blasphemous laughing at splashed holy water, high on high mass incense, and muttered, exhaustively muttered stations of the cross.

Or, refreshed continuing or, she preferred (as it turned out later) football guys and not half-artists, half -bookish nerds, half- mad poets, although I didn’t know it, the half-mad poet blood curse part, and definitely not some bay rum- trumped cowlick- haired be-bop stumble bum flannel-shirted (even in summer), wearing black chinos (handed down from ancient brotherhood brothers in hard family progressions because , because my friends, they were still wearable even in 1950s change your style with your mood America, daily if possible, good aged America touted golden age, America wanted to beat beatnik, faux beatnik, if the real story be told.

Beautiful, beautifuls, beatitude, beat, beat up, beat around (around the bush I guess) beautiful streets walked eternally walked searching beauty, she was not beautiful, not spanish exotic beautiful or at least not later class picture for remembrance looked beautiful but she was, she was, well, siting right there next to me, and she was, well, spunky, and alive and distantly noblesse if anyone, male or female, in our crowded little one-size-fits-all two by four town, Adamsville to name signify it, later working class to social signify it, would name the damn thing but then just project boys and proper across the tracks (right side tracks) girls fond of football players, class leader-ness, and cheerleader jumps would not do.

Disturbed sleep, yes, walked streets, yes, worn-out sneakers (or shoes, forgotten buster brown Thom McAn shoes), yes, fussed dreams yes, endlessly walked streets with head prepared notes just in case the winds passed by and we were caught on the same sidewalk. Things like that happen you know, and did happen, but I averted my eyes, crossed the street, and revised my prepared notes, just in future case. And she passed, passed like the wind, and sweet schoolgirl fragrance, or some scented soap, and no sorrow and no remembrance, and no talk at school about how we just kind of missed each other and what were you doing just then, and such of revised notes.

And without a murmur, without as much as a by your leave (quaint expression), she graduated from eighth grade (see our system was different then and eight led to ninth grade high school crushed invisibleness and misspoken dreams). And I with her. And she to football player reflected glory and me to nerdish road running, mad poet existence, stealing out in the North Adamsville night to hide, hide my flannel face, my black chinos, my eternal be-bop midnight sunglasses in early morning subway trains headed toward Harvard Square and a new day borning, and me, crazy to be there but still longing, although no longer lonely streets wandering (or revising notes either) to see if she was made of anything more than stuffed straw, and spunk.

So I, too slip-shot, too, well, just too lonely, too lonesome, too long-toothed before my time to do more than endless walks along endless atlantic streets to summon up the courage to glance, glance right at windows, non-exotic atlantic cheerleader windows. Those lonely glance streets beckoned, I swear they beckoned, even in passé corridors anonymously passed even though in a right world any god child should have been able to call on ancient school memories to nod that simple nod that men nod to each other without qualm or qualification, even in lonely Harvard Square Hayes-Bickford four in the morning beyond desire, or distracted dream night.

Later Spanish-style exotics would line up, line up if you can believe that, with no averted eyes and maybe, hopefully maybe, some exotic-tinged dreams in need of sharing but that is later and so some fluff Irish no nonsense closed streets femme, hankering for her gridiron goliath (nice, right) filled my anguished night. And I too silly to tumble, to tumble to dancing Spanish-eyed senoritas with lust in their hearts and a couple of James Joyce something books on their laps. Jesus, are you crazy.

Such is the new decade a-borning, a-borning but not for me, no jack swagger or reflected glory of jack swagger kick ass cuba , or trying to, kick ass vietnam, kick ass boom-boom soviet union, or bobby goof, sending missiles or dreams to jim crow Mississippi, as they run the table on old tricky dick or some tired imitation of him. Me, I’ll take exotics, or lindos, and grab each and every one as if my life depended on it, and it did, if they every cross my path, my lonely only path. I will sort out the other stuff the remembrance stuff, the right and wrong way stuff, and that faint, ever faint fragrance every woman, including halfback-addled irish (all irish I checked, grandpa proud checked) demons girls sitting next to me in eighth grade art class emits on passing means streets. That last one passed just now on sun-filled forsaken early morning streets will disturb my sleep this night.

