The Quare Fellow-James Mason’s Odd Man Out  

DVD Review

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

Odd Man Out, starring James Mason, directed by Carol Reed (director of the noir classic The Third Man), 1947

No question being a revolutionary in non-revolutionary times is a tough dollar, or as the case here in the film under review, Odd Man Out, being such a stout-hearted fellow in Belfast (although the city is unnamed in the film but it has the look of that city and the kicker is the Royal Constabulary swarming all over the place in the 1940s), in the North, the North of Ireland after the partition which created a two-state solution in Ireland after the deal when down in the 1920s and the 1940s Irish Republican Army (IRA) partisans were left to swing in the wind. Yeah just ask stand-up IRA partisan Johnnie McQueen (although in the film the designation is simply “the organization” everybody knows what organization), a stand-up guy who did serious time in one His Majesty’s stinking prisons. Yeah, ask Johnny and the boys what’s what when times are tough and dough is tight to fight the fight for a one-state Ireland. A lot of good men, women too, including a quare fellow like Johnny have broken their teeth on that one.            

See in hard times, in times when the general population does not give a rat’s ass about unification (or whatever political program a revolutionary might be espousing) guys like Johnny and the boys have to keep body and soul together, to speak nothing of the organization, by an occasion robbery to refill the coffers. So Johnny and the boys plot and plan (after being given the assignment by that nefarious “organization”) to rob the local mill where the payroll cash will be a very good start on continuing to keep body and soul together. Naturally with stand-up Johnny as the leader. Stand-up or not though Johnny got ground down by prison, wasn’t up to leading this caper and while they grabbed the cash after that everything went to hell in a handbasket. It didn’t help that Johnny got caught up in a battle just before the getaway with some bravo who must have thought the dough being taken was personally his and in the melee got killed, got killed dead as it turned out. Johnny took a bullet too, a bullet wound which would drive the rest of the film.      

And that tells the tale of the rest of the film as Johnny is thrown pillar to post trying to dodge the coppers and get away, far away, from Belfast and the king’s sweet sweated gallows. Capturing the tensions, the mishaps, the poignancy of the streets of the town at night, a night that was filled with forebodings for Johnny, director Carol Reed as he did in The Third Man did a masterful job of cinematography capturing the back alleys and squalor of the “wrong side of the tracks” is really what drives us on to see what happens.

Well you know Johnny could come to no good end, had to take the fall one way or the other. Here is strange beauty of this plotline though. Johnny’s love interest, fellow partisan Kathleen, knowing that her man is going down, is going down hard, on her own makes a private “death pact,” wants to share Johnny’s fate. To insure that common fate as the coppers close in on Johnny Kathleen without flinching draws a pistol from her coat pocket and starts firing. Great noir touch.      

The Lost Treasure Of The Outback-With Burt Lancaster’s Rope Of Sand In Mind

 

 

 

 

From The Pen Of Zack James

Every once in a while Josh Breslin liked to abandon his hideaway in his old growing up hometown of Olde Saco up in coastal Maine which he had several years early returned to after living in many other places to “get the dust of that old town off his shoes” as he liked to say to his old gang and go down to Boston and join up with some old friends from Carver whom he had met back in the early 1960s through his connection with the late Pete Markin out on the hitchhike road in San Francisco. He, they, including Markin before he went over the edge in a drug deal and lost his life in the mid-1970s dealing with some serious mal hombres down south of the border who did not give a damn about some “from hunger” gringo, had spent a few years living that alternative lifestyle counter-cultural dream that was the 1960s before the night-takers pulled the hammer down and sucked all the air out of whatever small Eden they were trying to build.

They all, except Markin, one way or another read the tea leaves of the ebb tide of the 1960s and made their respective “armed truces” as Sam Lowell, one of their number from Carver, liked to call it and went back to whatever they had intended to do before the action in the 1960s caught them in its web, including Josh who spent his time as a free-lance writer for half the small and medium-sized publications in the country. Josh, Frankie Riley the schoolboy leader of the tribe in Carver although more laid back out West where being herd-riding “boss” was in bad odor, Sam, Sam Eaton, Jack Callahan, Bart Webber and the recently deceased Benny Borden known always as the Be-Bop Kid after he latched onto  Benny Goodman and went crazy for swing when the rest of us were seriously into acid-etched rock (we called that friendly enough “different strokes for different folks,” and it was just fine) kept in touch over the years and would meet periodically over drinks and dinner, although frequently as they have been retired or semi-retired mainly drinks, at the Rusty Nail in downtown Boston to reminisce over old times and tell some new lies. One such occasion a while back was the reason that Josh had come down from Maine.

Now almost like in their schoolboy days the subject matter under discussion at any of these get-togethers could range from the general rage they felt for the war policies of the current American government since they had all more or less retained their hatred for war carried over from Vietnam War days of which Sam Lowell, Frankie Riley and the Be-Bop Kid had been veterans of and the others staunch opponents of including jail-time to what was new in music or seen on YouTube, film or books. (Sam Eaton said filled in the blank for which current government it is in the now endless wars that preoccupy Washington.) Josh usually of late had been regaling the group with his reviews of various old-time black and white movies he had watched via Netflix DVDs or streamed on his T.V. now that he had time to do so. He was especially crazy over film noir or anything that smacked of that genre and the other guys usually gave him a listen since they had all seen at least some the films from the old days down in Carver at the Strand Theater where they would take in the Saturday afternoon kids’ matinee double-feature or later went at night on hot dates up into the balconies with “hot” dates at that same locale.     

On the night in question after warming up to the subject with a high shelf shot of Chivas neat (many steps up from old time Johnny Walker Black with water chaser, praise be, Josh praise be)  Josh started talking about gold, about how the gold lust in the classic Treasure of the Sierra Madre did Humphrey Bogart, Tim Holt and Walter Huston in. Got them nothing but windy graves down in old Mexico when the mal hombres came to take the gold away from them. (Everyone, including Josh, could only think after he had made that statement about what happened in the film about Markin and his unmarked potter’s field grave down there in Sonora, south of the border, and you could almost hear a collective moan, moan for man, moan for that old sainted bastard still missed and moaned over all these years later.)       

The reason Josh brought up the gold lust was that that precious mineral was not the only substance that men would fight and die over, would get that strange blood lust in their eyes to grab a fistful of. Having seen almost all the A film noirs available these days Josh had been checking out the vast array of B noirs and the one he wanted to talk about that night starred Burt Lancaster in an odd-ball noir entitled Rope of Sand. Here the lust, blooded or not, name your lust but here diamonds, diamonds found by the bags full, diamonds for the taking down in Southern Africa if you were man enough to go and grab them, and had the strength to keep them. A lesson lost on the boys in the Sierra Madre. Here’s how Josh ran to ground with the story.

