My uncle, Philip Pikul (Ellis Island, again: who knows what that surname really was, in Poland?) was a railroad man after he came to this country, a member of the "Bull-gang," those rugged and overworked and underappreciated souls who kept the trains running. They shoveled the stone to make the railroad bed, laid the ties that supported the rails, spreading out the enormous weight borne by the rails, hefting the rails, those enormously heavy, ingeniously-shaped lengths of steel on which the train cars rode, and drove the spikes, with nine-pound or more hammers, a la John Henry, which held the spikes in place. They also had to shovel snow from the tracks and the switches (which shunted trains or cars onto another set of parallel tracks, moving them out of the way of trains coming in the other direction), and walk track sections in all manner of weather and times of day in order to ensure that all was well. Theirs were the backs on which this country's prosperity was largely built.
My Uncle looked just like you'd expect someone who did that work would look: large, blocky, solid, the sort of person who has, as my college roommate once said of someone, "muscles in his shit." I really try to avoid cliche, but you'd almost have to describe his hands as "ham-sized," his fingers like kielbasa. Hey, I told you he was Polish: those two items, along with boiled cabbage and copious amount of beer, were necessary staples of his diet. His strength was legendary. There is a family story, perhaps apocryphal but one I choose to believe with all my heart and soul: Uncle once had a load of, I dunno, something, which he rented a horse and wagon to transport. He led the horse, and one section of road required going up a hill. The load was too heavy for the horse and, try as it might, it just couldn't pull the load up the incline. My Uncle, not a patient fellow, finally got so enraged at the beast that he punched it, killing it. He was of course brought to court by the horse's owner. The judge asked him to detail his side of the facts of the case, in which he freely admitted to the events described above. The Judge then allegedly said to him "And what did you do then, Mr Pikul?", whereupon my uncle replied "I got between the traces and pulled the wagon up the hill." Case dismissed. See why I want so badly to believe that story?
I was thinking of my uncle the other night, and of Albie Hearne, my neighbor as a kid, who was an engineer for the railroad, and who used to let me sit on his lap and actually work the throttle on the locomotive as he moved cars around the switching yard ("Drivin' that train..."), and how they would feel to have seen the results of their hard work and their livelihood destroyed by Dwight Eisenhower as a result of Ike's drive (yeah, I see the pun) to create the interstate highway system. I was sitting in the dark on the balcony of the place where we were having Thanksgiving dinner, cooling off, drinking a beer, and temporarily escaping the jabbering throng inside. The spot, which is actually quite lovely, is right on the Hudson River; in the middle distance is the impressively lighted outline of the Tappan Zee Bridge; in the near distance, the Ossining stop on the Hudson River Line (yeah, Billy Joel didn't make that up.). I watched a couple of commuter trains pass through the station, and felt so sad that that experience isn't more universal, riding on trains. We had the technology and the infrastructure, and we wrecked and rejected it, for the most part.
In most of the country, rather than that wonderful form of mass transit, we have cars and trucks commuting to and from work, which vehicles are generally occupied by one person, a travesty and a waste of staggering proportions. Rather than one mechanical beast carrying people and goods efficiently, to a common terminus, then to be dispersed by smaller carriers for shorter distances, we've chosen to eliminate the efficient middle-man and just go with inefficiency from the get-go, yet another example of the American lone-wolf-self-sufficient myth turned to a negative. D'oh!
Train songs this week, then, to be listened to alone while driving by yourself to some common destination:
"A" Train Lady Mink Deville
Take The "A" Train Duke Ellington
Betting On Trains Hem
Desperadoes Waiting For A Train Jerry Jeff Walker
Broken Train Beck
Death Of A Train Daniel Lanois
Freight Train Taj Mahal
Fast Train Van Morrison
Gone, Just Like A Train Bill Frisell
It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry Dylan
Just Like This Train Joni Mitchell
Silver Train Stones
You're No Train Kris Delmhorst
Yesterday's Train The Byrds
When My Train Pulls In Gary Clark Jr.
Waiting For A Train Dickey Betts
Two Trains Little Feat
Train Train Billy Bragg
Train Song (Demise Of The Caboose) Victoria Williams
Train Of Glory Jonathan Edwards
Train Leaves Here This Morning Eagles
Train In Vain The Clash
Train In The Distance Paul Simon
Train Home Chris Smither
Train Kept A Rollin' The Yardbirds
Train Mose Allison
This Train Sister Rosetta Tharpe
Something About Trains Jane Siberry
So c'mon aboard this Tuesday, noon till two on WOOL FM, 91.5, or www.wool.fm, streaming live on the webs. And please give up your seat to someone who looks like they need it more than you do!
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Monday, November 24, 2014
God Help The Child Who Ain't Got His Own
Here we are, immersed since September in another glorious, soul-serving-and-saving Holiday season, to wit Thanksgiving and Xmas. You know, the seasons when we are filled with gratitude for our own good fortune and with warmth, good will and fellowship, not to mention aid and comfort, for those less fortunate than we are. The season when we throw money into little black kettles tended by hardy souls in order to help those in need. Some even volunteer in soup kitchens and food pantries, giving traditional Thanksgiving meals to people who wouldn't otherwise get them. Lots of folks, for sure, give lots of and from themselves in the service of their fellows.
Then there's Ft. Lauderdale, FLA, to name one of the more than 30 cities nationwide which have passed or are considering laws which outlaw the feeding of homeless people out of doors. Perhaps you've seen accounts of Arnold Abbott, the 90-year-old WWII veteran (that Commie!) who has been arrested 3 times, along with a couple of Pastors, for setting up outdoor soup kitchens in order to feed the homeless. One Peace Officer actually ordered Abbott to "drop that plate!", as though it were a weapon, and I guess that you could argue that it is. The same would hold true, I guess, for the immortal line from Firesign Theater's "The Further Adventures of Nick Danger, Third Eye": "Put down that pickle!"