Out In The Be-Bop Night- First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage, Then Comes X With a Baby Carriage- In Honor Of The 50th Anniversary Of "The Pill"-An Encore

Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964 commen:

A couple of years ago , as many of you may have been be aware at the time , marked the 50th anniversary of the introduction of “The Pill.” (If you need any further explanation for that term then perhaps you should skip this little piece.) The Pill that heralded in the s-xual (just in case mother, the very young, or the clergy are reading this, although the young are hip to this thing already) revolution of the 1960s to the joy (and relief) of many, the yawns of a few, and the fervent scorn of those with traditional religious or philosophical scruples on the matter of human reproduction. In short though, s-x (ditto above) now no longer had to be absolutely tied in with procreation, and with fear and loathing.

That said, I am trying to offend no one's sensibilities here, although I make no apologies for being glad, glad as hell, for the Pill and would encourage as many scientific breakthroughs as possible to make it even safer and easier. This little screed rather is more, since we are children of the 1960's and came of age, most of us anyway, by 1960, about our woeful ignorance of sex, the actual acts of sex and their consequences. (There I said it, praise be. Sex. Sensitive souls can take shelter elsewhere.)

Someone recently told me a story that placed this ignorance and confusion notion in stark relief, and hit a nerve that required me to make, no, impelled me to make this commentary. On a trip, some kind of group social outing up into New Hampshire, a state that has a younger marriage eligibility age than Massachusetts, a young teenage couple, deeply in love, in love its seems the old-fashioned 1940s movies way (you know Bogie and Bacall, Hepburn and Tracey, etc.) the way it was described to me, but probably too young for marriage anyway, decided on a whim to get married.

Off they go to some Podunk town up there seeking a Justice of the Peace. They find him in some dead of night situation and fill in the paperwork. Before the blessed ceremony the "has been through it all before" JP asked whether the young couple were "expecting," you know, in the family way. Here is the kicker though, their reply, "Expecting what?" On reflection, once they got the gist of what the JP meant, they, innocently I am sure, also said, "we don't know about that stuff." The laughing, but wise, old JP told the kids to come back in a year, or so, and he would be more than happy to marry them.

Ya, that's a cute story and I still chuckle over it but, my friends, I will argue that you and I could tell such stories as well. Well, maybe not about getting all the way to the altar clueless but nevertheless filled with every kind of misinformation, every kind of fear tactic, and every kind of prohibition. All while our hormones were raging, raging to the point of distraction, out of control.

I will make my own public disclosure here. Did I learn about sex from my parents giving me careful information about the birds and the bees, seeing that they had plenty of experience having given birth to three sons? No. Did I learn about the do's and don't of sex from the Roman Catholic Church of my youth? Hell no, not about the do part anyway. No, I learned about it "on the streets" (and in the junior high and high school gym locker rooms) just like most of you. And later, much later and more interestingly, from some women friends (and the Karma Sutra). Whoa. Let's just put it this way, I many times thanked a disapproving god for the Pill back in those young and careless days. Ya, that “The Pill.”

Ancient dreams, dreamed-The Long Road Home-Redux- Magical Realism 101

A bridge too far, an un-arched, un-steeled (or is it un-ironed), unsparing (no question on that one), unnerved bridge too far. A divided heart metaphor, perhaps, an overused metaphor, maybe, but sometimes that dividing line, dividing lines really, represented by a childhood bridge’s span is the only way to describe what is what. And more importantly is the only way to describe physically, hero of this saga, although hero is maybe just too large a word evoking greek gods, hubris and serious testing of fates, the bicycle boy’s dilemma.

One speed bicycle boy, handed-down Schwinn diamond blue red bicycle boy with pedal foot-slammed brakes to guide against crashes, stray dogs, swerving autos making diagonal rather than right hand- cornered turns and absent-minded pedestrians carelessly crossing in designated crosswalks just when he gathered speed, one speed, pushed on toward that divided bridge and the latest version of his the point of no return test.

Wearing a Fruit of The Loom tee-shirt, white, with a trace outline of wetness showing for all the world, all the looking world, to see up under arms. Hell it is summer and humid already, maybe a dog day July or probably August, they, the days and months, all rolling together and he has made this trip before in such weathers, in fact all weathers except hard northern winter gale snow squalls. And dungarees, faded from hundred times washed hand-me-down whirlpool washing machine use of older brothers in hardscrabble no work for father, or not much work, and mother wish working her stale life away in some franchise donut shop, serving coffee and off the arm to working class customers going to and fro working spots and leaving, leaving working class-sized tips, meaning not much, not much at all. Except wish dreams, and work damns.

Dungarees, faded or not, rolled up against dog bites, no question anymore since last summer, he Schwinn bicycle boy, had actually been bitten once by a stray alert dog who came out of some foggy mist seaside house without warning and without provocation, and rolled up guarded against geared meshes of cloth and metal, but you knew that, or you knew that your mother warned you against such a fate if you left the world unrolled, oh well, ya ma dismissal, at least one hundred times.

