When The Blues Was Dues- A Short Song For Woody- “Ashes Strewn On The Sea”

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman:

…he came out of the prairies like the fire that was an ever present threat, like the wind that came howling of the Dakotas, came howling showing no mercy no mercy recognized by humankind, no mercy as it blew a generation or two’s sinewy, sweaty hard labor across the land like so many sticks.. And like the wind no prairie could hold him long, hold him from the doing he planned to be doing, planned to be making, hell, planned, just planned. So if anybody asks you, or worse, anybody tries to tell you that his plainsong adventure was all ad lib, was put together helter-skelter with scissors and paste (real scissors and paste for those too young to remember such ancient ways of fitting a thing up, making it right against mankind imperfections, or maybe were too young to remember him except through parents, or grandparents ,or now maybe even ancient thickset, hard of hearing angel great-grandparents) , all mirrors and mirages like some snake oil salesman or carny barker, don’t believe them, just don’t.

Yah, like the wind he roamed out of those okie cowboy hills, all threadbare, all morning dust, all noon dust, all evening dust, all dust broke, all dust finished, and like a million okies before him he lit out for the angel-infested west and more space (east, east then had no appeal, had no sex appeal for him but was like some worked- out barren mine, a place to pass by, or die in. Only later, sickness later, did he head east, and had people following him east too), mountains, canyons, arroyos, rios strewn every which way, then to the flatlands past the Sierras on down to the sea, the pacific sea, the big swirl white foamed, white-capped sea, land’s end. And there in the valley camps, there in the wicked miserable okie/arkie/ bracero fields, sweated, back-breaking labor not fit for man nor woman (although not as miserable as those played-out barren okie fields, now bank repossessed, repossessed forever ) he got his voice. Got the rhythm of his people not turning back (where would they go, and why, why with all hell playing out on those dusty prairies), of taking one final land’s end stand before Jehovah himself. And he sang like some latter-day poet Whitman, and they listened, listened to their okie bard, as he sang of their trials and tribulations, and maybe his own.

Oh yah, as if anybody would let me forget, sure he loved women, jesus, everybody wants to know about that even if they can’t remember the complete lyrics to his plainsong, except may This Land Is Your Land, loved every woman who gave him an eye, a shy eye, a bold eye, maybe even one-eye but that look, or maybe just the thought of that look, got him into many a bed, wedded bed mate (she wedded) or not. Until, until he got that okie dust feeling, that old Tom Joad, Dove Linkhorn feeling that possessed his kind, that eternal moving on down the line feeling when thing started crashing in on him, or maybe she thought twice about leaving Hank, or Jimmy, or Bill when he, seeing another eye cast his way, a shy, eye, a bold eye, maybe even one-eye, caught the glance and saved him the bother of sneaking out that third floor back window, half naked, rucksack in hand, and catching that Southern Pacific to parts unknown, yah, to parts unknown and a fresh start, as long as he could get that okie dust out of his throat and some pacific waters, foam-flecked, white-capped to wash him clean.

And then, well then, roaming and bumming, and bumming and roaming (and smoking and drinking and whoring, alright) took their toll, he lost his voice, not the physical voice but that voice that drove his plainsong, and he took to bed, took himself back east (that east that had no sex appeal, that was to be passed by, or was a place to die), and he collapsed in on himself, turned to a monster of himself before the end, the feeble end. But just before then, just that minute when that lost voice was ready to give out for good, he asked, no he begged, no he ordered, no he commanded, in one last fit of okie hubris that under no conditions, was he to be buried out in that throat-clogging okie wasteland. Nah, just throw his silly (his term) ashes over some blue-green high-flying, white wave ocean and be done with it…

When The Blues Was Dues- Song For Woody

 

…he came out of the prairies like the fire, like the wind. And like the wind no prairie could hold him long, hold him from the doing he planned to be doing, planned to be making, hell, planned, just planned. So if anybody asks you, or worse, anybody tries to tell you that his plainsong adventure was all ad lib, was put together helter-skelter with scissors and paste (real scissors and paste for those too young to remember such ancient ways of fitting a thing up, making it right against mankind imperfections, or maybe were too young to remember him except through parents, or grandparents ,or now maybe even ancient thickset, hard of hearing angel great-grandparents) , all mirrors and mirages like some snake oil salesman or carny barker, don’t believe them, just don’t.

Yah, like the wind he roamed out of those okie hills, all threadbare, all morning dust, all noon dust, all evening dust, all dust broke, all dust finished, and like a million okies before him he lit out for the west and more space (east, east had no appeal, had no sex appeal for him but was like some worked- out barren mine, a place to pass by, or die in), mountains, canyons, arroyos, rios strewn every which way, then to the flatlands past the Sierras on down to the sea, the pacific sea. And there in the valley camps, there in the wicked miserable bracero fields, sweated, back-breaking labor not fit for man no woman (although not as miserable as those played-out okie fields, now bank repossessed) he got his voice. Got the rhythm of his people not turning back (where would they go, and why, why with all hell playing out on those dusty prairies) taking one final land’s end stand before Jehovah himself. And he sang like some latter-day poet Whitman, and they listened, listened to their okie bard, as he sang of their trials and tribulations, and maybe his own.