I have tried as diligently as I can--which ain't so much, truth be told, as I am fundamentally lazy--to discover the makeup of the civic board responsible for such legislation; I strongly suspect, though I can't quote chapter and verse, that it's Tea-Party types, certainly conservative Republicans, the party of family values and Christian tenets, who are behind this coldhearted, evil law. Homelessness, after all, reflects badly on a municipality and a government, especially one which professes a belief that Free Markets will solve every ill, or at least arrange them in favor of those already privileged. So these burgs are trying to outlaw homelessness, or at least to sweep it under the rug which also may shelter some unfortunate folks. The statutes actually, in a pathetic attempt to justify their validity, contain language that asserts that feeding the homeless "encourages people to remain homeless." Goddam right: if I can sleep on a park bench or live in a cardboard box under a highway overpass and get fed by some bleeding heart, why the fuck would I want more? Why, it's The American Dream, circa 2014; where's our Frank Capra to glorify it?
As a further warning to all y'all Liberals who might be inclined to share your bounty: the laws explicitly ban "the sharing of food in public spaces." It feels like the old saw about banks: they'll only loan you money if you can prove that you don't need it. So if you give a forkful of salad or, heaven forfend, a bit of that Muslim delicacy, the falafel, to a friend or loved one in a public space, be sure that that person is carrying a deed to property and a financial statement which proves that they're capable of caring for themselves, but that you "love" them, in a governmentally-sanctioned manner, and thus are okay to share a bite of your food. And by the way, please save me a slice of the pecan pie, my favorite. I can pay for it, honest.
A playlist, then:
Caravan Van Morrison & The Band
Black Friday Steely Dan
Brand New '64 Dodge Greg Brown
At The Feast Monty Alexander/Ernest Ranglin
Blues For The Homeless Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
Hip To Be Homeless Claudia Schmidt
Homeless Paul Simon
Homeless Child Ben harper
A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Vince Guaraldi
Thanksgiving George Winston
Thanksgiving Joe Lovano
Thanksgiving Loudon Wainwright III
Thanksgiving Day Parade Dan Bern
Feed The People Stephen Stills
Them Belly Full (But We Hungry) Bob Marley
Hungry For Your Love Van Morrison
Hungry Planet The Byrds
Hungry Man Steve Winwood
Alice's Restaurant Massacree Arlo
Tuesday, noon till two on WOOL 91.5 FM, Wool.FM on the webs, at which time I'll attempt to expiate or at least assuage my white male middle-class guilt. But it'll be wicked fun
Then there's Ft. Lauderdale, FLA, to name one of the more than 30 cities nationwide which have passed or are considering laws which outlaw the feeding of homeless people out of doors. Perhaps you've seen accounts of Arnold Abbott, the 90-year-old WWII veteran (that Commie!) who has been arrested 3 times, along with a couple of Pastors, for setting up outdoor soup kitchens in order to feed the homeless. One Peace Officer actually ordered Abbott to "drop that plate!", as though it were a weapon, and I guess that you could argue that it is. The same would hold true, I guess, for the immortal line from Firesign Theater's "The Further Adventures of Nick Danger, Third Eye": "Put down that pickle!"
I have tried as diligently as I can--which ain't so much, truth be told, as I am fundamentally lazy--to discover the makeup of the civic board responsible for such legislation; I strongly suspect, though I can't quote chapter and verse, that it's Tea-Party types, certainly conservative Republicans, the party of family values and Christian tenets, who are behind this coldhearted, evil law. Homelessness, after all, reflects badly on a municipality and a government, especially one which professes a belief that Free Markets will solve every ill, or at least arrange them in favor of those already privileged. So these burgs are trying to outlaw homelessness, or at least to sweep it under the rug which also may shelter some unfortunate folks. The statutes actually, in a pathetic attempt to justify their validity, contain language that asserts that feeding the homeless "encourages people to remain homeless." Goddam right: if I can sleep on a park bench or live in a cardboard box under a highway overpass and get fed by some bleeding heart, why the fuck would I want more? Why, it's The American Dream, circa 2014; where's our Frank Capra to glorify it?
As a further warning to all y'all Liberals who might be inclined to share your bounty: the laws explicitly ban "the sharing of food in public spaces." It feels like the old saw about banks: they'll only loan you money if you can prove that you don't need it. So if you give a forkful of salad or, heaven forfend, a bit of that Muslim delicacy, the falafel, to a friend or loved one in a public space, be sure that that person is carrying a deed to property and a financial statement which proves that they're capable of caring for themselves, but that you "love" them, in a governmentally-sanctioned manner, and thus are okay to share a bite of your food. And by the way, please save me a slice of the pecan pie, my favorite. I can pay for it, honest.
A playlist, then:
Caravan Van Morrison & The Band
Black Friday Steely Dan
Brand New '64 Dodge Greg Brown
At The Feast Monty Alexander/Ernest Ranglin
Blues For The Homeless Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
Hip To Be Homeless Claudia Schmidt
Homeless Paul Simon
Homeless Child Ben harper
A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Vince Guaraldi
Thanksgiving George Winston
Thanksgiving Joe Lovano
Thanksgiving Loudon Wainwright III
Thanksgiving Day Parade Dan Bern
Feed The People Stephen Stills
Them Belly Full (But We Hungry) Bob Marley
Hungry For Your Love Van Morrison
Hungry Planet The Byrds
Hungry Man Steve Winwood
Alice's Restaurant Massacree Arlo
Tuesday, noon till two on WOOL 91.5 FM, Wool.FM on the webs, at which time I'll attempt to expiate or at least assuage my white male middle-class guilt. But it'll be wicked fun
Monday, November 10, 2014
The Barbarians Aren't Just At The Gates...:
They're inside the walls and, boorish oafs that they are, they didn't wipe their feet, and they've left the gate open behind them.