“See this Davis guy, the part played by Burt Lancaster had been a hunting guide in the outback, out in Southern Africa probably South Africa but down in serious diamond country. One of his clients not only wanted to hunt animals but to seek what he was told were diamonds just waiting on the ground to be grabbed, grabbed by him as it turned out. Davis was not into that action but the client was and he took off one morning to cross the bushy savannah and serious dry rot desert to find them. He did but lacking proper hydration he was too weak to close the deal and dropped down on the ground ready for the grim reaper to take his hand.

“During this time Davis tracked him, found him seriously dehydrated, and after hiding the cache tried to get back to civilization to no avail. The client died. That was not the end of Davis’ troubles though since news of a huge diamond cache just waiting for somebody to grab set all kinds of wheels turning. Especially since those diamonds were on the private property of the main mining company in the area. The mining company security chief Vogel, played by Paul Henreid, you know he was the guy who played Victor Lazlo the escaped leader of the European anti-Nazi resistance in World War II who Rick, of Rick’s American Café in Casablanca gave up fetching Ilsa for on the theory that the love woes of three little people in this wicked old world don’t amount to a hill of beans when the night-takers are on a rampage, and he was right of course, played the heavy here and tried to torture Davis for the information about the whereabouts of the diamonds. Getting that haul would put a feather in his cap, put him in good with the mining company boss. No go, Davis wasn’t so brittle, got away to fight another day under better conditions and that is the backdrop to the action to follow.

“Davis, who despite his toughness, was strictly from hunger after he was banished from the guide trade decided he was strong enough to grab the diamonds a couple of years later. Of course Vogel would have a say about that, a big say since he controlled the most guns. But here is where Monty, played by Claude Rains who you will remember was the Vichy cop who wound up walking in the fog with Rick of Rick’s American Café once Rick played out that “hill of beans” theory and needed to get out of Casablanca fast and he was just the boy to do it, the mine owner has his own plan. After suffering a false rape scene with Suzanne, a local bar girl, maybe an independent street-walker they never made that easy rider stuff clear in those 1940s and 1950s movies expecting  that kids would get all worked up if they called women whores and men pimps that kind of stuff. For some filthy lucre she was to seduce Davis into telling her where the diamonds were, get the information and he would cut Vogel out. See how the lust works even with guys who have a ton of dough.                

“Well the seduction business doesn’t work on Davis and not because Suzanne did not have her charms but because along the way she turned out to be the whore with the golden heart and decided to side with him (after a couple of off-screen tumbles in the hay that off-screen another Hollywood play in those days). She was messing up his silk sheets for free on the side although like I say they didn’t spell that out for us then which might have helped clear up a lot of misunderstandings about sex, girls and what makes the world go round if they had but I will save that screed for another day.

“Naturally Davis went after the diamonds, has about six misadventures getting there. And of course you know that the evil Vogel had the “fix” in. But you know when you have a “from hunger” guy and a whore with a golden heart in a 1949 noir that Vogel was going down and things would  come up roses for Davis and Suzanne. They do since after wasting Vogel Davis made a deal with Monty for his life, free passage, a couple of rocks and Suzanne and Monty went for it. But see how that lust business did old Vogel in, and almost Davis.”

Everybody laughed but it was not an easy laugh since every man in that group in that bar that night had grown up “from hunger” and was probably wondering if the diamonds in Rope or the gold in Sierra Madre had been within their reach they might have wound up on the wrong side of the grave.

Guilty Until Proven Innocent-Cary Grant And Jean Arthur’s The Talk Of The Town

 

 

 

DVD Review

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

Talk Of The Town, starring Cary Grant, Jean Arthur, Ronald Coleman, 1942 

There are a million ways that Hollywood has played the story of those falsely accused of heinous crimes (heinous a word in bad odor these days according to some of my younger associates but nevertheless useful here) from the serious social dramas Warner Brothers put out usually with guys like Paul Henried or Paul Lucak playing the sober somber lead to the film under review, Cary Grant and Jean Arthur’s The Talk Of The Town where it is played with a bit of off-hand humor.     

Now if you thought that the title meant we were, following The New Yorker section of the same name, talking about New York City and its doing you would be wrong. We are dealing here strictly with a Podunk town of unknown original where the mills are run, as in usually the case in one mill town, by one guy or family and they have an overweening influence (overweening another word in bad odor but give me a better one and I will substitute gladly) on the life of such towns. In other words they run things from top to bottom where it counts from the mayor, police chief, and justice system all the way down to the average citizen who just happens to be depend on that mill paycheck to keep body and soul together, usually with a family attached. 

That premise is what guides this off-beat look at the rule of law in American life in a more innocent, trusting age. See Leopold (played by Cary Grant a very non-Leopold looking guy) a mill worker and political agitator of unknown ideological and organizational views although presumed to be left-wing given the forces at play got set up, got set up big time to take the big step off for committing arson at Mister Mill-owner’s mills (fill in the blank in our town it was the MacAdams Mills before they closed and headed south and thereafter to foreign lands) and incidentally killing a mill foreman. Thus Leopold was headed for a felony murder count and hang him high. But Leopold was innocent, innocent as a babe, well, maybe not quite that innocent but of the murder rap for sure. Rather than see himself swing from some dawn gallows he did what every innocent man would do-he escaped from the pokey, set out to prove one way or the other that he had been framed, framed with a ribbon on it.         

Here is where things get dicey, and sets what is essentially another 1940s wartime romantic comedy to keep the wives and girlfriends who populated the theaters then waiting for the other shoe to drop in the muds of Europe or the corals of the Pacific from fretting to death apart from a more sober look at the justice system in small town America in those days. What ensues is a comedy of error involving Nora (played by Jean Arthur), whom Leopold has had a crush on since high school, and a law professor, let’s call him Mike although his persona is not very Mike-like but rather Sir Michael-like, (played by Ronald Coleman) when Leopold, on the lam, winds up at a house that Nora is setting up to rent to Mike. Naturally a law professor can’t ignore having an escaped accused felon around and so through dodges and whatnots Leopold finally see the professor’s rational, legal light. Sees that he has to turn himself in to get a crack at some justice.      

Of course along the way there is a dramatic built-up of romantic interest in Nora by both Leopold, who wears his intentions on his sleeves, and the more reserved but equally ardent Mike. Of course as well no way was Mike (or the scriptwriters in a romantic comedy) going let Leopold go to the gallows after he decided to follow the professor’s advice and let justice work its blinded eyes so Mike began to investigate things. Found out through his snooping that the allegedly dead foreman was hiding out in Boston and that the mill-owner had been for his own maniacal reasons the cause of the arson. Justice prevailed. As for the real core of the story line though-who got Nora-well naturally it had to be Leopold since in those days Cary Grand played no second-fiddle to any other guy with the ladies. Mike well he got the boobie prize-an Associate Justice-ship on the United States Supreme Court. See what I mean when I say that it was a more innocent age.             