Oh yah, sure he loved women, jesus, everybody wants to know about that even if they can’t remember the lyrics to his plainsong, loved every woman who gave him an eye, a shy eye, a bold eye, maybe even one-eye but that look, or maybe just the thought of that look, got him into many a bed, wedded bed mate (she wedded) or not. Until, until he got that okie dust feeling, that moving on down the line feeling, or maybe she thought twice about leaving Hank, or Jimmy, or Bill when he, seeing another eye cast his way, a shy, eye, a bold eye, maybe even one-eye, and saved him the bother of sneaking out that third floor back window and catching that Southern Pacific to parts unknown, yah, to parts unknown and a fresh start, as long as he could get that okie dust out of his throat and some pacific waters, foam-flecked, white-capped to wash him clean.

And then, well then, roaming and bumming, and bumming and roaming (and smoking and drinking and whoring, alright) took their toll, he lost his voice, not the physical voice but that voice that drove his plainsong, and he took to bed, took himself back east (that east that had no sex appeal, that was to be passed by, or was a place to die), and he collapsed in on himself, turned to a monster of himself before the end, the feeble end. But just before then, just that minute when that lost voice was ready to give out for good, he asked, no he begged, no he ordered, no he commanded, in one last fit of okie hubris that under no conditions, was he to be buried out in that throat-clogging okie wasteland. Nah, just throw his silly (his term) ashes over some blue-green high-flying, white wave ocean and be done with it…

***A Populist Folk Singer For The Ages- The Dust Bowl Refugee- “Woody Guthrie: Dust Bowl Ballads”

Click On The Title To Link To A YouTube Film Clip Of Woody Guthrie Performing This Land Is Your Land.

CD REVIEW

Woody Guthrie; Dust Bowl Ballads, Woody Guthrie, Buddha Records, 2000

Although this space is mainly dedicated to reviewing political books and commenting on past and current political issues literary output is hardly the only form of political creation. Occasionally in the history of the American and international left musicians, artists and playwrights have given voice or provided visual reminders to the face of political struggle. With that thought in mind, every once in a while I have used this space to review those kinds of political expression.

This review was originally used to take an end around look at some previously unknown, if not hidden, Woody Guthrie work from the 1940 and 1950s that were not songs, but poems, reflections, and “speak-outs” that came to mind when Woody he had his lucid moments, an album entitled Note Of Hope. Best of all for those, like me, who worry about the future of folk music as the generation of ’68 dwindles these works were recreated and put to music (including producer Rob Wasserman’s fatalistic bass, yes, bass work) by some younger artists who will carry the torch forward. And that album brought me back to a Woody hunger and hence a refreshed look at his Okie dust bowl ballads.

My musical tastes were formed, as were many of those of the generation of 1968, by Rock & Roll music exemplified by The Rolling Stones and Beatles and by the blues revival, both Delta and Chicago style. However, those forms as much as they gave pleasure were only marginally political at best. In short, these were entertainers performing material that spoke to us. In the most general sense that is all one should expect of a performer. Thus, for the most part, that music need not be reviewed here. Those who thought that a new musical sensibility laid the foundations for a cultural or political revolution have long ago been proven wrong.

That said, in the early 1960’s there nevertheless was another form of musical sensibility that was directly tied to radical political expression- the folk revival. This entailed a search for roots and relevancy in musical expression. While not all forms of folk music lent themselves to radical politics it is hard to see the 1960’s cultural rebellion without giving a nod to such figures as Dave Van Ronk, the early Bob Dylan, Utah Phillips, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie and others. Whatever entertainment value these performers provided they also spoke to and prodded our political development. They did have a message and an agenda and we responded as such. That some of these musicians’ respective agendas proved inadequate and/or short-lived does not negate their affect on the times.

As I have noted elsewhere in a review of Dave Van Ronk’s work when I first heard folk music in my youth I felt unsure about whether I liked it or not. As least against my strong feelings about The Rolling Stones and my favorite blues artists such as Howlin' Wolf and Elmore James. Then on some late night radio folk show here in Boston I heard Dave Van Ronk singing Come All You Fair and Tender Ladies and that was it. From that time to the present folk music has been a staple of my musical tastes. From there I expanded my play list of folk artists with a political message.

Although I had probably heard Woody’s This Land is Your Land at some earlier point I actually learned about his music second-hand from early Bob Dylan covers of his work. While his influence has had its ebbs and flows since that time each succeeding generation of folk singers still seems to be drawn to his simple, honest tunes about the outlaws, outcasts and the forgotten people that made this country, for good or evil, what it is today. Since Woody did not have a particularly good voice nor was he an exceptional guitar player the message delivered by his songs is his real legacy.