Welcome to another installment of The Language Guy, Who Learn's You About Punctuation, Well Talking, Writing And Speling And Other Useful Stuff With Words. This week's topic is the misuse of the phrase "Begs the question." Technically and in formal argument, as all of you former Debate Club nerds and nerdettes know, "begging the question" is a logical fallacy, an argument whose conclusion is simply a re-statement of its premise, i.e. "I think he's unattractive because he's ugly" or "Her political beliefs are stupid because she's a Republican"--okay, maybe we could argue that second one. What we cannot argue, though, is that "Beg the question" and "Raise the question" are synonymous: they are not, or at least didn't use to be, and are not supposed to be.
The New Yorker, one of the last bastions of civility, culture, correctness and certitude--although they do use "fuck" a lot--recently fell victim to this insidious trap, even though they are notorious for their fact-checking and editorial staffs. Jay McInerney's first novel Bright Lights, Big City was a thinly-veiled depiction of life as a fact-checker at TNYer. In the movie version, the main character was played by a pre-Parkinsons Michael J. Fox; if you read the novel, it was likely the first one you'd read written entirely in the Second Person, and you're still unsure whether you like that style or not and how it affects the way you see the world (you see what I did there, right?); I mean, do you really want someone else, someone you may not even know, speaking for you?
Well, in the October 27 edition of TNYer, in the "The Talk Of The Town" section, Jelani Cobb writes "The fact that underrepresented groups can vote, and do so in substantial numbers...begs a question: Why aren't there more such candidates?" Clearly, what Mr. or Ms. Cobb (don't you just hate gender-unclear names?) means is that the situation raises the question, not that it attempts to answer it in its formulation, or attempts to dodge it. If The New Yorker lets that go, acknowledges, de-facto, that that construction is acceptable, then where are we? I can feel the very earth shifting beneath my feet.
Then, on Friday night, the nasty mis-appropriated phrase reared its ugly head (or headed its ugly rear) again. I went to see Mavis Staples (OH. MY. GOD.--what an incredible show!!!) in Bellows Falls, VT (who'd'a thunk?), and the nice fella who introduced her, after plugging whatever organization he represented that put on the show, said something like "But that begs the question of how you do introduce someone like Mavis Staples...." Alice, knowing how irked I am by that usage, leaned forward, past our son, Jake, who came up from Harvard just to see Mavis (and, at 26, was one of the youngest members of the audience), to see how I was reacting to that major breach in usage, that assault on the very barricades of civilization. I shrugged and filed it away for this week's post.
Do I really give a damn about this stuff? In the grand scheme of things, it's pretty insignificant, isn't it? Einstein split the atom, Gene Roddenberry split the infinitive ("...to boldly go where no man has gone before.") and the world is still here. Of course language is the currency of politicians (unless currency is their currency: that'll never be out of fashion), advertisers and other shysters trying to de-sensitize us to the importance of words and of how they can be corrupted for nefarious purposes. What sounds better to you: Pro-Choice or Pro-Abortion? Pro-Life or Anti-Abortion? Bitchy or Assertive? The words, they color our views and even shape our opinions, mon ami. I believe it was The Bard, or Yogi Berra, maybe, who said "Eschew Obfuscation."
Perhaps, though, I give too much credit. A couple of days after the midterm, when the Barbarians did storm the gates and gain admission, again, I heard a quote from John Boehner (Motto: "Skin cancer? Hah--lung cancer'll get me long before that does!") wherein he said "If Obama acts unilaterally, by himself...." Doh!
For the show, the songs remain the same, from last week (that's just a sneaky way to make you go back to read last week's post). I like 'em, wanna play 'em, and, after all, the subject's still valid, maybe more so, after the election. And I don't think that begs any questions.
Welcome to another installment of The Language Guy, Who Learn's You About Punctuation, Well Talking, Writing And Speling And Other Useful Stuff With Words. This week's topic is the misuse of the phrase "Begs the question." Technically and in formal argument, as all of you former Debate Club nerds and nerdettes know, "begging the question" is a logical fallacy, an argument whose conclusion is simply a re-statement of its premise, i.e. "I think he's unattractive because he's ugly" or "Her political beliefs are stupid because she's a Republican"--okay, maybe we could argue that second one. What we cannot argue, though, is that "Beg the question" and "Raise the question" are synonymous: they are not, or at least didn't use to be, and are not supposed to be.
The New Yorker, one of the last bastions of civility, culture, correctness and certitude--although they do use "fuck" a lot--recently fell victim to this insidious trap, even though they are notorious for their fact-checking and editorial staffs. Jay McInerney's first novel Bright Lights, Big City was a thinly-veiled depiction of life as a fact-checker at TNYer. In the movie version, the main character was played by a pre-Parkinsons Michael J. Fox; if you read the novel, it was likely the first one you'd read written entirely in the Second Person, and you're still unsure whether you like that style or not and how it affects the way you see the world (you see what I did there, right?); I mean, do you really want someone else, someone you may not even know, speaking for you?
Well, in the October 27 edition of TNYer, in the "The Talk Of The Town" section, Jelani Cobb writes "The fact that underrepresented groups can vote, and do so in substantial numbers...begs a question: Why aren't there more such candidates?" Clearly, what Mr. or Ms. Cobb (don't you just hate gender-unclear names?) means is that the situation raises the question, not that it attempts to answer it in its formulation, or attempts to dodge it. If The New Yorker lets that go, acknowledges, de-facto, that that construction is acceptable, then where are we? I can feel the very earth shifting beneath my feet.
Then, on Friday night, the nasty mis-appropriated phrase reared its ugly head (or headed its ugly rear) again. I went to see Mavis Staples (OH. MY. GOD.--what an incredible show!!!) in Bellows Falls, VT (who'd'a thunk?), and the nice fella who introduced her, after plugging whatever organization he represented that put on the show, said something like "But that begs the question of how you do introduce someone like Mavis Staples...." Alice, knowing how irked I am by that usage, leaned forward, past our son, Jake, who came up from Harvard just to see Mavis (and, at 26, was one of the youngest members of the audience), to see how I was reacting to that major breach in usage, that assault on the very barricades of civilization. I shrugged and filed it away for this week's post.