*****I Hear Mother Africa Calling-With Odetta In Mind

 

Sam Eaton, nothing but the son of a son of a son of an old swamp Yankee, that’s a Yankee fisherman, a small tradesman, a farm hand and those who had, or their forebears had, come across the ocean not under some city on the hill dream but to escape the poor house, the debtors prison or the hangman and wound up doing some indentured servitude before getting under some high Brahmin's fist who did things like yeoman’s military service under General Washington against the bloody British when the call came for brave men to come and help in freedom’s fight and who later forged his way, family in tow, to struggle with the rough stony New England land which fought him and his every inch of the way almost as hard but for sure longer than those bloody Brits, tumble rock fought him down in Carver in the southeastern corner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts where he tried to eke out an existence against the grim fresh breast of earth and marsh as a “bogger,” a man who worked the dreaded cranberry bogs for which that town was once famous, worked in harness raking the damn berries for some benighted Thanksgiving dinner, so yes, a swamp Yankee as against the Beacon Hill Brahmins who reaped the benefits of the bloodstained freedom fight without the risks and settled into a quiet life of coin counting and merchandise buying, had been puzzled at the age of fourteen at a time when he first heard a blues song, Howlin’ Wolf’s How Many More Years on a fugitive radio station down in Carver one night in the late 1950s (a song that later, much later, seemingly a technological millennia later, he would see done by Wolf on YouTube taken from a performance at the Newport Folk Festival in the early 1960s where the Wolf sweat rolling from his ebony cheeks and forehead flowing down his face like some ancient Nile River snaking its way to the sea, deep bass voice beyond deep seeming to get deeper with each drop of water would practically  eat the harmonica he had in the cusp of his hand talking, no preaching to himself, taking himself to task, about some woman, some mean mistreating mama if the truth be known who had him in a sailor’s knot, has him all twisted up, had him so depressed and blue his wanted to go under the grasses but who in the end took the walk of the beaten down, beaten around  and left old Minnie high and dry which Sam had sensed was happening way back when on that fugitive radio.).

That “fugitive” part just mentioned not being some pirate station off the coast which he had heard that some people who couldn’t get their music on the regular dial were doing somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean (he would find out later that this pirate station was out in the North Sea someplace and was there because of the uproar in England, like in the states over the demon effect rock and roll was having on the Queen’s subjects, her gaggle of children who somehow heard the fresh new breeze from America was heading their way and which he found out more about still later when he saw a film starring the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman about the subject) the result of some mystical still not understood airwave heading out into the atmosphere all the way from Chicago where occasionally around eleven o’clock (ten Chi town time) he would pick up Be-Bop Benny’s Blues Hour over WALM, a station that billed itself as the “Blues is the dues” station.
 

He was not sure but he thought then that Be-Bop Benny was a black guy, a Negro (the “polite” word of common usage then to signify blacks, now far out of style and thus the need to explain to generations born after who accept the racial designation black or Afro-American or some other local derivative), although he heard his father, Prescott, who was the last of a long line of downtrodden independent Eaton boggers who would soon thereafter go belly up and sell out to the mega-growers, call them “n----rs” without a trance of rancor or self-consciousness and put “damn” in front of that term with rancor when he had been drinking rye whiskey and bemoaning his fate and said the “n” word were being treated better than he and his were).

Although Sam had never seen a black man in person then since they did not follow the bogging trade and none lived in town or went through it as far as he knew he thought that if Be-Bop wasn’t then he was at least from the south because his voice sounded strange, had a drawl, had kind of a mumble-rumble quality to it and he was saying all kinds of be-bop, cool daddy, hot mama, from jump street kind of stuff. And for a time, a fair amount of time he did not like to hear that scratchy raspy voice, or that blues is dues stuff either. That was the source of his puzzlement.

See Sam had not really been happy when he heard that station come over the fugitive airwaves on late Sunday nights (although the song was okay, no, more than okay, cool even if he didn’t quite understand why the Wolf was letting some mean mistreating mama get him down, get him so crazy that he wanted to go six feet under which even naïve Sam knew meant old Wolf was losing it but that kind of hard-bitten lyric was not to his taste then since he was just getting that bug, just wanted to hear about roses and playthings, stuff like that, happily ever after stuff). As a dedicated fourteen old white boy from a town with no Negro families, not even people who were connected with those workers in the town like his father and a couple of older adult brothers and uncles who worked the cranberry bogs, he was not interested, or maybe consciously interested is better, the blues.

Sam was totally into rock and roll, totally into listening to WMEX the local radio station out of Boston which was being interfered with by that blues is dues station out of Chi town at eleven o’clock (remember ten Chi town time). Interfered with his listening to Bill Haley blast away on Shake, Rattle and Roll, Elvis doing Tomorrow Night and Good Rockin’ Tonight, Johnny Grey doing a great version of Rocket 88, Sam Jackson doing This Is Rock, Bobby Sams doing One Night Of Sin good rocking stuff that DJ Arnie Ginsberg would play on his At The Hop show where he played songs that had dropped off the charts but were diamonds of rock and roll. So at fourteen he could not figure out, nor could they when he asked his friend Jack Caldwell who knew everything about roll and rock, what the appeal was of that Wolf tune. But that beat, that chord progression, that going down to the messy forlorn earth and then coming back up again would follow him for a long, long time. He never really found an answer, a satisfactory answer until he looked beyond the fugitive sound, looked back to why the blues was even the blues. Looked more to the way it made him feel when times were tough, when he would get into his depressive shell, and a blues is dues song would break the bad ass spell.               

Not until later did Sam figure some stuff out after he had kind of given up on rock and roll for a while, maybe around sixteen, seventeen, when the music seemed, well, square, seemed to be about blond-haired, blue-eyed guys searching for (and getting) blond-haired blue eyed girls with a “boss” car and dough as a lure, maybe a surfer guy cruising the beaches out west, out California way, none of which he and his had much of, the dough and car part, and Carver being kind of landlocked no surfer profile, and so kind of distant from the life of a son of a son of a son of a swamp Yankee.
 

