Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of William and Versey Smith performing The Titantic.
Markin comment:
The sinking of the Titanic has given us many folk lyrics performed by many artists. Those below come via Harry Smith Anthology of American Folk Music-a great source for roots music.
*******
THE TITANIC
By William and Versey Smith
It was on one Monday morning
Just about one o'clock
When that great ship Titanic
Began to reel and rock
People began to scream and cry
Saying Lord I'm a-gonna die
It was sad when that great ship went down.
It was sad, it was sad, it was sad
When that great ship went down
Husbands and wives
Little children lost their lives
It was sad when that great ship went down.
When that ship left England
It was making for the shore
The rich refused to associate
With the poor
So they put the poor below
They were the first to go
It was sad when that great ship went down.
It was sad, it was sad, it was sad
When that great ship went down
Husbands and wives
Little children lost their lives
It was sad when that great ship went down.
When they were a-building
They said what they would do
We will build a ship
That the water can't go through
But God with power in hand
Showed the world that it could not stand
It was sad when that great ship went down.
It was sad, it was sad, it was sad
When that great ship went down
Husbands and wives
Little children lost their lives
It was sad when that great ship went down.
The people on that ship
Were a long way from home
With friends all around
They didn't know that the time had come
Death came riding by
Fifteen hundred had to die
It was sad when that great ship went down.
It was sad, it was sad, it was sad
When that great ship went down
Husbands and wives
Little children lost their lives
It was sad when that great ship went down.
When Paul was sailing
His men all around
God told him
That not a man should drown
If you trust in me and obey
I will save you all the day
It was sad when that great ship went down.
It was sad, it was sad, it was sad
When that great ship went down
Husbands and wives
Little children lost their lives
It was sad when that great ship went down.
You know it must have been awful
With those people on the sea
It's said that they were singing
Nearer My God to Thee
While some were homeward bound
Fifteen hundred had to drown
It was sad when that great ship went down.
It was sad, it was sad, it was sad
When that great ship went down
Husbands and wives
Little children lost their lives
It was sad when that great ship went down.
Showing posts with label Cambridge folk scene. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cambridge folk scene. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Happy Birthday Eric Andersen -Out In The 1960s Folk Revival Minute- The Music Of Eric Andersen- A CD Review
Happy Birthday Eric Andersen -Out In The 1960s Folk Revival Minute- The Music Of Eric Andersen- A CD Review
A link to a YouTube film clip of Eric Andersen performing one of his songs
Eric Andersen’s Greatest Hits, Eric Andersen, 1971
In the great swirl that was the folk music revival movement of the early 1960’s a number of new voices were heard that created their own folk expression and were not as dependent on the traditional works of collective political struggle or social commentary associated with the likes of The Weavers, Pete Seeger or Woody Guthrie. Although Eric Andersen was a product of the intense Cambridge folk scene and knew and played with many of the stars of that scene he had a distinctive niche in that he performed mainly his own his music and his subject matter tended toward the very personal. It was only political in the most general sense that he, like the others, was breaking away from Tin Pan Alley to express his sentiments.
That said, this greatest hits compilation is almost exclusively made up of songs that he wrote in the 1960’s- the most productive period of his career. I have seen some of his more recent performances and listened to his later work and nothing compares with the work of this period. Such tunes of personal sorrow and anger as Florentine and Sheila and well as the classic Violets of Dawn and Leaving You come from this period. In short, one has to listen to (and read) the lyrics of this singer/ song writer from this time to get a real feel for his work. But if you want to take a trip back to a time when a serious argument could, and was made, that the personal was political and that folk music was, above all, about expressing the seemingly eternal notions of the complexities of love and loss then this is a part of the archives.
A link to a YouTube film clip of Eric Andersen performing one of his songs
Eric Andersen’s Greatest Hits, Eric Andersen, 1971
In the great swirl that was the folk music revival movement of the early 1960’s a number of new voices were heard that created their own folk expression and were not as dependent on the traditional works of collective political struggle or social commentary associated with the likes of The Weavers, Pete Seeger or Woody Guthrie. Although Eric Andersen was a product of the intense Cambridge folk scene and knew and played with many of the stars of that scene he had a distinctive niche in that he performed mainly his own his music and his subject matter tended toward the very personal. It was only political in the most general sense that he, like the others, was breaking away from Tin Pan Alley to express his sentiments.
That said, this greatest hits compilation is almost exclusively made up of songs that he wrote in the 1960’s- the most productive period of his career. I have seen some of his more recent performances and listened to his later work and nothing compares with the work of this period. Such tunes of personal sorrow and anger as Florentine and Sheila and well as the classic Violets of Dawn and Leaving You come from this period. In short, one has to listen to (and read) the lyrics of this singer/ song writer from this time to get a real feel for his work. But if you want to take a trip back to a time when a serious argument could, and was made, that the personal was political and that folk music was, above all, about expressing the seemingly eternal notions of the complexities of love and loss then this is a part of the archives.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Out In The 1960s Folk Revival Night- Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee Hold Forth
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee doing, well justi doing what they do.