Do I really give a damn about this stuff? In the grand scheme of things, it's pretty insignificant, isn't it? Einstein split the atom, Gene Roddenberry split the infinitive ("...to boldly go where no man has gone before.") and the world is still here. Of course language is the currency of politicians (unless currency is their currency: that'll never be out of fashion), advertisers and other shysters trying to de-sensitize us to the importance of words and of how they can be corrupted for nefarious purposes. What sounds better to you: Pro-Choice or Pro-Abortion? Pro-Life or Anti-Abortion? Bitchy or Assertive? The words, they color our views and even shape our opinions, mon ami. I believe it was The Bard, or Yogi Berra, maybe, who said "Eschew Obfuscation."
Perhaps, though, I give too much credit. A couple of days after the midterm, when the Barbarians did storm the gates and gain admission, again, I heard a quote from John Boehner (Motto: "Skin cancer? Hah--lung cancer'll get me long before that does!") wherein he said "If Obama acts unilaterally, by himself...." Doh!
For the show, the songs remain the same, from last week (that's just a sneaky way to make you go back to read last week's post). I like 'em, wanna play 'em, and, after all, the subject's still valid, maybe more so, after the election. And I don't think that begs any questions.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Citizens United: Murder In My Heart For The Judges
For my 60th birthday--an early gift if ever there was one, as I won't hit 60 for 10 or 15 years--my son and daughter-in-law gave me a fake magazine cover-ish thing called Happy 60th Birthday. Among the faux headlines was On The Tube: How Many Commercials Can He Mute? Well, all of 'em in general, if I had my way, but in election season there's no question. Except that this year even hitting "mute" isn't enough: I can't even bear to look at the goddam ads anymore. I'm this close to pulling an Elvis and shooting my TV set.
You've all seen them, especially if you live in a "swing" (not to be confused with "swinging") state, with what are deemed to be close and important races by the pundits who are wrong almost as often as weather forecasters, and I'll bet you're as sick of them as I am. I'm almost to the point of not caring who wins, or disenfranchising myself, although of course I won't. I do believe that the D's are better than the R's, and one main reason is the shadowy figures who lurk behind the scenes, financing each party. Although none is straight-up running for office, I'll take Tom Steyer over the Koch Bros. every day of the week.
The blame for all of these negative ads, ads that can only lead one to conclude that no one, not one single person, is fit to hold office in this country today, rests, of course, squarely on the shoulders of the incredibly, dismayingly, unabashedly partisan shoulders of the Roberts Supreme Court and the ironically named "Citizens United" decision, which of course decided that corporations are people, money is speech, up is down, and war is peace. Well, maybe not actually those last two, but it might as well have.
Which has led us to this point, where so-called "dark money," money given by shadowy, nameless and faceless figures who may give as much as they like to make ads that can say virtually whatever they want, veracity be damned, is what drives our electoral process. My two favorite catch phrases this season are "Wrong for (blank)" and "Too extreme for (fill in the state);" so it'll show a picture of (forgive me--unflattering characterization coming up) Annie Kuster, Carol Shea-Porter or Jeanne Shaheen, the first two of which look like typical slightly frumpy soccer mom or grandmom types, the third just like a somewhat stern grandma, and we're expected to believe that they're "extreme." The worst thing I can imagine them doing is burning cookies or banana bread for a school bake sale. This is hardly to say that they're incapable; what I mean to say is that calling them extremist is mind-bogglingly absurd, on the order of saying Scott Brown is not a carpet-bagging opportunist. I'm Mark Edson, and I approved that sentence.
Their opponents, of course, favor things like shutting down the Dept. of Education, essentially banning abortion, doing away with universal healthcare, Medicaid/Medicare, infrastructure support, denying climate change and science in general in order to bolster corporate bottom lines, a return to Jim Crow, and in their spare time starting another war in the Middle East. Those are apparently New Hampshire's normative values, mainline Main Street beliefs. If that's mainstream, then I'm with Barry Goldwater, the father of modern Conservatism, Reagan with a modicum of intelligence who said, at the 1964 Republican National Convention, "Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice."
The playlist for this week's show:
Campaign Trail John Gorka
Campaigner Neil Young
Political World Dylan
A Apolitical Blues Little Feat
Political Mark Germino
Political Science Randy Newman
Political Poachers America
Citizen Fighter Robert Pollard
Citizen Of The Planet Simon & Garfunkel
Model Citizen Peter Gammons
Truly Fine Citizen Moby Grape
United We Stand Brotherhood Of Man
Extreme Measures Tony Williams
A Token Of My Extreme Frank Zappa
Elected Alice Cooper
Money Pink Floyd
What Are Their Names David Crosby
Lies The Knickerbockers
Lies J. J. Cale
Lies Manassas
Lies Rolling Stones
Everybody's Wrong Buffalo Springfield
For Shame Of Doing Wrong Richard & Linda Thompson
Mr. Wrong Sade
Some Right, Some Wrong Mose Allison
World Gone Wrong Dylan
Wrong Direction Ian McLagan and The Bump Band
You Been Doing Something Wrong... David Lindley
I Wanna Grow Up To Be A Politician The Byrds
Politician Cream
Hope to see you Tuesday, mid-term Election Day, from noon till two at 91.5 FM, wool.fm on Al Gore's creation.
The preceding has been paid for by the Committee to Hijack Democracy.
You've all seen them, especially if you live in a "swing" (not to be confused with "swinging") state, with what are deemed to be close and important races by the pundits who are wrong almost as often as weather forecasters, and I'll bet you're as sick of them as I am. I'm almost to the point of not caring who wins, or disenfranchising myself, although of course I won't. I do believe that the D's are better than the R's, and one main reason is the shadowy figures who lurk behind the scenes, financing each party. Although none is straight-up running for office, I'll take Tom Steyer over the Koch Bros. every day of the week.