Sam started figuring stuff out too when he got into his folk music thing for a minute, music which mainly made him go up a wall but which he put up with because Sara Leonard, his girlfriend or the girl he wanted to be his girlfriend got all excited about it when she saw Joan Baez in Cambridge at some club (the original Club 47 as it turned out where Joan and lots of other folkies hung out) and insisted that he like the songs or hit the road, you know how that is (this Sara by the way all dark hair and the whitest of white skin got hung up on the iron-your-hair-like Joan Baez craze and he would have to sit in the Leonard parlor cooling his heels while Sara did her ritual). Jesus. Part of that folk thing although he was not sure how and why was about the blues, about down south music from the plantations and sharecropper cabins, and how they made music to keep themselves from going crazy when the hammer came down and they needed some way to express their rage at their plight without getting hung up on a tree somewhere or shot in the back down some dirty road.      

The critics, and don’t ever ask Sam who these guys are since all he cares about is the music, about the blues, who performs it and whether it will take the bite out of his depression or not and not some discursive history stuff although if you talked about the Civil War, the Russian Revolution, the Spanish Civil War, some guys called the Diggers (not boggers, not as far as he knew), or about the Renaissance he will listen all day, as long as you realize that you will be listening all night, say that the blues, you know, the quintessential black musical contribution to the American songbook along with first cousin jazz that breaks you out of your depression about whatever ails you or the world, was formed down in the Mississippi muds, down in some sweat-drenched bayou, down in some woody hollow all near Mister’s plantation, mill, or store. Well they might be right in a way about how it all started in America as a coded response to Mister’s, Master’s, Captain’s wicked perverse ways back in slavery times, later back in Mister James Crow times (now too but in a different code, but the same old Mister do this and not that, do that but not this just like when old James ran the code).

Sam believed however they were off by several maybe more generations and off by a few thousand miles from its origins in hell-bent Africa, hell-bent when Mister’s forbears took what he thought was the measure of some poor grimy “natives” and shipped them in death slave boats and brought them to the Mississippi muds, bayous and hollows (those who survived the horrendous middle passage without being swallowed up by the unfriendly seas). Took peoples, proud Nubians who had created very sharp and productive civilizations when Mister’s forbears were running around raggedly wondering what the hell a spoon was for when placed in their dirty clenched fingers, wondered still later how the heck to use the damn thing, and why and uprooted them whole.          

Uprooted you hear but somehow that beat, that tah, tat, tah, tah, tat, tah played on some stretched nailed string tightened against some cabin post by young black boys kept Africa home alive. Kept it alive while women, mothers, grandmothers and once in a while despite the hard conditions some great-grandmother who nursed and taught the little ones the old home beat, made them keep the thing alive. Kept alive too Mister’s forced on them religion strange as it was, kept the low branch spirituals that mixed with blues alive in plain wooden churches but kept it alive. So a few generations back black men took all that sweat, anger, angst, humiliation, and among themselves “spoke” home truth low down mean mistreating mama, two-timing man, cut you if you run, weary tune blues on juke joint no electricity Saturday nights out in the back woods accompanied by Willie’s fresh made brew and then sang high white collar penance blues come Sunday morning plain wood church time.

Son House, Charley Patton, Skip James, Sleepy John Estes, Mississippi John Hurt and a lot of guys who went to their graves undiscovered in the salt sweat sultry Delta night carried on, and some sisters too, some younger sisters who heard the beat and heard the high collar Sunday spirituals.

Some sisters like Odetta, big-voiced, big-voiced in a naked world, speaking of freedom trains with her brothers and sisters jam packed on the road, speaking of sweated field hand labor for damn Mister, man, women and child, speaking of that dirty bastard Mister James Crow and his do this and do that and don’t do this and don’t that like his charges were mere children to be ordered about, or hung from stange fruit trees or lying down in some shallow bottomland grave chains tied around the neck, speaking of the haunted northern star which turned Mister’s plantation indoors as it headed north, speaking of finding some cool shaded place where Mister would not disturb, couldn’t disturb and making lots of funny duck, odd-ball,  searching for roots white college students whose campus halls she filled, marvel, mainly marvel, that they had heard some ancient Nubian Queen, some deep-voiced Mother Africa calling them back to the cradle of civilization, calling them back to where all, everything began.  
 

And then Sam knew, or began to know, what that long ago fugitive beat that stayed in his head meant.         

So You Want To Be A Rock And Roll Star-Meryl Streep’s Ricki And The Flash

DVD Review

From The Pen Of Zack James 

Ricki and the Flash, starring Meryl Streep, Kevin Kline,directed by Jonathan Demme, 2014

Roger Mcguinn and the Birds set the whole thing up back in the 1960s about being a rock and roll star, about pursuing your dream of being up in the bright lights like Elvis, Chuck, Bo, Jerry Lee and a big cast of others who rose to the top as we were coming of age. And later of course Beatles, Stones, Led Zeppelin, Bruce Springsteen in the second coming of rock after the doldrums of the early 1960s. Yeah, Roger had it right in the lyrics to So You Want To Be A Rock And Roll Star that you were going to have to give up a lot to pursue your dream, pay a lot for being up in lights and were going to have to fight like hell to stay there once fashion changed. And a lot of us who came of age in those times maybe backed off for just those reasons, didn’t have the “fire in the belly” to go toe to toe with fame, or lacked of enough talent and stage presence to go beyond inspired amateur night. That didn’t stop a lot of us from dreaming the midnight dreams and our hats went off to the guys who pursued the road and maybe never got off winding up doing some slo-mo lounge lizard act in a Jersey hotel bar, or worse doing weddings, proms and the like. Jesus.      

Notice how I have referred strictly to guys when I mentioned the rock and roll dream because with few exceptions like Wanda Jackson early in Elvis time and Bonnie Raitt and a few others later in Stones time this was a guy dream. Somewhat later that list got longer but mainly rock was a guy thing. Then along came this film that I am reviewing today, Meryl Streep’s Ricki and the Flash, the Flash part being her back-up band at the joint she was a regular performer at and it turns out that gals, young women, not only had that same dream but were willing to abandon home and hearth to pursue that dream just like the guys. Ending forever hopefully the notion that the women of rock whatever its current manifestation will get never get fair play.

Of course unless you want to do a documentary about a female rocker then you need a story line, a subtext for the back story of what the search for fame and fortune, female version, looks like. See Ricki (her stage name okay, nice too), played beautifully by Meryl Streep who gives her all to whatever role she is playing from a despised British Prime Minister to a be-daggled, dread-locked, okay semi-dread-locked aging rocker nursing her act in L.A. (naturally) after her moments of glory via her one produced album, has indeed given up a lot for her art. Just as the story opened up she was called back to Indianapolis (one can see now see why she fled, sorry Hoosiers) by her ex-husband (played by Kevin Kline) to help their young daughter who was seriously distraught to the point of suicide since her husband was divorcing her.       