Yak, now bicycle boy, we no longer need to identify him as Schwinn, or wearing white tee-shirts or faded dungarees bicycle boy, is up to speed, safely past dog house and moving along friendlier shore roads this riding across seaside town day to get that eternally thankful breeze blowing off Adamsville Bay. Now churning through endless tar pit heated, sweated, beads of sweat coming off the manhole cover to match, did I say match, no to trump, his own heat and underarm circle wetness, no handkerchief, damn of all days to forget a handkerchief, streets. No railroad man’s soiled sweated, stink handkerchief, red, solid red, found in some forgotten railroad track siding when he made another leap to break out of the hard-edged 1950s be-bop night and day dream of freedom, and track smoke.

Street names passing, all the parts of ships, taffrails, captains walks, quarterdecks, sextant-blasted wheelhouses, galleys, even the planks, a special place where treasure , and betrayal, fight it out for tribal loyalties or some stick, stick signifying simply youth, not stick-in-the-mudness, not yet anyway, maiden’s blushed kiss, stolen treasure worthy of more than railroad handkerchief, red, solid red, wipe. Bicycle boy laughed to himself as he rode, thinking of backlogged thoughts in sunnier (and less humid) times. And some stray blushed kiss that would not let him be, would disturb his sleep on more than one night.

Street names, all the seven seas, atlantic, pacific, indian, artic, coral, china, ah he forgot the order, not a good sign, must be the humid-numbing weather, for a boy who could make a joke, and make stick (remember stick signifying youth only) maidens unashamed of blushed kisses laugh at the thought, of knowing enough geography and knowing exactly where to find the place on the map to call himself the Prince of Lvov once. And know too that he wished to “discover” all those seas, and their names not just from maps, if only, if only he could get out of the stinking projects. The stinking born in projects from which he at one time, although not now course did believe could ever be escaped from (and he later realized that maybe, just maybe he couldn’t). And funny he had gotten out or better had moved out, or his family had with him in tow, and still he was wishing about those seas even if he had forgotten the order of the names, and half-forgotten prince lvov kisses that had turned to ashes. And he still wished about getting out of that stinking project, ya, getting the stink blown off his back from that low-rent scene.

Street names, all the fishes of the seas, tetra, halibut, cod, of course, grown and harvested just some miles, not bicycle miles but automobile miles, a few miles down the road, mackerel, holy or not, he laughed to himself at that, scrod, pickled herring, jesus, who could eat that, oil-soaked sardines, ditto, red scrupper, macko some shark, infinite sea oceans names to go with seven seas and adventures, hardly wait to get out of town adventures but just now needing, desperately needing to get back to back born places, to get some familiar ground under his feet, to take the curse off that stink that has clouded his mind, the one to match the low-tide mephitic stinks down by the shore that he was then passing. And fetid swollen river swamps and reedy mud-caked straw wind marshes breezing that life-saving sea breeze too.

Street names, all the fauna of the sea, seaweed, algae, sea salad, sea cucumbers, see sea, all mixed up, all washed rumble tumble to shore in rushing torrid, churned-up waves crashing aimlessly but relentlessly to shore. But not today, today no crashing waves to help along the slight lip sweat-forming wheels churning boy, a displaced boy(no need to speak of bicycles anymore either) except for that tepid splashed flat pancake of a wave that also heads aimlessly to the waiting shore million year stones waiting to turn to sand , to wash them clean a while. He laughed at that too, washed clean alright. Not him, never him.

Names.

Twelve-years old, almost thirteen, hard-churned boy numberless miles to go before sleep, after the bridge battle, which way home or the sea. Which way, find the hidden quest route to Chinese splendor or buried treasure beneath those stones, at least in his mind, and go back to old time haunts, and small age memories of, okay, stick maidens, blushed kisses (this time his) and “going to the plank.” Ah, memory, memory-etched memory be good (and do not disturb goodnight sleeps, for once).