The blame for all of these negative ads, ads that can only lead one to conclude that no one, not one single person, is fit to hold office in this country today, rests, of course, squarely on the shoulders of the incredibly, dismayingly, unabashedly partisan shoulders of the Roberts Supreme Court and the ironically named "Citizens United" decision, which of course decided that corporations are people, money is speech, up is down, and war is peace. Well, maybe not actually those last two, but it might as well have.
Which has led us to this point, where so-called "dark money," money given by shadowy, nameless and faceless figures who may give as much as they like to make ads that can say virtually whatever they want, veracity be damned, is what drives our electoral process. My two favorite catch phrases this season are "Wrong for (blank)" and "Too extreme for (fill in the state);" so it'll show a picture of (forgive me--unflattering characterization coming up) Annie Kuster, Carol Shea-Porter or Jeanne Shaheen, the first two of which look like typical slightly frumpy soccer mom or grandmom types, the third just like a somewhat stern grandma, and we're expected to believe that they're "extreme." The worst thing I can imagine them doing is burning cookies or banana bread for a school bake sale. This is hardly to say that they're incapable; what I mean to say is that calling them extremist is mind-bogglingly absurd, on the order of saying Scott Brown is not a carpet-bagging opportunist. I'm Mark Edson, and I approved that sentence.
Their opponents, of course, favor things like shutting down the Dept. of Education, essentially banning abortion, doing away with universal healthcare, Medicaid/Medicare, infrastructure support, denying climate change and science in general in order to bolster corporate bottom lines, a return to Jim Crow, and in their spare time starting another war in the Middle East. Those are apparently New Hampshire's normative values, mainline Main Street beliefs. If that's mainstream, then I'm with Barry Goldwater, the father of modern Conservatism, Reagan with a modicum of intelligence who said, at the 1964 Republican National Convention, "Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice."
The playlist for this week's show:
Campaign Trail John Gorka
Campaigner Neil Young
Political World Dylan
A Apolitical Blues Little Feat
Political Mark Germino
Political Science Randy Newman
Political Poachers America
Citizen Fighter Robert Pollard
Citizen Of The Planet Simon & Garfunkel
Model Citizen Peter Gammons
Truly Fine Citizen Moby Grape
United We Stand Brotherhood Of Man
Extreme Measures Tony Williams
A Token Of My Extreme Frank Zappa
Elected Alice Cooper
Money Pink Floyd
What Are Their Names David Crosby
Lies The Knickerbockers
Lies J. J. Cale
Lies Manassas
Lies Rolling Stones
Everybody's Wrong Buffalo Springfield
For Shame Of Doing Wrong Richard & Linda Thompson
Mr. Wrong Sade
Some Right, Some Wrong Mose Allison
World Gone Wrong Dylan
Wrong Direction Ian McLagan and The Bump Band
You Been Doing Something Wrong... David Lindley
I Wanna Grow Up To Be A Politician The Byrds
Politician Cream
Hope to see you Tuesday, mid-term Election Day, from noon till two at 91.5 FM, wool.fm on Al Gore's creation.
The preceding has been paid for by the Committee to Hijack Democracy.
Monday, October 27, 2014
It's The Circle Of Life: New Ones Come, Old Ones Go
I was going to focus on new music this week on my show--and I mean new to the world, not just to me--as I have recently come into possession of a couple of really good records (and yes, I'll continue to call them "records" or "albums;" so sue me) from brand new artists. And then I read yesterday that Jack Bruce had died, and I can't let him pass unnoticed.
The first disc of new stuff is by Andrew Byrne-Hozier, known commercially simply as "Hozier." He's Irish, 24 or so, a multi-instrumentalist (and recently featured in Rolling Stone), and, if you know him at all, it's for his song Take Me To Church. Personally, I hear some John Martyn, some Elton John, and even, in the rhythms of some of his songs, K.T. Tunstall. I feel like there are a couple of other references, but that's not terribly important: he's a pretty exciting new talent.
The second newbie, and they're newbie-er than Hozier, is the band Mad Satta. Full disclosure: their lead singer/frontwoman/driving force (as far as I know) is Joanna Teters, the daughter of Alice's best friend from high school (and still a very close friend), and the niece of Alice's HS boyfriend (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). So I have known her, albeit superficially, since she was born. Joanna is a recent graduate of Berklee School of Music in Boston, has gigged around for years, and has just put out this first CD. I don't mean to give short shrift ( whatever that means) to the rest of the band, who are great, but Joanna is the one I know best. In Mad Satta I hear, as I wrote to Joanna, a mix of Steely Dan, Sade, Norah Jones, with Van Morrison horn charts. I hope that's not insulting to her/them; to me, it's pretty heady company in which to be included. It's not to say that they're derivative, simply to say that they've listened, absorbed, and spun out their own stuff very, very well. At this point in human history, after all, it's pretty hard--likely impossible, actually-- for anyone to be totally original.
Finally, there's Jack Bruce. Cream co-founder, bassist extraordinaire, incredible vocalist, stunning composer, great keyboard player, he pretty much had it all covered. He's but the latest in a line of heroes of mine who've passed, a list that will continue to grow, and that I will continue to celebrate until I die, or until they're all gone; I suspect it'll be the the former.
So, nothing terribly profound this week except music. Really, though that's the most profound aspect of my life, I think, except for family, maybe.... Here's the playlist, anyway:
Take Me To Church Hozier
Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene Hozier
Jackie And Wilson Hozier
Someone New Hozier
To Be Alone Hozier
From Eden Hozier
In A Week Hozier
Sedated Hozier
Work Song Hozier
Like Real People Do Hozier
It Will Come back Hozier
Foreigner's God Hozier
Cherry Wine (Live) Hozier
Sattatude #1 Mad Satta
Reach Out Mad Satta
Better Mad Satta
Oh Lord Mad Satta
See Through You Mad Satta
The Makings Of You Mad Satta
By Your Side Mad Satta
Sattalude #2 Mad Satta
Past Lives Mad satta
Epiphany Mad Satta
Dancing On Air Jack Bruce
I Feel Free Cream
Sunshine Of Your Love Cream
SWALBR Cream
Tales Of Brave Ulysses Cream
Sitting On Top Of The World Jack Bruce
Theme For An Imaginary Western Jack Bruce
Out with the old, in with the new.... 91.5 FM, wool.fm, Tuesday noon till two. See you then.