Her return sets a whole series of fireworks off both there and back in L.A. where she does her regular gig. The daughter is snarly that Ricki left her in the lurch, abandoned her, when she was young. A now openly gay son resents her for leaving as well. Ditto a second son about to be married who does not want to invite dear old Mom to the wedding. In short all treating her like a snake to be handled carefully, very carefully. The ex (Kline) is the least of Ricki’s worries but his current wife, a black woman who has raised the children in her stead and who made no bones about Rick’s lacks as a mother forces her to confront certain realities. Added to that Ricki’s lead guitarist whom she is having a fling/affair/ relationship with depending on the mood of either party is pressuring her to be more serious about their relationship.           

Well we all know this is a Hollywood film so we know this one, beyond some great covers of classic rock hits (and her own best work as well) which I understand Streep learned to play the electric guitar to do (kudos), things will work out kind of okay. Will work out enough to show why Ricki was not crazy to go out and try like hell to become a rock and roll star. Aside from some obvious thinness in the dialogue and what seems these days to be the overweening need in social dramas to have every multi-cultural identity group be portrayed in a film (interracial marriage by the ex-husband, gay son having an affair with a Vietnamese guy, and so on) way beyond he social realities of even progressive middle class American life this is a film to watch. Who would have thunk Meryl Streep could channel the ghost of women rockers past.      

When Guys Gets All Knotted Up Over A Dame-With Burt Lancaster’s Criss-Cross In Mind

 

 

 

 

 

From The Pen Of Zack James

 

Of course Steve Thompson’s story was about a dame, about a guy can’t shake some gal off his mind dame that has been done a million times in Hollywood, and not just Hollywood, by a thousand guys ever since Adams got bopped, be-bopped according to some sources but they we jazz-addled benny popping 1950s hep cats and hipsters so consider the source, some well-placed sources though when you think about the situation by the way so I am not just blowing smoke about that, making it a hypothetical situation or just making it up. Making it up while I am still scratching my head, still in shock really, to fill some time until I figure out how my boy Steve could be such a sap, could have gone back to her, practically begging, practically begging to wind up with some very bad karma, maybe a few slugs or more if things worked out that way. Or maybe  I had it wrong on that script business and it was a thousand times on a bum Hollywood script by a million guys that got waylaid by a skirt because even though I am a partisan of my boy Steve another guy, another smart guy got waylaid by the same frail and so how are you going to figure the story hasn’t been told some number of times since Adam took that first roll in the hay with the Lady Eve, who when you think about weren’t no lady when Adam delved and Eve spanned if you know what  I mean.

But I am getting behind my story, way behind, although if you were old enough to have been able to go see a movie titled Criss Cross starring old time film noir hunk, Burt Lancaster, a 1940s and 1950s hunk which had a lot to do with looking good to guy-starved women with their men away at war, and after that those guys finished up in Europe and the Pacific trying to come back to the “real” world of nine to five, a nice wife, a housewife wife, three kids, a picketed white fence and a dog of indeterminate breeding a bit moody and sullen those women still guy-starved for a while. That film, film noir really, where you get a serious look at the starkly beautiful black and white cinematography and the great shots of our old neighborhood, the Bunker Hill section of Los Angeles, around Thornton Street, a corner boy generation or so before our coming of age time in the early 1960s, dealt with Burt Lancaster and his travails with his own Anna who came up on those same streets then you know what is what about my boy Steve and I am not telling any tales out of school when I tell you I am talking about the late Steve Thompson.

A lot of that “late,” as in RIP, part was my fault, although about six guys from the old neighborhood who hung around with us at Doc’s Rexall Drugstore on Norton Street and later at Molly’s Diner on Vine, I mentioned Steve’s fate to have told me he was built for the fall, had played with dynamite when he first tangled with Anna and so nothing I could have done would have changed a damn thing. Maybe, maybe not. But I take my share of the fault for this part, because I didn’t see it coming, didn’t see the real reason that he had come back to Los Angeles, had come back to the old neighborhood, right back to the Bunker Hill section where we came of age together to find her, to get back under the linens with her instead of starting fresh in say El Segundo or maybe Pasadena, places where she wouldn’t dream of going, places for the squares she would say in that brittle voice of hers which would be cooing one minute and high dungeon bitch the next, but you probably figured that out already. (Steve told me once he had taken her, after he made a big score at the track and had dough for a few days, to a swanky hotel over on Wiltshire, a place where they don’t ask questions as long as the money is green, very green, that they had satin sheets there but she didn’t like them because when he was on top of her, or when she was giving him some head the damn sheets would slip and slide all over the place so linen was the bedding material she wanted, although more than once she said to me even she had been done in the back of a car more than once, a super 1949 Hudson among others, and scene with no sheets was okay too, strange chick, strange that way.)

So no way I  should have fallen for that  cock and bull story about Steve being lonely for home, for Thornton Street, for Bunker Hill, Jesus, every guy including me was looking to get out of there, corner boy-bred or not once the bikers, and not the candy-assed guys that Marlon Brando was hanging with in The Wild One who ripped through a small hick town with him on a lark but guys with chains and the ability to whiplash with them, hipsters, dopesters, tramps, you know hookers, good time girls, and low-rent con men came to the Hill to nurse their acts. No way. He wasn’t there, hadn’t come back  to support dear old mother in her old age, or his younger brother either who was all hopped up to marry some bimbo, Rita was her name, and she really was a bimbo because I had dated her sister, Kate, for a while after high school once her ex-boyfriend told me she was “easy” if you bought her a few drinks or a little sister, you know cocaine from the drugstore depending on who you knew at Doc’s and while she was nice under the sheets, knew how to “curl a guy’s toes” as she would say when she was done, she was nothing but a bimbo, stupid as hell outside the do-you-want-sex bit, so it ran in the family.

I see I really am getting behind in my story about Steve’s fate so I had better go back to the beginning, not the beginning beginning but the beginning of Steve’s troubles because like I said nothing good was coming of his getting mixed up with a tramp like Anna, Anna Chavez, a Spanish hot-blood or that is the way she played it although she looked as much Indian as Mex to me. I found out later after the smoke had cleared and everybody was accounted for that she was half-Navajo, half Indian on her mother’s side so I wasn’t that far off. But you know when you mix-up hot-blooded races there is bound to be trouble so maybe all that happened was in the cards anyway but somebody else can figure that one out, that one is beyond me except like I said she had that Indian streak in her and that had to mean trouble for a corner boy like Steve.