Searching, ever searching for the wombic home, is there such a word, and should he say it, should he write it, or should he even think it in his sin-heavy world. Searching for the certainties (silly childhood certainties he knew, but could do nothing about except search), for the old haunts (secret mirror caves, seaside rest graveyards before those sea breeze marsh grasses , and dank cellars filled with stolen kisses, and small wave booty trinkets, but don’t tell), for the plank, for the seaside graveyards with the dusted, rotting bones of ancient mariners, tars all, who filled the seven seas with their desires, their venom, and their hubris. He knew there was such a word as that, that hubris, because he had looked it up, and had actually, personally seen it in action more than once, although the acts seen had nothing, nothing in this wicked old world, to do with greek godly things. With titanic struggles to roll rocks up hills, to right wrongs against the powerful misbegotten night, to challenge god things, and fates. He didn’t laugh at that word though, but turned red first with anger, anger that he would duck things rather churn up waves, and offend no gods. No sir.

Searching, once again for other Schwinn travel friends (de riguer Schwinn, logo-conscious), for the old friends, the old drifter, grifter, midnight shifter petty larceny friends, the heist boys, the “clip” artist boys snatching penny candy, valentine may day boxes of candy, onyx rings with diamonds in the center, five and dime trinkets, anything that fit into speak of love (not lvov), faded dungaree pockets, and didn’t bulge too much , that’s all it was, petty and maybe larceny, but it had cemented them together for “eternity,” boyhood projects eternity broken when he wrong-crossed that bridge span, and didn’t turn back.

Ya, bicycle boy this day is searching, searching hard against the named ships, hard against the named seas, hard against the named fishes, hard against the named fauna, searching see.

And searching hard too against the unnamed angst, hard against those unnamed, maybe unnamable, changes that kind of hit one sideways all at once like some mack the knife smack devilish thing and no bridge can stop that, not on this hot humid day, and maybe not ever but he would have to see about that, see about that it as it came along.

When Women Singers Held Sway In The 1920s Blues Night- “I Can’t Be Satisfied”-A CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Memphis Minnie, the Hoodoo Lady, performing, well what else, Hoodoo Lady Blues.

CD Review

I Can’t Be Satisfied: Early American Women Blues Singers-Town And Country: Volume l-Country, Yazoo Records, 1997

Recently in reviewing another compilation of women blues singers from the 1920s I mentioned that I had sworn off, I had sworn on a stack of seven bibles, that I was off, finally off film noir femme fatales after watching (or rather, re-watching) Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer, mainly Jane Greer, go round and round in the classic crime noir Out Of The Past. How could any rational man not think twice about following such femmes as Jane Greer’s Kathy who just happened to be a little gun happy (and a chronic liar to boot) and who put a couple in Robert Mitchum’s Jeff after he did somersaults to try to save her bacon about six times. That’s gratitude for you.

Well, like I said I am off, done, finished with those two-timing dames, and good riddance. Now I have time, plenty of time, and my health to speak of blues in the night wailing female torch singers who, as far as I know, do not carry or do not need to carry guns, to do their business. Of course it was not big deal to change my allegiances because since I was a kid I have been nothing but putty in their hands for any torch singer who could throw away my blues with some sorrow laden tune.

Maybe it was in some back-drop Harvard Square coffeehouse in long mist time 1960s when I first heard such voices, first among them, Billie Holiday, late, early, whatever Billie Holiday singing of some man on her mind, mostly some no good man, some no dough man, who maybe took a couple of whacks at her for no reason, or just took her last dough to bet on that next sure thing…and happiness. Or maybe earlier when some home background 1940s we won the war be-bop music filtered through the air of my own childhood house from the local radio station playing Peggy Lee all Benny Goodman’d up, or Helen Whiting, or, or well, you get the drift. Stuff that would stop me in my tracks and ask, ask where did that sorrow come from.

Later, several years later, it blossomed fully when some now half-forgotten (but only half-forgotten) girlfriend gave me a complete Vanguard Record set of all of Bessie Smith’s recordings. Ah heaven, and ah the student neighbors who had to listen for half a day while I played the damn set through. So get it, get it straight I am a long-time aficionado of the genre and commenting on this I Can’t Be Satisfied CD about classic women blues is a piece of cake.

Strangely, although the bulk of the “discovered” blues singers of the folk revival minute of the 1960s were male (Mississippi John Hurt, Bukka White, Son House, Skip James, et. al) back in the serious heyday of the blues in the 1920s and early 1930s women dominated the blues market, the popular music of the day. And the women featured in this compilation were the most well-known of the myriad torch singers that lit up the concert hall, speakeasies and juke joints North and South. Hattie Hart, Ruby Glaze, the divine Bessie Tucker, of course Lottie Kimbrough, Lizzie Washington, and Bertha Lee are all rightfully and righteously here.