CD Review
The Best Of Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee
One of the unanticipated results of the folk and blues revival of the early 1960’s was the re-discovery of many black blues, especially country blues, singers. John and Alan Lomax had recorded a number of them in the late 1930s and early 1940s and then they fell off of the map. The most famous ‘discovery’ of the early 1960’s was, of course, the reemergence of the legendary Mississippi John Hurt. On the fringes of that development came the new prominence of some working musicians who had previously fallen below the radar like the presently reviewed classic blues harmonica player Sonny Terry and driving guitar playing Brownie McGhee, one of the most productive duos of the period. This long time partnership developed and continued in spite of the fact that they had a fairly rocky personal relationship, especially toward the end of their careers. Well, stranger things have happened in the world of music.
In this compilation we get to see the range of musical talents that this pair had from the plaintive Let Me Be Your Big Dog through the pathetically sad Betty And Dupree’s Blues and a jaunty version of Freight Train. Along the way also listen to their version of Louise, Louise that has been recorded by many others including Mississippi Fred McDowell and Son House. There are also a couple of rousing songs like House Lady and The Devil’s Gonna Get You. And a couple that defy classification but will just make you feel good like I Got A Women. The total package is one that you will find yourself listening to much more than you would have thought.
CD Review
The Best Of Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee
One of the unanticipated results of the folk and blues revival of the early 1960’s was the re-discovery of many black blues, especially country blues, singers. John and Alan Lomax had recorded a number of them in the late 1930s and early 1940s and then they fell off of the map. The most famous ‘discovery’ of the early 1960’s was, of course, the reemergence of the legendary Mississippi John Hurt. On the fringes of that development came the new prominence of some working musicians who had previously fallen below the radar like the presently reviewed classic blues harmonica player Sonny Terry and driving guitar playing Brownie McGhee, one of the most productive duos of the period. This long time partnership developed and continued in spite of the fact that they had a fairly rocky personal relationship, especially toward the end of their careers. Well, stranger things have happened in the world of music.
In this compilation we get to see the range of musical talents that this pair had from the plaintive Let Me Be Your Big Dog through the pathetically sad Betty And Dupree’s Blues and a jaunty version of Freight Train. Along the way also listen to their version of Louise, Louise that has been recorded by many others including Mississippi Fred McDowell and Son House. There are also a couple of rousing songs like House Lady and The Devil’s Gonna Get You. And a couple that defy classification but will just make you feel good like I Got A Women. The total package is one that you will find yourself listening to much more than you would have thought.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Laura’s Song-With Patsy Cline In Mind
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Patsy Cline performing her classic I Fall To Pieces.
“Frank, I am going to put my voice exercises CD in the player so be quiet, alright,” Laura explained, a little crack in her voice as usual when she was getting ready to perform, as I started up the car in our driveway on that cold clear February Saturday night a couple of years ago. I could almost feel my teeth grinding at the thought of being held captive while Laura went up, down, around, double-back, and did a reverse twist through the scales and other little riffs with some hysterical instructor in order to loosen up her “instrument,” her voice. I can listen almost endlessly to that voice, occasionally stopping in my tracks by it, when she is up in her study, her “music and meditation room” she calls it, but this CD thing is from hell. Yikes! Well at least it was to be a short ride over to the church in Lakeville that night unlike when she decides to go full bore on one of our now very occasional rides back to her growing up home in Centerville. That’s in upstate New York. Jesus.
That night though I was actually in a forgiving and tolerant mood because it was to be Laura’s singing debut, in public anyway. The event, a members’ concert, was to held in the ever-generous and forgiving Lakeville Universalist-Unitarian church assembly hall (the U-U circuit we laughingly call it) and sponsored by the Lost Art Folk Society to which she belongs. As the name of the group indicates these are old folkies from back in the 1960s who never gave up that folk minute, or perhaps didn’t know that it had passed by. We had been to others such concerts in the past and while that nostalgic time moment might have passed these aficionados, for the most part, know their stuff.
And that was why Laura was going full bore, do, re mi, all the way to the hall to make sure her voice would hold. Naturally she was nervous, despite that great voice and intense preparation, in be in front of peers who knew the good from the bad, and the off note from the true one. She was also just afraid of crowds for a whole bunch of reasons that need no explanation here and now. Moreover Laura was not performing solo but as part of a three women group, dubbed Three Is A Crowd. So she was fretting in between la, la, las about whether Ellie, the “max mamma” (if there is such a thing in the universe) harmonica player, had remembered to set her alarm so she would arrive on time (or, maybe, arrive at all) and Dotty, the main guitar player, had not danced off into space somewhere. All that fretting was for naught because as we approached the church we could see the pair of folk refugees emerging from Ellie’s 1973 Volkswagen bus. Ya, it was that kind of crowd.