And now we have a second legacy look for the ages from the hard-edged American populist. Stick outs here include Tom Goad I and II (basically John Steinbeck’s Grape of Wrath in lyric form), California dreamin’ Do Re Mi, the outlaw love song Pretty Boy Floyd and I Ain’t Got No Home. A tip of the hat to Woody.

This Land Is Your Land-Woody Guthrie

This land is your land This land is my land
From California to the New York island;
From the red wood forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and Me.

As I was walking that ribbon of highway,
I saw above me that endless skyway:
I saw below me that golden valley:
This land was made for you and me.

I've roamed and rambled and I followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts;
And all around me a voice was sounding:
This land was made for you and me.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said "No Trespassing."
But on the other side it didn't say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.

***A Populist Folk Singer For The Ages- The Dust Bowl Refugee- Woody Guthrie: A Postscript Album- "Note Of Hope"

Click On The Title To Link To A YouTube Film Clip Of Woody Guthrie Performing This Land Is Your Land.

CD REVIEW

Note of Hope: A Collaboration In Words And Music-Woody Guthrie and Rob Wasserman, 429 Records, 2011

Although this space is mainly dedicated to reviewing political books and commenting on past and current political issues literary output is hardly the only form of political creation. Occasionally in the history of the American and international left musicians, artists and playwrights have given voice or provided visual reminders to the face of political struggle. With that thought in mind, every once in a while I have used this space to review those kinds of political expression.

This review was originally used to describe several of Woody Guthrie’s recordings. This review takes an end around look at some previously unknown, if not hidden, work from the 1940 and 1950s that were not songs, but poems, reflections, and “speak-outs” that came to mind when Woody he had his lucid moments. And best of all, best of all for those, like me, who worry about the future of folk music as the generation of ’68 dwindles these works are recreated here and put to music (including producer Rob Wasserman’s fatalistic bass, yes, bass work) by some younger artists who will carry the torch forward.

My musical tastes were formed, as were many of those of the generation of 1968, by Rock & Roll music exemplified by The Rolling Stones and Beatles and by the blues revival, both Delta and Chicago style. However, those forms as much as they gave pleasure were only marginally political at best. In short, these were entertainers performing material that spoke to us. In the most general sense that is all one should expect of a performer. Thus, for the most part that music need not be reviewed here. Those who thought that a new musical sensibility laid the foundations for a cultural or political revolution have long ago been proven wrong.

That said, in the early 1960’s there nevertheless was another form of musical sensibility that was directly tied to radical political expression- the folk revival. This entailed a search for roots and relevancy in musical expression. While not all forms of folk music lent themselves to radical politics it is hard to see the 1960’s cultural rebellion without giving a nod to such figures as Dave Van Ronk, the early Bob Dylan, Utah Phillips, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie and others. Whatever entertainment value these performers provided they also spoke to and prodded our political development. They did have a message and an agenda and we responded as such. That some of these musicians’ respective agendas proved inadequate and/or short-lived does not negate their affect on the times.

As I have noted elsewhere in a review of Dave Van Ronk’s work when I first heard folk music in my youth I felt unsure about whether I liked it or not. As least against my strong feelings about The Rolling Stones and my favorite blues artist such as Howlin' Wolf and Elmore James. Then on some late night radio folk show here in Boston I heard Dave Van Ronk singing Come All You Fair and Tender Ladies and that was it. From that time to the present folk music has been a staple of my musical tastes. From there I expanded my play list of folk artists with a political message.

Although I had probably heard Woody’s This Land is Your Land at some earlier point I actually learned about his music second hand from early Bob Dylan covers of his work. While his influence has had its ebbs and flows since that time each succeeding generation of folk singers still seems to be drawn to his simple, honest tunes about the outlaws, outcasts and the forgotten people that made this country, for good or evil, what it is today. Since Woody did not have a particularly good voice nor was he an exceptional guitar player the message delivered by his songs is his real legacy.

And now we have a second legacy for the ages from the hard-edged American populist. Stick outs here include Lou Reed (yes, that Lou Reed from the Velvet Underground) on The Debt I Owe, Voice by Ani DiFranco, I Heard A Man Talking by the late Studs Terkel and Jackson Browne on You Know The Night. All backed up exquisitely by Brother Wasserman. A tip of the hat to Woody and Rob.

This Land Is Your Land-Woody Guthrie

This land is your land This land is my land
From California to the New York island;
From the red wood forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and Me.

As I was walking that ribbon of highway,
I saw above me that endless skyway:
I saw below me that golden valley:
This land was made for you and me.

I've roamed and rambled and I followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts;
And all around me a voice was sounding:
This land was made for you and me.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said "No Trespassing."
But on the other side it didn't say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.