What, no Memphis Minnie? Well yes she does Outdoor Blues here so stay calm. I have singled her out because to me her voice, her phrasing, her half breath between notes is what blues-style torch singing is all (and with plenty of double ententes too) . Now if I could just get a torch singer who was also a non-gun- toting femme fatale I would be in very heaven. Ya, I know I said I was off femmes but what are you going to do.

Voodoo Blues From The Bayou- The "Voodoo Daddy" Lonnie Brooks Is On Stage -When Lonnie Brooks Rocked The Blues House-‘Lonnie Brooks”- A CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Lonnie Brooks performing Too Little, Too Late.

CD Review

Lonnie Brooks: The Voodoo Daddy, Lonnie Brooks (and son Ronnie Baker), Alligator records, 1997

When reviewing various blues artist over the past year in this space I have spilled much ink on places like the Mississippi Delta, Chicago, Memphis and Texas. I have spent very little time talking about Cajun country, the bayous of Louisiana or the Mississippi port town of News Orleans as sources of the blues tradition. When one thinks of the bayous one tends to think of the Cajun-centered accordion or Zydeco music. New Orleans brings to mind jazz more than the blues, except maybe some barrelhouse influence. That omission seems now to have been flat out wrong as the artist under review, ‘The Voodoo Daddy” Lonnie Brooks, amply demonstrates.

Sure, Lonnie (and on this album his son Ronnie Baker as well) has mastered basic blues lines as any successful electric blues guitarist must but his music has that little extra “funky” edge that one gets when listening to better New Orleans jazz and Zydeco music, especially that big old sax blaring out to beat the band. That is what the Voodoo Daddy brings to the table. Here it starts right out with the first track “Jealous Man” carries through to “Hoodoo She Do” the aptly named “Zydeco” and finishes up nicely with “Rolling Of The Tumbling Dice.” More on this kind of bayou-derived music, especially under the influence of Clifton Chenier who was instrumental in jump starting Lonnie’s career later. For now listen here- you can heard those swamp sounds from those Lake Charles and environs boys now, can’t you?
Watch out, watch out like crazy or those boys will take you for everything you have. And laugh about it.

"Got Lucky Last Night"

Pretend you're mean as a lion
Wild like a tiger cat
Been lovin' mem so good last night
I almost had a heart attack

chorus:
I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night
Played your little game and I got lucky last night

Pretend you're mean and evil
Stubborn like a Georgia mule
Been lovin' me so good last night
You had me on private school
(chorus)

Pretend you can be sweet
Pretend you can be kind
But when it come to lovin' girl
You don't draw the line
(chorus)

I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night
Played a little game and I got lucky last night

I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night
I got lucky last night, tryin' to get lucky tonight


"Wife For Tonight"

Is is that string bikini?
Or the sun that's makin' me hot?
Whatever thing to cool me with baby
They gonna take a hell of a lot
I feel the need for some down home lovin' tonight
Oh I could gonna pretend that I'm your husband
If you'd only pretend you'll be my wife tonight
Yeah

I'll build us a playhouse
Into my bedroom
So you can play the bride baby
While I play the groom
I feel the need for some down home lovin' tonight
Oh I could gonna pretend that I'm your husband
If you'd only pretend you'll be my wife tonight
All right...

You can come on over
There'll be no strings attached
If you like what I'm doin' to you baby
You can always come back
I feel the need for some down home lovin' tonight
Oh I could gonna pretend that I'm your husband
If you'd only pretend you'll be my wife tonight

Out In The Mist Of Time Of The American Blues Night-“Before The Blues-Volume 3”-A CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Furry Lewis performing his old-time Harry Smith American Folk Anthology-worthy blues classic, Kassie Jones.

CD Review (The basic points made in this review have been used to review the other two volumes in this three volume set)

Before The Blues: The Early American Black Music Scene: Classic Recordings From The 1920s and 1930s, Volume 3, Yazoo Records, 1996

Out of the back of my 1960s teenage bedroom the radio was blaring out a
midnight blues version of Howlin’ Wolf’s How Many More Years complete with harmonica-devouring accompaniment by Wolf himself (a fact, the almost eating part, not visually known to me until much later when I viewed his epic work via YouTube) on the American Blues Hour coming over the airways from sweet home Chicago (sweet home of the modern electric blues that is). Earlier in the program Muddy Waters, prince regent of the electric blues just then, had held forth with his band (made up then, and at various other times, with sidemen like Otis Spann and Junior Wells who would go on to their own blues hall of fame-like careers), with a sizzling version of Mannish Child. Ya, those were the primo hell-bent devil’s music blues days. No question.