No sooner had the three “sisters” greeted each other than they immediately ran off to “practice” before their turn. Leaving me to wander in, pay my admission, and “save” seats. I was a regular “roadie” that night. I should explain the set-up. The way this Lost Art Folk members’ concert works, maybe the only way it could works, is that each act gets one song, or poem, bag-pipe playing (for real), juggling act, or whatever. Done. See everybody is looking for their fifteen minutes of glory but since the concert is only presented once a year the whole tribe shows up, at least those who survived the sixties. So there are maybe twenty-five or thirty acts listed. Since everybody has to be out by eleven so god, or his kindred, can rest for Sunday morning mass, or is it service, one to a customer is the only way to go. Except, naturally, human nature, ego, or just love of the music, can play tricks on the agenda. Like Jim Beam can juggle by himself in one act , play the accordion as Aztec Two-Step in a second, play the kazoo with Maria’s band in a third, sing bass with the Midnight Singers (they get two songs, by the way) and still only be counted as one act. Nice, huh, if you have the energy, or the chutzpah.
Three Is A Crowd in deference to Laura and her jitters was strictly working the one act theme for real that night. Except they would also all sing with the Midnight Singers at the end of the night but then half the audience would be too, and the other half would chime in from their seats as I knew from past experience. Ya, like I said it was that kind of crowd. The other thing is that the order of battle is random. As it turned out that night Three Is A Crowd was number fourteen in the first set (out of eighteen, then a little intermission, and the second set to conclude the evening). No good, not good for Laura’s jitters but that was the deal. The only thing to do was enjoy the acts and keep counting down. (Oh ya, and hold her hand once in a while.)
Like I say these people may have stepped out a time warp but most of them could perform, perform like crazy. Things like old time hills and hollows Appalachian mountain ballads, old country (Britain, Scotland Child ballad old country) , some American Carter Family country stuff, a few self-written poems, sea chanties, a couple of churchy things, a vaudeville number or two. The mix of the world songbook that you don’t hear about too much anymore except on a night like that. Some more modern stuff too for those not totally stuck in the sixteenth century. Then number fourteen was called by the MC. That folks is Three Is A Crowd in case you forgot.
As Ellie, Dotty, and Laura made their way up to the makeshift stage (used on Sunday for the pulpit service area, I think) I started to get nervous. Nervous because Laura was nervous, nervous that her throat would hold up, nervous, well just nervous. And nervous to hear which song they had selected to play. That was the point of that pre-performance practice. To see which one was working that night. Once they were set up I immediately put my head down so I could “really” listen to Laura’s voice. And hide any blushing. As it turned out they decided to perform the old Hank Ballard tune from the 1950s made famous by the late Patsy Cline, I Fall To Pieces. Good choice. After a little harmonica intro (that Ellie is a space-shot but she can wail that thing when she gets going) they started singing. Good, good harmony, and then… Somewhere around the lines “you want me to find someone else to love,” ya right around there Laura’s voice just meshed the three together so well that it almost brought a tear to my eye.
It was the kind of moment like, maybe, when Patsy had a good night getting it just right, not too slick not too sentimental. A moment like probably happened way back when somebody first decided that human voices could collectively be greater than the sum of their parts if you could just get that one meshing voice. Hey, I am just a music fan not a scholar, okay. But don’t take my word for it. After the show some guy , some guy who heard the same ethereal thing I heard and who I know knows his stuff, came up to Laura and said,” You did Patsy proud.” And she did.
“Frank, I am going to put my voice exercises CD in the player so be quiet, alright,” Laura explained, a little crack in her voice as usual when she was getting ready to perform, as I started up the car in our driveway on that cold clear February Saturday night a couple of years ago. I could almost feel my teeth grinding at the thought of being held captive while Laura went up, down, around, double-back, and did a reverse twist through the scales and other little riffs with some hysterical instructor in order to loosen up her “instrument,” her voice. I can listen almost endlessly to that voice, occasionally stopping in my tracks by it, when she is up in her study, her “music and meditation room” she calls it, but this CD thing is from hell. Yikes! Well at least it was to be a short ride over to the church in Lakeville that night unlike when she decides to go full bore on one of our now very occasional rides back to her growing up home in Centerville. That’s in upstate New York. Jesus.
That night though I was actually in a forgiving and tolerant mood because it was to be Laura’s singing debut, in public anyway. The event, a members’ concert, was to held in the ever-generous and forgiving Lakeville Universalist-Unitarian church assembly hall (the U-U circuit we laughingly call it) and sponsored by the Lost Art Folk Society to which she belongs. As the name of the group indicates these are old folkies from back in the 1960s who never gave up that folk minute, or perhaps didn’t know that it had passed by. We had been to others such concerts in the past and while that nostalgic time moment might have passed these aficionados, for the most part, know their stuff.
