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