Well not quite no question for that show, or for this review. The show had started out with a three card Monte of Dupree’s Blues, first by Lightnin’ Hopkins on electric, Brownie McGhee on acoustic and Willie Walker doing an a cappella version (which is included in this compilation) from out of the mist of blues times, or the depths of the American music night. At least of the stuff that has been recorded. That is important because prior to radio this material was handed down mostly through the oral traditions. That tradition got reflected in the Dupree’s Blues example because although the basic melody and theme were the same throughout the narratives were somewhat different. And that too reflects the blues tradition, and before the blues, the roots of the blues which is what this compilation (and two additional volumes) concentrates on.

The blues, for the most part, was a quintessential black music form as it developed out of the scorched dry plantation fields of the post- Civil War Jim Crow South, out of the moans and groans of the black church Sunday and out of the hard drinking, hard fighting, hard loving, hard partying Saturday night acoustic music (had to, no electricity) night before sobering up for those Sunday church groans. And while it occasionally moved to a respectable dance hall or movie house concert hall (segregated, no questions asked) before the age of radio that is where it developed kind of helter-skelter. This Before The Blues compilation reflects all of those trends from Furry Lewis’s Kassie Jones to Memphis Minnie’s Frisco Town to Texas Alexander’s Levee Camp Moan Blues. So the next time you hear the Stones’ covering Wolf’s Little Red Rooster or Mississippi Fred McDowell’s Got To Move you know where it came from.

Out In The Mist Of Time Of The American Blues Night-“Before The Blues-Volume 2”-A CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the Memphis Jug Band performing their old-time blues classic Harry Smith Anthology-worthy, K.C. Moan.

CD Review (The basic points made in this review have been used to review the other two volumes in this three volume set)

Before The Blues: The Early American Black Music Scene: Classic Recordings From The 1920s and 1930s, Volume 2, Yazoo Records, 1996

Out of the back of my 1960s teenage bedroom the radio was blaring out a
midnight blues version of Howlin’ Wolf’s How Many More Years complete with harmonica-devouring accompaniment by Wolf himself (a fact, the almost eating part, not visually known to me until much later when I viewed his epic work via YouTube) on the American Blues Hour coming over the airways from sweet home Chicago (sweet home of the modern electric blues that is). Earlier in the program Muddy Waters, prince regent of the electric blues just then, had held forth with his band (made up then, and at various other times, with sidemen like Otis Spann and Junior Wells who would go on to their own blues hall of fame-like careers), with a sizzling version of Mannish Child. Ya, those were the primo hell-bent devil’s music blues days. No question.

Well not quite no question for that show, or for this review. The show had started out with a three card Monte of Dupree’s Blues, first by Lightnin’ Hopkins on electric, Brownie McGhee on acoustic and Willie Walker doing an a cappella version (which is included in this compilation) from out of the mist of blues times, or the depths of the American music night. At least of the stuff that has been recorded. That is important because prior to radio this material was handed down mostly through the oral traditions. That tradition got reflected in the Dupree’s Blues example because although the basic melody and theme were the same throughout the narratives were somewhat different. And that too reflects the blues tradition, and before the blues, the roots of the blues which is what this compilation (and two additional volumes) concentrates on.

The blues, for the most part, was a quintessential black music form as it developed out of the scorched dry plantation fields of the post- Civil War Jim Crow South, out of the moans and groans of the black church Sunday and out of the hard drinking, hard fighting, hard loving, hard partying Saturday night acoustic music (had to, no electricity) night before sobering up for those Sunday church groans. And while it occasionally moved to a respectable dance hall or movie house concert hall (segregated, no questions asked) before the age of radio that is where it developed kind of helter-skelter. This Before The Blues volume 2 compilation reflects all of those trends from the Memphis Jug Band’s K.C. Moan to Blue Lemon Jefferson’s Jack O’Diamond Blues To Golden Harris’ I Lead A Christian Life. So the next time you hear the Stones’ covering Wolf’s Little Red Rooster or Mississippi Fred McDowell’s Got To Move you know where it came from.

Who Will Fill The 2000s Blues Night Air? - “Give In Kind” –A Guy Davis CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Guy Davis performing Can’t Be Satisfied.