And that was why Laura was going full bore, do, re mi, all the way to the hall to make sure her voice would hold. Naturally she was nervous, despite that great voice and intense preparation, in be in front of peers who knew the good from the bad, and the off note from the true one. She was also just afraid of crowds for a whole bunch of reasons that need no explanation here and now. Moreover Laura was not performing solo but as part of a three women group, dubbed Three Is A Crowd. So she was fretting in between la, la, las about whether Ellie, the “max mamma” (if there is such a thing in the universe) harmonica player, had remembered to set her alarm so she would arrive on time (or, maybe, arrive at all) and Dotty, the main guitar player, had not danced off into space somewhere. All that fretting was for naught because as we approached the church we could see the pair of folk refugees emerging from Ellie’s 1973 Volkswagen bus. Ya, it was that kind of crowd.
No sooner had the three “sisters” greeted each other than they immediately ran off to “practice” before their turn. Leaving me to wander in, pay my admission, and “save” seats. I was a regular “roadie” that night. I should explain the set-up. The way this Lost Art Folk members’ concert works, maybe the only way it could works, is that each act gets one song, or poem, bag-pipe playing (for real), juggling act, or whatever. Done. See everybody is looking for their fifteen minutes of glory but since the concert is only presented once a year the whole tribe shows up, at least those who survived the sixties. So there are maybe twenty-five or thirty acts listed. Since everybody has to be out by eleven so god, or his kindred, can rest for Sunday morning mass, or is it service, one to a customer is the only way to go. Except, naturally, human nature, ego, or just love of the music, can play tricks on the agenda. Like Jim Beam can juggle by himself in one act , play the accordion as Aztec Two-Step in a second, play the kazoo with Maria’s band in a third, sing bass with the Midnight Singers (they get two songs, by the way) and still only be counted as one act. Nice, huh, if you have the energy, or the chutzpah.
Three Is A Crowd in deference to Laura and her jitters was strictly working the one act theme for real that night. Except they would also all sing with the Midnight Singers at the end of the night but then half the audience would be too, and the other half would chime in from their seats as I knew from past experience. Ya, like I said it was that kind of crowd. The other thing is that the order of battle is random. As it turned out that night Three Is A Crowd was number fourteen in the first set (out of eighteen, then a little intermission, and the second set to conclude the evening). No good, not good for Laura’s jitters but that was the deal. The only thing to do was enjoy the acts and keep counting down. (Oh ya, and hold her hand once in a while.)
Like I say these people may have stepped out a time warp but most of them could perform, perform like crazy. Things like old time hills and hollows Appalachian mountain ballads, old country (Britain, Scotland Child ballad old country) , some American Carter Family country stuff, a few self-written poems, sea chanties, a couple of churchy things, a vaudeville number or two. The mix of the world songbook that you don’t hear about too much anymore except on a night like that. Some more modern stuff too for those not totally stuck in the sixteenth century. Then number fourteen was called by the MC. That folks is Three Is A Crowd in case you forgot.
As Ellie, Dotty, and Laura made their way up to the makeshift stage (used on Sunday for the pulpit service area, I think) I started to get nervous. Nervous because Laura was nervous, nervous that her throat would hold up, nervous, well just nervous. And nervous to hear which song they had selected to play. That was the point of that pre-performance practice. To see which one was working that night. Once they were set up I immediately put my head down so I could “really” listen to Laura’s voice. And hide any blushing. As it turned out they decided to perform the old Hank Ballard tune from the 1950s made famous by the late Patsy Cline, I Fall To Pieces. Good choice. After a little harmonica intro (that Ellie is a space-shot but she can wail that thing when she gets going) they started singing. Good, good harmony, and then… Somewhere around the lines “you want me to find someone else to love,” ya right around there Laura’s voice just meshed the three together so well that it almost brought a tear to my eye.
It was the kind of moment like, maybe, when Patsy had a good night getting it just right, not too slick not too sentimental. A moment like probably happened way back when somebody first decided that human voices could collectively be greater than the sum of their parts if you could just get that one meshing voice. Hey, I am just a music fan not a scholar, okay. But don’t take my word for it. After the show some guy , some guy who heard the same ethereal thing I heard and who I know knows his stuff, came up to Laura and said,” You did Patsy proud.” And she did.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Keeping The Blues/Folk Lamp Burning- Les Sampou's "Lonesomeville"
Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip On Les Sampou.
CD Review
Lonesomeville, Les Sampou, Flying Fish CD, Rounder Records, 1996
The substance of this review was originally used in the review of Les Sampou’s “Borrowed And Blue” album. I have revised that review and most of the points made apply to the other three CD’s reviewed in this space as well.
The name Les Sampou most recently came up in this space, in passing, as part of a review of blues/folk stylist/ songwriter Rory Block’s work. I made the point there that Rory (and Les, Bonnie Raitt, Maria Muldaur and precious few others) were performing a great service by keeping the female blue singer tradition alive (and, for that matter, male-witness the songs covered by all four). Along the way doing the same for the more amorphous contemporary folk tradition with their own fair share of masterful songwriting efforts. Since I placed Les Sampou in such august company it was, thus, only a matter of time before I got around to giving her a few kudos of her own. The following paragraph from the Rory Block review can serve here for Les as well:
“But more than that, thanks for this great album of country blues classics some famous, some a little obscure and known only to serious aficionados but all well worth placing in the album with the quirky little Rory Block treatment that makes many of the songs her own. Oh, did I also mention her virtuoso strong guitar playing. Well, that too. I have gone on and on elsewhere in this space about the old time women blues singers, mostly black, like Bessie Smith, Victoria Spivey and Ida Cox. I have also spilled some ink on more modern, mainly white, women blues singers like Bonnie Raitt, Maria Muldaur and a local talent here in Boston, Les Sampou, and their admirable (and necessary) efforts to carry on this proud tradition. Rory belongs right up there with these women.”