The first disc of new stuff is by Andrew Byrne-Hozier, known commercially simply as "Hozier." He's Irish, 24 or so, a multi-instrumentalist (and recently featured in Rolling Stone), and, if you know him at all, it's for his song Take Me To Church. Personally, I hear some John Martyn, some Elton John, and even, in the rhythms of some of his songs, K.T. Tunstall. I feel like there are a couple of other references, but that's not terribly important: he's a pretty exciting new talent.
The second newbie, and they're newbie-er than Hozier, is the band Mad Satta. Full disclosure: their lead singer/frontwoman/driving force (as far as I know) is Joanna Teters, the daughter of Alice's best friend from high school (and still a very close friend), and the niece of Alice's HS boyfriend (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). So I have known her, albeit superficially, since she was born. Joanna is a recent graduate of Berklee School of Music in Boston, has gigged around for years, and has just put out this first CD. I don't mean to give short shrift ( whatever that means) to the rest of the band, who are great, but Joanna is the one I know best. In Mad Satta I hear, as I wrote to Joanna, a mix of Steely Dan, Sade, Norah Jones, with Van Morrison horn charts. I hope that's not insulting to her/them; to me, it's pretty heady company in which to be included. It's not to say that they're derivative, simply to say that they've listened, absorbed, and spun out their own stuff very, very well. At this point in human history, after all, it's pretty hard--likely impossible, actually-- for anyone to be totally original.
Finally, there's Jack Bruce. Cream co-founder, bassist extraordinaire, incredible vocalist, stunning composer, great keyboard player, he pretty much had it all covered. He's but the latest in a line of heroes of mine who've passed, a list that will continue to grow, and that I will continue to celebrate until I die, or until they're all gone; I suspect it'll be the the former.
So, nothing terribly profound this week except music. Really, though that's the most profound aspect of my life, I think, except for family, maybe.... Here's the playlist, anyway:
Take Me To Church Hozier
Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene Hozier
Jackie And Wilson Hozier
Someone New Hozier
To Be Alone Hozier
From Eden Hozier
In A Week Hozier
Sedated Hozier
Work Song Hozier
Like Real People Do Hozier
It Will Come back Hozier
Foreigner's God Hozier
Cherry Wine (Live) Hozier
Sattatude #1 Mad Satta
Reach Out Mad Satta
Better Mad Satta
Oh Lord Mad Satta
See Through You Mad Satta
The Makings Of You Mad Satta
By Your Side Mad Satta
Sattalude #2 Mad Satta
Past Lives Mad satta
Epiphany Mad Satta
Dancing On Air Jack Bruce
I Feel Free Cream
Sunshine Of Your Love Cream
SWALBR Cream
Tales Of Brave Ulysses Cream
Sitting On Top Of The World Jack Bruce
Theme For An Imaginary Western Jack Bruce
Out with the old, in with the new.... 91.5 FM, wool.fm, Tuesday noon till two. See you then.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child
'Cause I am. My Mother died 35 years ago, but October 21 is the centennial of her birth. That's tomorrow, as I write this, and I thought I'd honor her memory a little, which is somewhat odd, because I often feel guilty about how seldom I think of her, and I'm not sure why. I even have a photo of the two of us holding hands on the beach at, likely, Kennebunkport, when I was maybe 6, sitting on the windowsill above my desk, looking right at me. She was a wonderful mother, I loved her, I know that she loved me, but gone is gone.
Which doesn't mean I don't remember lots of details from her life, facts which have formed and informed me: she was a first-generation American, born in the house she lived in in North Walpole, NH, to Polish immigrant parents. Zosia Bernadette Prybylo-- such a lovely name, Zosia, although, unfortunately, it was often Anglicized to "Sophie Smith," as Americans are known for our willingness to adapt to others' cultures and languages. Her father died when she was very young, so it fell to her to help support the family when she was 13. She quit school and went to work on the night shift at a brush factory in Bellows Falls, VT, more than a two mile walk from her home, a walk she had to make alone, at night, after a ten-hour shift. She always hated whippoorwills after those years, as her walks home were often accompanied by their eerie and mournful calls--at least to those lonely 13-year-old ears.
On payday she would turn over all but 10 cents of her week's pay to my grandmother, and on Saturday nights--the big night out-- she and her best friend would go to The Chimes Cafe in BF, split a cup of coffee, and watch all the people passing by, going to places she couldn't afford to go--movies, clothing stores, dances-- all pastimes for those better off. Growing up in this state of lost childhood and privation was actually a mixed blessing for my mom, I think; she was necessarily frugal, and never really recovered from those early years of having nothing, but it enabled her to make do with little as needed and, more importantly, to appreciate the things she had when she had 'em, and to instill that into her children. The downside to the trials of her early life were a serious case of insecurity, an inferiority complex, and much self-doubt: those attributes I'm sure she never intended to pass along, but, alas....
I have discussed in an earlier post my mother's depression and how it brought about her premature death, a chance to escape from a life which had become something she simply didn't want to deal with anymore. But she was one of those people John Stewart sings about in "Mother Country," which I attached to the post-alert, and which I'll play in my show, one of "those faces in the old photographs," people just doin' the best they could and who did it "pretty up and walkin' good." Here's to them, and their memories, and to Moms everywhere, living or dead.