Give In Kind, Guy Davis, Red House Records, 2002

A couple of years ago I spent no little cyberspace “ink” on the question of who would carry on the folk tradition that the folk revival artists of my generation, the generation of ’68, “discovered” back in the day. You know artists like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, Eric Von Schmidt and Dave Van Ronk and others digging into the American song book provided by Harry Smith, the Lomaxes and the Seegers to preserve Woody Guthrie and stuff even further back down to the hills and hollows of Appalachia (I know I am supposed to write hollas but there you have it), down to the southern delta plantation moans, down to backwater Mississippi juke joint groans after a hard Saturday night of love, fights and headaches, and out west, out west where as Thomas Wolfe stated, the states are square to gather in the cowboy and farm traditions found in the great migrations to the coast, west coast of course. I came up with a few candidates like Keb Mo’ and Carol Hemmings then just to make my point.

I am now trying to take that basic point and pose the question here of who will carry out the great American blues night tradition started back in the early part of the 20th century (as least the part we know about from recordings and radio) and which produced great music from Charley Patton, Son House, Skip James, Mississippi John Hurt and the like on through to Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf , Ike Turner, and Taj Majal. That last name mentioned not by accident as the artist under review, Guy Davis, consciously or not, and I think consciously, owns at least a debt of gratitude to Taj for breaking some ground for him in the blues milieu.

Needless to say Brother Davis (Guy, not the late great Reverend Gary, okay) plays a mean guitar as on Good Liquor and Loneliest Road That I Know, can use his vocal abilities to belt out such songs as Six Cold Feet Of Ground and Watch Over Me and get down to that gospel church, Jehovah we are coming root of the blues on God's Unchanging Hand with the best of them. Eric Clapton, Mick and Keith and the rest of the British invasion guys mad to the high heavens for American blues move over a little. Guy Davis is in the house.

Out In The Mist Of Time Of The American Blues Night-“Before The Blues”-A CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Henry Thomas performing his old-time blues holla classic, Run, Mollie, Run.

CD Review

Before The Blues: The Early American Black Music Scene: Classic Recordings From The 1920s and 1930s, Volume 1, Yazoo Records, 1996

Out of the back of my 1960s teenage bedroom the radio was blaring out a
midnight blues version of Howlin’ Wolf’s How Many More Years complete with harmonica-devouring accompaniment by Wolf himself (a fact, the almost eating part, not visually known to me until much later when I viewed his epic work via YouTube) on the American Blues Hour coming over the airways from sweet home Chicago (sweet home of the modern electric blues that is). Earlier in the program Muddy Waters, prince regent of the electric blues just then, had held forth with his band (made up then, and at various other times, with sidemen like Otis Spann and Junior Wells who would go on to their own blues hall of fame-like careers), with a sizzling version of Mannish Child. Ya, those were the primo hell-bent devil’s music blues days. No question.

Well not quite no question for that show, or for this review. The show had started out with a three card Monte of Dupree’s Blues, first by Lightnin’ Hopkins on electric, Brownie McGhee on acoustic and Willie Walker doing an a cappella version (which is included in this compilation) from out of the mist of blues times, or the depths of the American music night. At least of the stuff that has been recorded. That is important because prior to radio this material was handed down mostly through the oral traditions. That tradition got reflected in the Dupree’s Blues example because although the basic melody and theme were the same throughout the narratives were somewhat different. And that too reflects the blues tradition, and before the blues, the roots of the blues which is what this compilation (and two additional volumes) concentrates on.

The blues, for the most part, was a quintessential black music form as it developed out of the scorched dry plantation fields of the post- Civil War Jim Crow South, out of the moans and groans of the black church Sunday and out of the hard drinking, hard fighting, hard loving, hard partying Saturday night acoustic music (had to, no electricity) night before sobering up for those Sunday church groans. And while it occasionally moved to a respectable dance hall or movie house concert hall (segregated, no questions asked) before the age of radio that is where it developed kind of helter-skelter. This Before The Blues compilation reflects all of those trends from Rube Lacy’s Mississippi Jail House Groan to Mississippi John Hurt’s Stack O’Lee Blues to the Seventh Day Adventist Choir’s On Jordan’s Stormy Banks We Stand. So the next time you hear the Stones’ covering Wolf’s Little Red Rooster or Mississippi Fred McDowell’s Got To Move you know where it came from.

Out In The Kazoo-Driven 1920s Night- The Time Of The Cannon Jug Stompers- A CD Review

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the Cannon Jug Stompers performing Big Railroad Blues to give a flavor of the old-time jug music.