As For “Lonesome” here is the ‘skinny’:
I will make the same point I made in reviewing the “Les Sampou” album because that same spirit pervades this effort. There are a lot of way to be “in” the contemporary folk scene. One way is to write some topical songs of love, longings for love, maybe, a little politics thrown in and maybe some snappy thing about the vacuity of modern life. Yes, that is the easy stuff and Les can, if the occasion calls for it, summon up some very powerful lyrics to make those points. Witness “Holy Land ” and “Home Again”. But, something more is going on here. This is a woman who has been through the emotional wringer, and survived. Listen up.
CD Review
Lonesomeville, Les Sampou, Flying Fish CD, Rounder Records, 1996
The substance of this review was originally used in the review of Les Sampou’s “Borrowed And Blue” album. I have revised that review and most of the points made apply to the other three CD’s reviewed in this space as well.
The name Les Sampou most recently came up in this space, in passing, as part of a review of blues/folk stylist/ songwriter Rory Block’s work. I made the point there that Rory (and Les, Bonnie Raitt, Maria Muldaur and precious few others) were performing a great service by keeping the female blue singer tradition alive (and, for that matter, male-witness the songs covered by all four). Along the way doing the same for the more amorphous contemporary folk tradition with their own fair share of masterful songwriting efforts. Since I placed Les Sampou in such august company it was, thus, only a matter of time before I got around to giving her a few kudos of her own. The following paragraph from the Rory Block review can serve here for Les as well:
“But more than that, thanks for this great album of country blues classics some famous, some a little obscure and known only to serious aficionados but all well worth placing in the album with the quirky little Rory Block treatment that makes many of the songs her own. Oh, did I also mention her virtuoso strong guitar playing. Well, that too. I have gone on and on elsewhere in this space about the old time women blues singers, mostly black, like Bessie Smith, Victoria Spivey and Ida Cox. I have also spilled some ink on more modern, mainly white, women blues singers like Bonnie Raitt, Maria Muldaur and a local talent here in Boston, Les Sampou, and their admirable (and necessary) efforts to carry on this proud tradition. Rory belongs right up there with these women.”
As For “Lonesome” here is the ‘skinny’:
I will make the same point I made in reviewing the “Les Sampou” album because that same spirit pervades this effort. There are a lot of way to be “in” the contemporary folk scene. One way is to write some topical songs of love, longings for love, maybe, a little politics thrown in and maybe some snappy thing about the vacuity of modern life. Yes, that is the easy stuff and Les can, if the occasion calls for it, summon up some very powerful lyrics to make those points. Witness “Holy Land ” and “Home Again”. But, something more is going on here. This is a woman who has been through the emotional wringer, and survived. Listen up.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
What Joyell Found Out About Herself-Redux-Elizabeth Cotten Is In The House –A CD Review
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Elizabeth Cotten performing her famous road song blues, Freight Train.
Freight Train and Other North Carolina Folk Songs and Tunes, Elizabeth Cotten, Smithstonian Folkways, 1989
Freight train, freight train going so fast,
Freight train, freight train going so fast,
Please don’t say what train I’m on,
So they won’t know where I’ve gone.
-Chorus from ancient folk blues artist Elizabeth Cotten’s Freight Train.
As this story unfolds, Elizabeth Cotten’ s Freight Train, in an upbeat Peter, Paul and Mary-style version complete with Bleecker Street reference, is being covered just then near the well firewood- stocked, well-stoked fireplace of the great room in a hard winter, February version, snow-covered rural New Hampshire old time religious order assembly hall by some upstart urban folkie a long way from his home and a long way from that 1960s folk revival minute that then had had even jaded aficionados from the generation of ’68 clamoring for more.
Meanwhile, the front hall entrance adjacent to that great room where that old-time folkie and his old-time tune are being heard by a small early-bird arrival gathering crowd who never tire of the song, and who this night certainly do not tire of being close by the huge well stocked, well-stoked fireplace where the old brother, hell, let’s give him a name, Eric, Eric from Vermont, okay, is holding forth is starting to fill with more arrivals to be checked in and button-holed. The place, for the curious: the Shaker Farms Peace Pavilion (formerly just plain vanilla Shaker Farms Assembly Hall but the “trust fund babies” who bought and donated the site, ah, insisted in their, of course, anonymous way on the added signature) the scene of umpteen peace conferences, anti-war parlays, alternative world vision seminars, non-violent role-playing skits, and personal witness actions worked out. A handy hospice for worn-out ideas, ditto frustrations, and an off-hand small victory or two.