A guy whose previous experiences with women, girls really, were those sulky Irish Catholic girls who we really never did figure out, one day they had the bible between their legs and the next day, next night really, they were asking if you wanted a blow job to “ease your tensions” by which they meant to give you that treat in order to avoid losing their virginity and still be able to tell their girlfriends how “fast” they were with the boys once the damn Mass was over and they had taken holy communion to build up their sin accounts for the next time.  Once though a girl, one of those bible between the knees types told me she just flat-out like giving head, didn’t like the thought that it might get around that she was getting laid since her older brother was the protective type and might wail on the guy. She didn’t like the idea from what one girlfriend describe to her the mess of vaginal intercourse either. You know that was probably true since she was a swallower, said she also didn’t like the idea that she would get your seed all over her face or hair once you came and the jimson squirted all over the place. We used to have a great debate at Molly’s about the girls who gave head and whether they would swallow your jimson or spit it out. This girl I am talking about also would lick you dry and then keep at it try to get you hard again just for kicks to see if you could come again so she could get another swallow again said the stuff was good for her, that somebody had told her the stuff helped a girl’s complexion.

That was high school stuff  but see we used to after high school, after we graduated from Doc’s and Molly’s to real hangouts, hang at Florian’s Bar on Norfolk Street (and in high school too if Jimmy the Greek was behind the bar, a guy who asked no questions if you gave him his graft, his tip and a big one for serving you the house rotgut whiskey but what are you going to do when you developed a thirst and Jimmy was the only one who was a stand-up guy if you didn’t count the winos over under the bridge on Vernon Street who would get you a pint of whatever you wanted as long as they got their Ripple along with the order). Hey, not the Florian’s over on Central Avenue where a guy named Moose and his boys used to hang out listening to some warbler named Velma singing torch songs, not a bad singer either when I checked later and found she had recorded a few songs in the Billie Holiday style but like a lot of dames was looking for the main chance and so turned Moose in on an armed robbery beef for six bits and a mansion up in the hills. No that Florian’s was strictly for black people in our time and we wouldn’t have been caught dead there, or maybe we would have been caught dead there if we had tried to go upstairs where the real action was. Wouldn’t have gone there even with Roosevelt Barnes, a black as night brother who hung with us, to grease the way.

The one on Norfolk Street as we, or rather Steve found out when it was too late, was run by Slim Dundee the “connected” mob guy, who was using the place as a front for drugs, high stakes gambling and prostitution, prostitution mainly for guys who were into weird stuff like getting whipped by a broad or who liked to tie girls up that kind of thing. Slim was maybe ten years older than us but he was smooth, had all the angles down, and of course was in with the boys that counted back East as they were heading out to claim the West as their happy hunting ground. Here’ the thing though, the thing that Steve didn’t know until it was too later Slim was secretly married to Anna, had been since she was sixteen and he had bopped her, some say be-bopped her which is what made her such a tramp. Be-bopping in our old neighborhood meaning that he was pimping her out, making her walk the streets, you know making her nothing but trade, when he was on his way up to make some dough to buy Florian’s. So Steve when he walked into that fatal rhumba with Anna on the Florian dance floor didn’t know the score, and it probably wouldn’t have mattered that minute when she started getting him stirred up as she rubbed up against him all provocative that first night when Xavier Del Rio and his band were calling the shots.              

Steve should have known when Anna took him out back in the alley that night, both of them half-drunk, both of them randy as hell if what Steve said was right, and showed him the world. Christ he was hooked, hooked right there. But when you are dealing with fire you are going to get burned and so from that very first night she led him a merry chase. Got him thinking marriage and kids and houses shit he could have cared less about before, and which she could have cared less about ever. She kept stalling though every time he asked, every time he said they should settle down, saying they had to know each other better. Here is the funny thing she was half serious about taking a run at Steve, at the square life once Slim got tired of her, tired of her enough to spent more time at his businesses than with her but that was only half serious because she knew what Slim would do to her, to Steve if she stopped being Slim’s property. Yeah, that was exactly the way Slim saw his women, chattel property.  

Here is the outline of the half serious part, how Steve wound up “two slugs” the late Steve. Steve, hell all the corner boys, me too were not only strictly from hunger but we had been less than stellar students and so like maybe from time immortal guys like us got heavy-lifting, you know, working class jobs, me, working over at Selmo’s garage as an oil and grease man and Steve as a trucker, for National Pacific, good pay for working stiffs but strictly to meet expenses kind of work. Anna as the Annas of the world will do wanted dough and lots of it that is why she rode with Slim even when he was hustling her on the streets. She could see he was going places and took the ride along with him. But when she got her hooks into Steve she was too old to go back on the streets although she said she could still show those young gals she would see on Hollywood and Vine a thing or two about doing tricks and Steve said he agreed, said she “curled his toes” about six ways to Sunday, showed him stuff he had only seen in girlie magazines and he had been in the Army and knew what was what when it came to odd-ball sex stuff.

 So he had to do something to get dough, and fast, since Anna was murmuring about going back to Slim, full-time, leaving Steve out in the cold. So Steve got this bright idea that he would go where the money was, no, not a bank like the famous bank robber Willie Sutton said when asked about why he robbed banks but Slim’s Florian’s Bar where he had an office upstairs and kept his big cash in a safe. Do it solo so that no one would figure it was him, do it quietly too and not tell Anna a thing except to meet him up in Malibu on a designated day.            

Well, strangely, Steve actually pulled off the heist, caught Jimmy the Greek putting some money in the vault and just slugged him over the head and scrammed. Made a clean get away. The only problem was that Slim having sensed that Anna was seeing somebody else, or so he thought which was the same thing had a tail put on Steve and so once Steve got to Malibu he was easy pickings. Slim’s man had them cornered until Slim showed up. Then, cool as a cucumber, Slim walked in to the hideaway love nest and without saying a word put two into Steve and then for good measure two into Anna, RIP. Then walked away smooth as silk. Yeah, Steve is the prime example I always use when I warn guys about getting knotted up over a dame. Little good it does.           

*****Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night, Christ The Heart Of Any Night-Elegy For Tom Waits

From The Pen Of The Late Peter Paul Markin who fell by the wayside, fell to his notoriously monstrous “wanting habits” accumulated since childhood looking too hard, looking to hard in the wrong places down among the weeds in Mexico, looking for train smoke and dreams if you really thought about the matter, looking for his own heart of Saturday night-RIP, Brother-RIP.     

