CD
Review
Singing
Through The Hard Times: A Tribute To Utah Phillips, various artists, 2009
…he came like wind, like rain. He
came like an old time biblical prophet, all white-bearded, all flannel-shirted,
all denim-panted, all work booted, came out of the heartland like so many
prophets in the American land, spreading the common word, the word that has been
around for a long time but was in need of updating and in need of some righteous
gentle anger, to a new age, an age that knew not of old time struggles in this
land, the old boss and worker struggles, the old downtrodden struggles, that dotted
our common history. He spoke in a manly voice, a deep voice, no shame, although
perhaps out of fashion in a world that sought quietude, sought quietude when
action was the order of the day.
You could see him sing and tell
his off-the-cuff stories in all the big little clubs, the quaint coffeehouses after
they fell out of fashion, places like Club Passim, The Sparrow, Mickey’s, The Viking
, The Joe Hill House out in the valleys of Utah, and above all second home base Café Lena
out there in the foothills of the Adirondacks, out in Saratoga, where he and
Rosalie Sorrels lit up the joint (the place, not what you think, come on now)
for many years. You could see him too, and here is where he was kindred, out
there in the public square fighting the good fight, fighting against the
multiple angers of the day, fighting, struggling any place or time a brother
was down on his luck, or a sister was in need. Some of the things he spoke of
were, well, weird, weird to a chastened
world, some too was old time Wobblie out of fashion stuff too when moral suasion
fell flat against moloch in a rigged-up world but all who took the time to think could see a
kindred in that wandering old- time troubadour.
And he sang songs in no particular
order, no chronological or subject matter order anyway, of all kinds of things
that he had observed, heard about, delved into, or just struck him as song or
story worthy. Like? Well, what don’t we
start with the struggle against the hard times a theme that dominated his life,
personally, emotionally and politically. I have already spoken of that kindred spirit so
I need not belabor that point here but it needed saying else half his life’s
work, the part about humankind’s common miseries and what to do about them,
would make no sense. He spoke too of, well, love or maybe better lost love
since most of his songs speak of remembrance , of old time flames, of roads not
taken, and of love lost to that wandering road that he ambled on, a tough road
for love to blossom (although maybe not for speaking about lost love, maybe just
right for that sentiment). He spoke too of the beauty of this country if we
could just keep the greedy at bay, the rolling hills, the ocean of wheat and
corn plains, the foam-flecked white-waved seas, the high breathe mountains and
of protecting them against the greedy night that has descended on the American
landscape, and was (is) ready to make the place a huge parking lot. He spoke of
cities, cities entered into stealthily, hobo stealthily, coming off some
ancient travel road, maybe Route 66, of skid row, of Sallys and soup lines, of
second-hand always second hand, and of the vanishing flop houses that saved
more than one wandering minstrel as the city closed itself off to the odd and
misbegotten.
He spoke against the bosses,
against the big bosses, the little bosses trying to be big bosses, and those who
wanted to emulate them, or live in their reflected glory, and of those who didn’t.
All above he spoke of the kindred hoboes, tramps, bums, the lost and forsaken,
or the just wanderlust folk not hard-wired to settler society, and in need of the
warrior wide open spaces to breathe, breathe a little. Spoke of their endless
wander, bindle-bound, of the endless rails, of the endless jungles (slang for
their, ah, residences, okay), of their olio-broth stews, camp fires, cheap Tokay
and Thunderbird wines, their angers and flare-ups, their flame-reflected dream
of their phantom girl Phoebe Snows, and long ago home memories, and, and, their
lonesome side of the road deaths, unclaimed and unmourned.
…yes, he came like wind, like
rain and hence this fitting tribute to the old curmudgeon Wobblie troubadour.
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