That very last part, that desperate victory last part, is what keeps the place afloat, afloat in this oddball of a hellish anti-war year 1971 when even hardened and steeled old-time peace activists against the Vietnam War are starting to believe they will be entitled to Social Security for their efforts before this bloody war is over. Hence the urgency behind this particular great room fireplace warm, complete with booked-in urban folkie singer, umpteenth anti-war conference. But onward brothers and sisters and let us listen in to the following conversation overheard in that now crowded front hall:
“Hi, Joyell, glad you could make it to the conference. Are you by yourself or did you bring Steve with you?” asked Jim Sweeney, one of the big honchos, one of the big organizational honchos and that is what matters these dog days when all hope appears to have been abandoned, these now fading days of the antiwar movement trying yet again to conference jump start the opposition to Nixon’s bloody escalations and stealthy tricky maneuvers.
“Good to see you too, Jim,” answered Joyell, who said it in such a singsong way that she and Jim Sweeney, obviously, had been in some mystic time, maybe some summer of love time before everything and everybody needed twelve coats of armor, emotional armor, just to move from point A to point B, more than fellows at one of those umpteen peace things. Joyell knew, knew from some serious reflection last summer, that she had put on a few more armor coats herself and, hell, she was just a self-confessed rank and filer. Their “thing” had just faded though for lack of energy, lack of high “ism” politics on Joyell’s part unlike frenetic Jim, and for the cold, hard fact that Jim at the time wanted to devote himself totally to the “movement” and could not “commit” to a personal relationship.
“Jesus, can’t any guy commit to anything for more than ten minutes,” Joyell thought to herself. From the weathered look on his face Jim was still in high thrall to “saving the earth” although rumor had it that Marge Goodwin, ya, that Marge Goodwin, the “mother” of organizers every since she almost single-handedly called out the national student strike in 1970, almost had her hooks into him, into him bad from all reports.
“No, Steve and I are not together anymore since he split to “find himself” on some freight train heading west, heading west fast away from me, I think. But you don’t want to hear that story, and besides we have to push on against this damn war, Steve or no Steve and his goddamn freight smoke-trailing dreams.” What Joyell didn’t say was that she was half-glad, no quarter-glad, Steve had split since the last couple of months had been hell. A fight a day it seemed, two a day at the end.
Reason: Steve too was not ready to “commit” to a personal relationship what with the whole world going to hell in hand-basket (his expression). Besides they all had plenty of time, a life-time to get “serious” and, forbidden words, “settle down.” Here is where the quarter-glad part comes in. Steve was getting in kind of heavy with some Weathermen-types and while that did not cause an argument a day between them it didn’t help. Joyell half expected to hear that Steve, Steve the meek pacifist, a freaking meek Catholic Worker guy just a couple years before, blew up something, or got blown up. Jesus, she thought, was I that hard to take, hard to get along with.
“I’m sorry to hear that Joyell. Maybe when we get a break later we can talk.” Of course, and maybe for the same Steve smoke-trailing-freight-dream-escape-seeking-the-great-American be-bop night reason, or maybe a heroic end traced out since boyhood redemptions reason, Jim and Joyell never would meet later, as Jim would be tied up, well, tied up in whatever organizational thing he was honcho of these days. Their time too had irrevocably passed. And now, and from here on in, this is Joyell’s time, her story, her voice as she enters the spacious but cold, distant from the well-stoked fireplace cold, conference room to the left of the great room with its rickety elongated table weighted down with timeless banging against ten thousand flickered night dreams, scarecrow chairs that caused more than one modern arched-back to falter helplessly, and unhealthy air, air make rank from too many spent speeches, and spent dreams.
*******
“Who is that guy over in the corner, that green corner coach, the guy with the kind of wispy just starting to fill out brown beard, and those fierce piercing goy blue eyes, that I just passed? I’ve not seen him around before,” Joyell asked herself and then Marge Goodwin, expecting Marge the crackerjack organizer of everything from antiwar marches to save the, and you can fill in the blank, to know all the players. Moreover Marge and Joyell got along well enough for Joyell to ask such a question, “girl talk,” they called it between themselves although to the “men” this was a book sealed with seven seals since the “correct” thing was to put such girlish things back in prehistoric times, four or five years ago okay. Joyell also sensed that since Marge’s “thing” with Jim hadn’t worked out they had something in common, although nothing was ever said. Nor would it be.
“Oh, that’s Frank Jackman, the anti-war GI who just got out of the stockade over at Fort Shaw last week and he is ready to do some work with us,” volunteered Marge. Later that evening Joyell would hear from a reliable source that Marge had gotten, or had tried to get, very familiar with the ex-army soldier resister. Marge had a thing for “heroic” guys. Heroic guys being guys like Jim, Joan Baez’s hubby, David Harris, who had refused draft induction, the Berrigan Brothers who were getting ready to do time for draft board record destruction (although she, Marge, couldn’t get that damn Catholic trick part that drove their actions) and now this Frank Jackman who had done a year, a tough soldier non-soldier year, some of it in solidarity, in the stockade for refusing go to Vietnam (and refusing to wear the military uniform at one point). Joyell also heard from another source that evening that it was no dice between Marge and Frank. This source thought it was that Marge, always getting what Marge wanted when it came to “movement men,” figured this guy would just cave in and take the ride. Not this guy, no way, not after taking on the “big boys” over at Fort Shaw. No dice, huh. That’s a point in his favor. But that was later fuel.