 

If you, as I do, every once in a while, every once in a while when the norms of today’s bourgeois-driven push, bourgeois a better term than capitalist or imperialist if you are in America since it gives a better view of the unhindered social norms, the ethos rather than the sheer grab for filthy lucre; you know grab goods, grab the dough, grab every cheap-jack convenience like it was God’s own gold, grab some shelter from the storm, the storm that these days comes down like a hard rain falling, to get ahead in this wicked old world have to step back and take stock, maybe listen to some words of wisdom, or words that help explain how you got into that mess then you have come to the right address, the address of Mister Tom Waits if you missed the headline or missed who is writing this thing (or better "wrote" since this piece is being edited posthumously by Zack James who found this and three companion pieces in the attic of Josh Breslin's Olde Saco family house in Olde Saco, Maine when they were looking to dispose of whatever could be disposed of in preparation for selling the place so Josh and Lana could move in smaller quarters and Josh told him the long and at the end the sad story about Josh's and Markin's meeting out in San Francisco in the summer of love 1960s times and about Markin's awful fate down in Mexico. That story drove Zack to the editing job in order that a genuine mad monk writer could some forty years after his death receive a small recognition of his ambitious talent.) 

Okay, okay on that bourgeois-driven today thing once I describe what was involved maybe it didn’t just start of late. Maybe the whole ill-starred rising went back to the time when this continent was, just like F. Scott Fitzgerald said way back in the 1920s when he made up the Jazz Age and reeled back in dismay once he saw how those coupon-clippers devoured all good sense and sober ethos, just a fresh green breast of land eyed by some hungry sailors some hungry Dutch sailors who took what they wanted back the homeland and made a grave attempt to fatten their own chests. Just check out any Dutch master painting to see what I mean.

Going back to Calvinist Puritan avenging angels times with John Winthrop and the Mayflower boys and their city on the hill but you best ask Max Weber about that since he tried to hook these world-wise and world weary boys no longer worrying about novenas and indulgences against some netherworld to the wheel of the capitalist profit. Profit (grab the dough, grab the goods, grab stuff cheap) for "you at the expense of me" system with the new dispensation coming out like hellfire from Geneva and points east and west. The eternal story of the short end of the stick if you aren’t ready for sociological treatises and rely on guys like Tom Waits to wordsmith the lyrics to set you right about what is wrong. But you get the point.

If all that to-ing and fro-ing (nice touch, right) leaves you wondering where you fell off the edge, that edge city (edge city where you danced around with all the conventions of the days, danced around the get ahead world, grab the dough, grab the goods, grab stuff cheap,  with blinkers on before you got stuck in the human sink that you have still not been able to get out of) where big cloud outrageous youthful dreams were dreamt and you took risks, damn did you take risks, thought nothing of that fact either, landed on your ass more than a few times but just picked yourself up and dusted your knees off and done stick around and listen up. Yeah, so if you are wondering,  have been pushed off your saintly wheels, yeah, pushed off your sainted wheels, and gotten yourself  into some angst-ridden despair about where you went off that angel-driven dream of your youth, now faded, tattered, and half- forgotten(but only half, only half-forgotten, the wisp of the dream, the eternal peace dream, the figuring out how to contain that fire, that wanting habits fire in your belly dream sisters and brothers), and need some solace (need some way to stop the fret counting the coffee cups complete with spoons to measure that coffee out as the very modernist poet once said making his modern statement about the world created since the turn of the 19th century that while away your life). Need to reach back to roots, reach back to roots that the 1950s golden age of America, the vanilla red scare Cold War night that kicked the ass out of all the old to make us crave sameness, head down, run for cover, in order to forget about those old immigrant customs, made us forget those simple country blues, old country flames, Appalachia mountain breeze coming through the hills and hollows songs, lonely midnight by the fire cowboy ballads, Tex-Mex big ass brass sympatico squeezes Spanish is the loving tongue, Irish desperate struggles against John Bull  sorrows and cautionary tale Child ballads, plucked out early by a professor over on Brattle Street back when the Brahmins very publicly ruled the roost, or Cajun Saturday night stewed drunks that made the people feel good times), reach back to the primeval forest maybe, put the headphones on some Tom Waits platter [oops, CD, YouTube selection, etc.- “platter” refers to a, ah, record, vinyl, put on a record player, hell, look it up in Wikipedia, okay-Zack James] and remember what it was like when men and women sang just to sing the truth of what they saw and heard.

If the norms of don’t rock the boat (not in these uncertain times like any times in human existence were certain, damn, there was always something scary coming up from the first man-eating beast to the human race-eating nuclear bombs, brother even I Iearned early that it was a dangerous world, yeah, learned very early in the Adamsville projects where you got a very real taste of danger before you got too much older than five or six), the norms of keep your head down (that’s right brother, that’s right sister keep looking down, no left or rights for your placid world), keeping your head down being an art form now with appropriate ritual (that ritual looking more and more like the firing squad that took old Juan Romero’s life when he did bad those days out in Utah country), and excuses, because, well, because you don’t want to wind up like them (and fill in the blank of the “them,” usually dark, very dark-skinned like some deathless, starless night disturbing your sleep, begging, I swear, begging you to put that gun in full view on the table, speaking some unknown language, maybe A-rab or I-talian, maybe gibberish for all you know, moving furtively and stealthily against your good night) drive you crazy and you need, desperately need, to listen to those ancient drum beats, those primeval forest leave droppings maybe, that old time embedded DNA coda long lost to, oh yes, civilization, to some civilizing mission (think of that Mayflower gang and that fresh green breast of land  and that city on a hill that drove them cross-eyed and inflamed or ask Max Weber, he footnoted the whole thing, put paid to any idea of otherworldly virtue), that spoke of the better angels of your nature when those angel dreams, half-forgotten but only half-forgotten remember, ruled your days. Turn up the volume up another notch or two on that Tom Waits selection, maybe Jersey Girl or Brother, Can You Spare A Dime (can you?), Hold On, or Gunn Street Girl.

If you need to hear things, just to sort things out, just to recapture that angel-edge, recapture the time when you did no fear, you and everybody else’s sisters and brothers, that thing you build and from which you now should run, recapture that child-like wonder that made you come alive, made you think about from whence you came and how a turn, a slight turn this way or that, could have landed you on the wrong side of the fence. And I have the list of brothers and sisters who took that wrong road, like that time Jack from Carver wound up face down in some dusty back road arroyo down Sonora way when the deal went bust or when she, maybe a little kinky for all I know, decided that she would try a needle and a spoon, I swear, or she swore just for kicks and she wound up in Madame LaRue’s whorehouse working that sagging bed to perdition and worse losing that thing she had for sex once she started selling it by the hour. Hey, sweet dreams baby I tried to tell you when you play with fire watch out.