Cannon’s Jug Stompers: The Complete Works: 1927-1930, The Cannon Jug Stompers, Yazoo Records, 1989

So Jim Kweskin took a few jugs, a few washboards, a few kazoos, a penny whistle, maybe a couple of fiddles, and a washtub with a string and pole, got some friends like Geoff Muldaur, and Maria Muldaur (nee something else like Donato) to play the damn stuff (and sing too) and created jug music from scratch in the 1960s folk minute night. No, one thousand times, no. The folk minute was about “discovering” roots music. You know stuff from the hills and hollows of Kentucky, or some old labor songs from the 1930s hard class struggle, or some sea island s congregation spirituals from god knows where in outer Georgia (the United States Georgia, okay). So like Bob Dylan, Eric Von Schmidt, hell even Dave Von Ronk, they all torn up the backwoods, or at least the dusty Greenwich Village old records stores, and went hunting for some sound that would satisfy their roots needs (and provide a little cash in the coffeehouse crazed night). And Cannon’s Jug Stompers along with the Memphis Jug Band (and, as it turned out, about seven different state Sheik bands, you know the Mississippi Sheiks, and so on) were must hears if you wanted to replicate any old time jug sound.

Of course the Cannon Jug Stompers didn’t work the Cambridge folk scene back in the day, way back in the day, or some cozy Village club and certainly not some North Beach blow-out be-bop joint but worked the carny shows, the juke joints and the back road houses of the south to very segregated audiences. So while some black guys (and a few women) were wilding the joint up in café society New York or New Orleans with the latest high white not jazz riffs these brothers were working cheap street. So be it. Listen up to Big Railroad Blues, Cairo Rag, Pretty Money Blues and a few others and you won’t worry so much why you don’t miss the jazz notes. And be glad, glad as hell, that Harry Smith, the great American Folk Music anthologist whose anthology all the old folkies (including the afore-mentioned Jim Kweskin Jug Band members) knew by heart including them in his work.

Out In The Be-Bop 1970s Night- A Slice Of Life Snapshot Of The Push For The Great 1960s Breakout

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) performing Where Do The Children Play?


Some films, especially coming of age films of either the political or social kind, do not age well. That is the fate of the early 1970s cult classic of sorts, Harold and Maude. This was a film that some friends of mine in Cambridge would queue up for on a weekly basis, and gladly, at one particular theater that played the film and only that film for about a year. See, that was the time of the great attempted late 1960s break-out (and extending through, roughly, the mid-1970s) from the confines of bourgeois society and the tracked career path by all kinds of people and teen angst and alienated Harold (played by Bud Cort) seemed a kindred spirit. And was then. Maude (played by Ruth Gordon), needless to say, was everybody’s grandmother dream, if only compared to harsh grindstone, shoulder to the wheel, don’t’ do this or that, and by the way your hair is too long, mother reality. And if you like slightly zany (no, not weird) little old ladies in tennis sneakers. And you should.

The premise of the film certainly had appeal, teen angst, big time teen angst by the distraught Harold trying to, against his stiff middle class background and his monster mother’s well-laid plans for his future, fight for his place in the world (or in the next world in his faux fascination with death and funerals) and old age angst (happy angst, if that is not an oxymoron) by the bubbly Maude. By the end of the film old Ruth is able to bring Bud around to seeing that life, his life, is worth living, and living, warts and all, aches and pains once gingerly shrugged off and all . Well, ho hum for that premise now, now that some of us are approaching old Maude’s age.

What is false here, maybe not as false as some things we have learned along the way in this wicked old world but false nevertheless, is Maude’s aged sage wisdom. The truth, the bitter truth, is that the wisdom we acquired was not done in old age but picked up in our youth and we have been living off that, chipping away at the edges, ever since. What still holds up, and holds well, is the sound track music of Cat Stevens’ (now Yusuf Islam) great songs like Wild World and Where Do The Children Play? Wordsworth had it right- “to be young was very heaven.”
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Where Do The Children Play? Lyrics

Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam)


Well I think it's fine, building jumbo planes.
Or taking a ride on a cosmic train.
Switch on summer from a slot machine.
Yes, get what you want to if you want, 'cause you can get anything.

I know we've come a long way,
We're changing day to day,
But tell me, where do the children play?

Well you roll on roads over fresh green grass.
For your lorry loads pumping petrol gas.
And you make them long, and you make them tough.
But they just go on and on, and it seems that you can't get off.

Oh, I know we've come a long way,
We're changing day to day,
But tell me, where do the children play?

Well you've cracked the sky, scrapers fill the air.
But will you keep on building higher
'til there's no more room up there?
Will you make us laugh, will you make us cry?
Will you tell us when to live, will you tell us when to die?

I know we've come a long way,
We're changing day to day,
But tell me, where do the children play?