“Oh, that’s why his beard is so wispy and he is wearing those silly high top polished black boots and that size too big Army jacket with those bell-bottomed jeans. He certainly has the idea of what it takes to fit in here,” Joyell figured out, figured out loud. Marge just nodded, nodded kind of dismissively that she was right. And then left to do some organization business setting up the evening’s work.
And then suddenly, she, Joyell Davin (suitably Americanized, naturally, a couple of generations back), freshly-damaged in love’s unequal battles but apparently not ready to throw in the towel, got very quiet, very quiet like she always did when some guy caught her eye, well, more than her eye tonight, now that Steve was so much train smoke out in the cornfields somewhere. Maybe it was the New York City armor-coated brashness, hell Manhattan grow-up hard and necessary brashness required in a too many people universe, and learned from her very opinionated father, that her quietness tried to rein in at times like this so guys, guys like this Frank, wouldn’t be thrown off. But whatever it was that drove her quietness she was taking her peeks, her quiet half- peeks really, at this guy. With Steve, and a few other guys, it was mostly full steam ahead and let the devil take the hinter- post. This time her clock said take it easy, jesus, take it easy.
And as she found herself catching herself taking more and more of those telltale peeks she noticed, noticed almost by instinct, almost by some mystical sense that he was “checking” her out, although their dueling eyes had not met. Then, after Jim had finished giving the opening address about what the conferees were trying to do, this Frank Jackman stood up quickly without introduction and started talking, in a firm voice, about the need to up the ante, to create havoc in the streets, and in the army camps. And do it now, and with some sense of urgency. But he said it all in such way that everybody in the room, all forty or fifty of them, knew, or should have known, that this was not some ragtag wispy–bearded fly-by-night “days of rage” kid spirit, freshly bell-bottom pants minted, but some kind of revolutionary, some kind of radical anyway, who had thought about things a lot and wasn’t just a flame-thrower like she had seen too many of lately, including Steve, before he went to find himself.
When Frank was done he looked, half-looked really, quickly in her direction like he was seeking her, and just her, approval. And like he needed to know and know right this minute that she approved. She blushed, and hoped it did not show. And hoped that she had read his look in her direction correctly. But before that blush could subside she blushed again when out of nowhere this Frank gave her a another look, a serious checking out look if she knew her “movement” men, not a leer like some drunken barroom guy, or “come on, honey,” like a schoolboy but a let’s talk high “ism” talk later, and see what happens later, later. Maybe this umpteenth conference would work out after all.
So our Joyell was not surprised, not surprised at all, when during the break, the blessed break after two non-stop hours of waiting, Francis Alexander Jackman (that’s what he was called from when he was a kid and it kind of stuck but he preferred simply Frank) came up behind, tapped her gently on the shoulder to get her attention, introduced himself without fanfare or with any heroic poses, and thanked her for her work on his behalf.
“What do you mean, Frank?” she asked, bewildered by the question. “Oh, when your Peace Action committee came up to Fort Shaw and demonstrated for my freedom,” he replied in kind of a whisper voice, very different from his public voice, a voice that had known some tough times recently and maybe long ago too, but that soft whisper was what she needed, needed to hear from a righteous man, just now. The shrill of Steve’s voice, and a couple of others in her string of forgotten luck, still echoed in her brain.
“That was you? I didn’t make the connection. I didn’t know that was you, sorry, that was about a year ago and I have been going non-stop with this antiwar march and that women’s lib things. Were you in the stockade all that time?” she continued.
“Ya,” just a ya, not forlorn or anything like that but just a simple statement of fact, of the fact that he had needed to do what he did and that was that, next question, came that soft reply like this Frank and she were on some same wave-length. She was confused, confused more than a little that he had that strong effect on her after about five minutes of just general conversation.
Just then Marge, super-organizer but, as Joyell had already gathered intelligence on by then, not above having the last say in her little romances with the newest heroes of the movement, or trying to, called to Frank that Stanley Bloom, the big national anti-war organizer, wanted his input into something. But before he left soft -whispering still, calm still, unlike when he talked, talked peace action talk, he mentioned kind of kid-like, bashful kid-like, maybe they could meet later. Joyell could barely contain herself, and although she usually acted bashfully at these times, kind of a studied bashfulness starting out, even with Steve and some of the movement guys, she just blurted out, “We’d better.” He replied, a little stronger of voice than that previous whisper, “I guess that is a command, right?” And they both laughed, laughed an adventure ahead laugh.