And here's a bunch of songs about 'em:
Call Your Mother Johnny Cash
Every Mother's Son Chris Smither
Every Mother's Son Traffic
Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby.... Stones
Hymn To The Mother Charles Lloyd
In My Mother's Eyes Al Di Meola
Mother John Lennon
Mother Pink Floyd
Mother's Spiritual Laura Nyro
Mother And Child Reunion Paul Simon
Oh Mommy Brewer & Shipley
Mother Angel Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
Mother Beautiful Sly & The Family Stone
Mother Country John Stewart
Mother Earth Tom Rush
Mother Mother Kate & Anna McGarrigle
Motherless Children Eric Clapton
Mother Nature's Son Fab
Mother Popcorn James Brown
Never Tell Your Mother She's Out Of Tune Ellen McIlwaine
A Real Mother For Ya Johnny "Guitar" Watson
Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child Van Morrison
That Was Your Mother Paul Simon
Your Mother Should Know Fabs
This Is To Mother You Linda Ronstadt & Emmylou Harris
100 Years Ago Stones
My Mummy's Dead John Lennon
Hope you can join me Tuesday from noon till two on 91.5 FM, or wool.fm on the webs.
For this once, "Mother" is the whole word, not just a half....
Which doesn't mean I don't remember lots of details from her life, facts which have formed and informed me: she was a first-generation American, born in the house she lived in in North Walpole, NH, to Polish immigrant parents. Zosia Bernadette Prybylo-- such a lovely name, Zosia, although, unfortunately, it was often Anglicized to "Sophie Smith," as Americans are known for our willingness to adapt to others' cultures and languages. Her father died when she was very young, so it fell to her to help support the family when she was 13. She quit school and went to work on the night shift at a brush factory in Bellows Falls, VT, more than a two mile walk from her home, a walk she had to make alone, at night, after a ten-hour shift. She always hated whippoorwills after those years, as her walks home were often accompanied by their eerie and mournful calls--at least to those lonely 13-year-old ears.
On payday she would turn over all but 10 cents of her week's pay to my grandmother, and on Saturday nights--the big night out-- she and her best friend would go to The Chimes Cafe in BF, split a cup of coffee, and watch all the people passing by, going to places she couldn't afford to go--movies, clothing stores, dances-- all pastimes for those better off. Growing up in this state of lost childhood and privation was actually a mixed blessing for my mom, I think; she was necessarily frugal, and never really recovered from those early years of having nothing, but it enabled her to make do with little as needed and, more importantly, to appreciate the things she had when she had 'em, and to instill that into her children. The downside to the trials of her early life were a serious case of insecurity, an inferiority complex, and much self-doubt: those attributes I'm sure she never intended to pass along, but, alas....
I have discussed in an earlier post my mother's depression and how it brought about her premature death, a chance to escape from a life which had become something she simply didn't want to deal with anymore. But she was one of those people John Stewart sings about in "Mother Country," which I attached to the post-alert, and which I'll play in my show, one of "those faces in the old photographs," people just doin' the best they could and who did it "pretty up and walkin' good." Here's to them, and their memories, and to Moms everywhere, living or dead.
And here's a bunch of songs about 'em:
Call Your Mother Johnny Cash
Every Mother's Son Chris Smither
Every Mother's Son Traffic
Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby.... Stones
Hymn To The Mother Charles Lloyd
In My Mother's Eyes Al Di Meola
Mother John Lennon
Mother Pink Floyd
Mother's Spiritual Laura Nyro
Mother And Child Reunion Paul Simon
Oh Mommy Brewer & Shipley
Mother Angel Ronnie Earl & The Broadcasters
Mother Beautiful Sly & The Family Stone
Mother Country John Stewart
Mother Earth Tom Rush
Mother Mother Kate & Anna McGarrigle
Motherless Children Eric Clapton
Mother Nature's Son Fab
Mother Popcorn James Brown
Never Tell Your Mother She's Out Of Tune Ellen McIlwaine
A Real Mother For Ya Johnny "Guitar" Watson
Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child Van Morrison
That Was Your Mother Paul Simon
Your Mother Should Know Fabs
This Is To Mother You Linda Ronstadt & Emmylou Harris
100 Years Ago Stones
My Mummy's Dead John Lennon
Hope you can join me Tuesday from noon till two on 91.5 FM, or wool.fm on the webs.
For this once, "Mother" is the whole word, not just a half....
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Bully For McDonald's: "You Deserve A Prick Today"
The scene opens on two men sitting side-by-side in chairs, separated by a small attached table on which sits a McCafe coffee cup and a few papers or magazines. A sign on the door identifies the room as a Teachers' Lounge. The man on the left is wearing a windbreaker-type coach's jacket; he's burly, has thick, bushy hair, a thick, bushy mustache, and is reading a newspaper, presumably the Sports section: he's the quintessential PhysEd teacher. The man on the right has a notebook opened on his lap, some sort of lesson plan, no doubt; he's slightly built, has on a checked shirt and a tie, and wispyish curly hair: must be an English or maybe Social Studies teacher. Coach complains about having paid "nearly four bucks" for the coffee he's sipping, in an unmarked, Starbucksy cup. Mr. Chips replies, helpfully, that Coach should try a coffee from McCafe, which is fabulous, and way cheaper. Coach says "Don't mind if I do," picks up and drinks from Mr. Chips's cup. Chips, shocked and prissily outraged, says "I meant you should get your own!" Coach, who has never looked at Chips the whole time, says "I just did," shoves his cup (which sounds hollow and empty) across the table toward Chips, and gulps down more of what has become his McCafe. Chips glares at Coach, helpless and humiliated, and... Fade and Print.
Have you seen this ad yet? It's been getting quite a lot of play, although apparently not enough to have it archived anywhere yet, as I searched everywhere I could think of in order to pass that info along to those of you who don't have TVs but do have computers--and what's up with that, anyway--or for those of you with TVs which only receive PBS (snore).
There are at least two subtexts here that piss me off (the phrase "that pisses me off" appeared above the fold--the inward fold, not the outward, but still...-- on the Names page of today's Boston Globe, which I found quite surprising, but also, obviously, liberating). One is the obvious use of stereotypes: the rugged, manly, athletic, "I'll take whatever I want, dammit" Alpha male vs. the slight, "97-pound weakling," sputtering ineffectual intellectual. Really? In 2014 we still hafta deal with that crap? Next you'll tell me racism and sexism still exist, which assertion is clearly laughable, right? And, BTW, as the cool kids say (I don't want to get pushed up against a row of lockers), isn't it far more likely that the Neanderthal Coach-type would eat at Mickey-D's, rather than the likely-vegan, Earth-hugging wimp, and thus he would already know about the whole coffee thing?