So if you need to sort things out about boozers (and about titanic booze-crazed struggles in barrooms, on beaches, in the back seats of cars, lost in the mist of time down some crazed midnight, hell, four in the morning, penniless, cab fare-less night), losers (those who have lost their way, those who had gotten it taken away from them like some maiden virginity, those who just didn’t get it frankly in this fast old world taken in by some grifter’s bluster), those who never had anything but lost next to their names, those who never had a way to be lost, dopesters inhaling sweet dream snow in solitary hotel rooms among junkie brethren, gathering a needle and spoon in some subterranean dank cellar, down in dark alleys jack-rolling some poor drunk stiff out of his room rent for kicks (how uncool to drink low-shelf whiskeys or rotgut wines hell the guy deserved to be rolled, should feel lucky he got away with just a flipped wallet), out in nighttime canyons flame blaring off the walls, the seven seas of chemical dust, mainly blotter, maybe peyote (the sweet dreams of ten million years of ghost warriors working the layered canyon walls flickering against the campfire flames and the sight of two modern warriors shirtless, sweaty, in a trance, high as kites, dancing by themselves like whirling dervishes   ready to do justice for the white man's greed until the flames flickered out and they fell in a heap exhausted) if that earth angel connection comes through (Aunt Sally, always, some Aunt Sally coming up the stairs to ease the pain, to make one feel, no, not feel better than any AMA doctor without a prescription pad), creating visions of long lost tribes trying, trying like hell, to get “connected,” connected in the campfire shadow night, hipsters all dressed in black, mary mack dressed in black, speeding, speaking be-bop this and be-bop that to stay in fashion, hustling, always hustle, maybe pimping some street urchin, maybe cracking some guy’s head to create a “new world order” of the malignant, always moving, fallen sisters (sisters of mercy, sisters who need mercy, sisters who were mercifully made fallen in some mad dash night, merciful sister feed me, feed me good), midnight sifters (lifting in no particular order hubcaps, tires, wrenches, jacks, an occasional gem, some cheap jewelry in wrong neighborhoods, some paintings or whatever is not saleable left in some sneak back alley, it is the sifting that counts), grifters (hey, buddy watch this, now you see it, now you don’t, now you don’t see your long gone John dough, and Mister three card Monte long gone too ), drifters (here today gone tomorrow with or without dough, to Winnemucca, Ogden, Fresno, Frisco town, name your town, name your poison and the great big blue seas washing you clean out into the Japan seas), the drift-less (cramped into one room hovels, shelters, seedy rooming houses, hell, call them flop houses, afraid to stay in-doors or to go outside, afraid of the “them” too, afraid to be washed clean, angel clean), and small-time grafters (the ten-percent guys, failed insurance men, repo artists, bounty hunters, press agents, personal trainers, need I go on). You know where to look, right.

If you need to be refreshed on the subject of hoboes, bums, tramps (and remind me sometime to draw the distinction, the very real and acknowledged distinction between those three afore–mentioned classes of brethren once told to me by a forlorn grand master hobo, a guy down on his luck moving downward to bum), out in the railroad jungles in some Los Angeles ravine, some Gallup, New Mexico Southern Pacific  trestle (the old SP the only way to travel out west if you want to get west), some Hoboken broken down pier (ha, shades of the last page of Jack Kerouac’s classic), the fallen (fallen outside the gates of Eden, or, hell, inside too), those who want to fall (and let god figure out who made who fall, okay), Spanish Johnnies (slicked back black hair, tee shirt, shiv, cigarette butt hanging from a parted lip, belt buckle ready for action, leering, leering at that girl over there, some gringa for a change of pace, maybe your girl but watch out for that shiv, the bastard), stale cigarette butts (from Spanish Johnnie and all the johnnies, Camels, Luckies, no filters, no way), whiskey-soaked barroom floors (and whiskey-soaked drunks to mop the damn place up, for drinks and donuts, maybe just for the drinks), loners (jesus, books, big academic books with great pedigrees could be written on that subject so let’s just let that one pass by), the lonely (ditto loners), sad sacks (kindred, one hundred times kindred to the loners and the lonely but not worthy of study, big book academic study anyway), the sad (encompassing all of the above) and others at the margins of society, the whole fellahin world (the big mass of world sweated field braceros, sharecroppers, landless peasants and now cold-water flat urban dwellers fresh from the played out land, or taken land) then Tom Waits is your stop.

Tom Waits is, frankly, an acquired taste, one listen will not do, one song will not do, but listen to a whole record [CD or download okay-Zack] and you won’t want to turn the thing off, high praise in anyone’s book, so a taste well worth acquiring as he storms heaven in words, in thought-out words, in cribbed, cramped, crumbled words, to express the pain, angst and anguish of modern living, yes, modern living.

See he ain’t looking for all haloed saints out there, some Saint Jerome spreading the word out to the desert tribes, out on the American mean streets he has pawed around the edges, maybe doesn’t believe in saints for all I know, but is out looking for busted black-hearted angels all dressed in some slinky silk thing to make a man, a high-shelf whiskey man having hustled some dough better left unexplained that night going off his moorings feeding her drinks and she a liquor sponge (who left him short one night in some unnamed, maybe nameless, gin mill when she split, after she split her take with the bartender who watered her drinks, hell, the thing was sweet all she needed to do when he leaned into her was grab his sorry ass and get the damn wallet). Looking too, a child of the pin-up playboy 1950s, for girls with Monroe hips (hips swaying wickedly in the dead air night, and enflaming desire, hell lust, getting kicked out of proper small town hells by descendants of those aforementioned Mayflower boys for promising the world for one forbidden night), got real, and got left for dead with cigar wrapping rings. Yeah, looking for the desperate out there who went off the righteous path and wound up too young face down in some forsaken woods who said she needed to hold on to something, and for all the misbegotten. 


Tom Waits once you get the habit gives voice in song, a big task, to the kind of characters that peopled Nelson Algren’s novels (The Last Carousel, Neon Wilderness, Walk on the Wild Side, and The Man with the Golden Arm). The, frankly, white trash Okie/Arkie Dove Linkhorns and Frankie Machines of the world who had to keep moving just for the sake of moving something in the DNA driving that whirlwind, genetically broken before they begin, broken before they hit these shores (their forbears thrown out of Europe for venal crimes and lusts, pig-stealing, deer-pouching, working the commons without a license, highwaymen, ancient jack-rollers, the flotsam and jetsam of the old world, damn them, the master-less men and women, ask old Max about them too), having been chased out, cast out of Europe, or some such place. In short, the people who do not make revolutions, those revolutions we keep hearing and reading about, far from it, the wretched of the earth and their kin, the ones who the old blessed Paris communards were thinking of when they hanged a sign saying “Death to Thieves” from the Hotel de Ville balcony, but those who surely, and desperately could use one. If you want to hear about those desperate brethren then here is your stop as well.

If, additionally, you need a primordial grizzled gravelly voice to attune your ear to the scratchy earth and some occasional dissonant instrumentation to round out the picture go no further. Hey, let’s leave it at this- if you need someone who “feels your pain” for his characters you are home. Keep looking for the heart of Saturday night, Brother, keep looking.