What really got me, though, is that this is nothing but clear-cut, un-reconstituted bullying. The big macho asshole pushes the little guy around, takes what was his, humiliates him, and we all move on? Does the little guy bring in an AK tomorrow, shoot up the place, and we all wonder why? No one at McDonald's or on their ad campaign team recognized or thought about that? That's a sad notion, but what's scary is that maybe they did consider it, and just shrugged it off as harmless or even funny. I'm sure I don't need to go into a discussion of the widespread epidemic of bullying that schools are dealing with these days, but if you're unfamiliar with that, just check it out on your favorite search engine, and read the alarming statistics and stories of those who have suffered at the hands of bullies, and imagine the inner demons/family issues that cause bullies to develop in the first place. And we'll perpetuate that and in effect sanction it, in order to sell coffee. Paul Newman must be spinning. And Nell--have a talk with Ronald, wouldya, and set him straight.
Using that seemingly benign yet subconsciously ugly little slice o' capitalism vignette as a jumping-off point, then, a new playlist springeth forth, forthwith:
Bully Steve Winwood
Bully Of The Town Nashville Dobros
Neighborhood Bully Dylan
Wooly Bully Ry Cooder & Corridos Famosos
Wooly Bully Sam The Sham & The Pharoahs
Mean And Nasty Jason King Band
Mean Mistreater Grand Funk Railroad
Mean Mr. Mustard Fabs
Mean Old World B.B. King
Mean Ole World Blood, Sweat & Tears
Mean Streak John Gorka
Mean To Me Crowded House
This World Is Getting Mean Jim Lauderdale with Donna The Buffalo
Think Aretha
Think For Yourself Fabs
Don't Think About It, Baby Mike Bloomfield
Don't Think About Her Little Village
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Clapton
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Dylan
Excuse Me, I Think I've Got A Heartache Cake
Fool To Think Dave Matthews Band
Gonna Change My Way Of Thinking Dylan
How Do You Think It Feels Lou Reed
I Think I'm Gonna Kill Myself Elton John
I Think I'm Going To Hell My Morning Jacket
No Time To Think Dylan
Think About It The Jayhawks
Think About The People Osibisa
Tuesday, noon till two, WOOL FM, 91.5, and wool.fm. See ya there!
Mea Culpa: I may have been a bit premature about Brady and the Pats....
Have you seen this ad yet? It's been getting quite a lot of play, although apparently not enough to have it archived anywhere yet, as I searched everywhere I could think of in order to pass that info along to those of you who don't have TVs but do have computers--and what's up with that, anyway--or for those of you with TVs which only receive PBS (snore).
There are at least two subtexts here that piss me off (the phrase "that pisses me off" appeared above the fold--the inward fold, not the outward, but still...-- on the Names page of today's Boston Globe, which I found quite surprising, but also, obviously, liberating). One is the obvious use of stereotypes: the rugged, manly, athletic, "I'll take whatever I want, dammit" Alpha male vs. the slight, "97-pound weakling," sputtering ineffectual intellectual. Really? In 2014 we still hafta deal with that crap? Next you'll tell me racism and sexism still exist, which assertion is clearly laughable, right? And, BTW, as the cool kids say (I don't want to get pushed up against a row of lockers), isn't it far more likely that the Neanderthal Coach-type would eat at Mickey-D's, rather than the likely-vegan, Earth-hugging wimp, and thus he would already know about the whole coffee thing?
What really got me, though, is that this is nothing but clear-cut, un-reconstituted bullying. The big macho asshole pushes the little guy around, takes what was his, humiliates him, and we all move on? Does the little guy bring in an AK tomorrow, shoot up the place, and we all wonder why? No one at McDonald's or on their ad campaign team recognized or thought about that? That's a sad notion, but what's scary is that maybe they did consider it, and just shrugged it off as harmless or even funny. I'm sure I don't need to go into a discussion of the widespread epidemic of bullying that schools are dealing with these days, but if you're unfamiliar with that, just check it out on your favorite search engine, and read the alarming statistics and stories of those who have suffered at the hands of bullies, and imagine the inner demons/family issues that cause bullies to develop in the first place. And we'll perpetuate that and in effect sanction it, in order to sell coffee. Paul Newman must be spinning. And Nell--have a talk with Ronald, wouldya, and set him straight.
Using that seemingly benign yet subconsciously ugly little slice o' capitalism vignette as a jumping-off point, then, a new playlist springeth forth, forthwith:
Bully Steve Winwood
Bully Of The Town Nashville Dobros
Neighborhood Bully Dylan
Wooly Bully Ry Cooder & Corridos Famosos
Wooly Bully Sam The Sham & The Pharoahs
Mean And Nasty Jason King Band
Mean Mistreater Grand Funk Railroad
Mean Mr. Mustard Fabs
Mean Old World B.B. King
Mean Ole World Blood, Sweat & Tears
Mean Streak John Gorka
Mean To Me Crowded House
This World Is Getting Mean Jim Lauderdale with Donna The Buffalo
Think Aretha
Think For Yourself Fabs
Don't Think About It, Baby Mike Bloomfield
Don't Think About Her Little Village
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Clapton
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright Dylan
Excuse Me, I Think I've Got A Heartache Cake
Fool To Think Dave Matthews Band
Gonna Change My Way Of Thinking Dylan
How Do You Think It Feels Lou Reed
I Think I'm Gonna Kill Myself Elton John
I Think I'm Going To Hell My Morning Jacket
No Time To Think Dylan
Think About It The Jayhawks
Think About The People Osibisa
Tuesday, noon till two, WOOL FM, 91.5, and wool.fm. See ya there!
Mea Culpa: I may have been a bit premature about Brady and the Pats....
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