Later came, evening session complete, as they were sitting across from each other in the great room, the great fireplace room where Eric was going through his second rendition of Freight Train to get the room revved up for his big stuff. Frank came over and asked, back to whisper asked, if Joyell would like to go outside for a breath of fresh winter air. Or maybe somewhere else, another room inside perhaps if she didn’t like the cold or snow. No second request was necessary, and no coyness on her part either with this guy, as she quickly went to the coat rack and put on her coat, scarf, and boots. And so it went.
They talked, or rather she talked a blue streak, a soft-spoken blue streak like Frank’s manner was contagious, and maybe it was. Then he would ask a question, and ask it in such a way that he really wanted to know, know her for her answer and not just to ask, polite ask. As they walked, and walked, and as the snow got deeper as they moved away from the pavilion she kind of fell, kind of helpless on purpose fell. On purpose fell expecting that he might kiss her. But all he did was pick her up, gently but firmly, held her in his arms just a fraction of a second, but a fraction of a second enough to let her know, and let her feel, that they had not seen the last of each other. And just for that cold, snow-driven February night, as war raged on in some distance land, and as she gathered in her tangled emotions after many romantic stumbles and man disappointments, that thought was enough.
Freight Train and Other North Carolina Folk Songs and Tunes, Elizabeth Cotten, Smithstonian Folkways, 1989
Freight train, freight train going so fast,
Freight train, freight train going so fast,
Please don’t say what train I’m on,
So they won’t know where I’ve gone.
-Chorus from ancient folk blues artist Elizabeth Cotten’s Freight Train.
As this story unfolds, Elizabeth Cotten’ s Freight Train, in an upbeat Peter, Paul and Mary-style version complete with Bleecker Street reference, is being covered just then near the well firewood- stocked, well-stoked fireplace of the great room in a hard winter, February version, snow-covered rural New Hampshire old time religious order assembly hall by some upstart urban folkie a long way from his home and a long way from that 1960s folk revival minute that then had had even jaded aficionados from the generation of ’68 clamoring for more.
Meanwhile, the front hall entrance adjacent to that great room where that old-time folkie and his old-time tune are being heard by a small early-bird arrival gathering crowd who never tire of the song, and who this night certainly do not tire of being close by the huge well stocked, well-stoked fireplace where the old brother, hell, let’s give him a name, Eric, Eric from Vermont, okay, is holding forth is starting to fill with more arrivals to be checked in and button-holed. The place, for the curious: the Shaker Farms Peace Pavilion (formerly just plain vanilla Shaker Farms Assembly Hall but the “trust fund babies” who bought and donated the site, ah, insisted in their, of course, anonymous way on the added signature) the scene of umpteen peace conferences, anti-war parlays, alternative world vision seminars, non-violent role-playing skits, and personal witness actions worked out. A handy hospice for worn-out ideas, ditto frustrations, and an off-hand small victory or two.
That very last part, that desperate victory last part, is what keeps the place afloat, afloat in this oddball of a hellish anti-war year 1971 when even hardened and steeled old-time peace activists against the Vietnam War are starting to believe they will be entitled to Social Security for their efforts before this bloody war is over. Hence the urgency behind this particular great room fireplace warm, complete with booked-in urban folkie singer, umpteenth anti-war conference. But onward brothers and sisters and let us listen in to the following conversation overheard in that now crowded front hall:
“Hi, Joyell, glad you could make it to the conference. Are you by yourself or did you bring Steve with you?” asked Jim Sweeney, one of the big honchos, one of the big organizational honchos and that is what matters these dog days when all hope appears to have been abandoned, these now fading days of the antiwar movement trying yet again to conference jump start the opposition to Nixon’s bloody escalations and stealthy tricky maneuvers.
“Good to see you too, Jim,” answered Joyell, who said it in such a singsong way that she and Jim Sweeney, obviously, had been in some mystic time, maybe some summer of love time before everything and everybody needed twelve coats of armor, emotional armor, just to move from point A to point B, more than fellows at one of those umpteen peace things. Joyell knew, knew from some serious reflection last summer, that she had put on a few more armor coats herself and, hell, she was just a self-confessed rank and filer. Their “thing” had just faded though for lack of energy, lack of high “ism” politics on Joyell’s part unlike frenetic Jim, and for the cold, hard fact that Jim at the time wanted to devote himself totally to the “movement” and could not “commit” to a personal relationship.
“Jesus, can’t any guy commit to anything for more than ten minutes,” Joyell thought to herself. From the weathered look on his face Jim was still in high thrall to “saving the earth” although rumor had it that Marge Goodwin, ya, that Marge Goodwin, the “mother” of organizers every since she almost single-handedly called out the national student strike in 1970, almost had her hooks into him, into him bad from all reports.
“No, Steve and I are not together anymore since he split to “find himself” on some freight train heading west, heading west fast away from me, I think. But you don’t want to hear that story, and besides we have to push on against this damn war, Steve or no Steve and his goddamn freight smoke-trailing dreams.” What Joyell didn’t say was that she was half-glad, no quarter-glad, Steve had split since the last couple of months had been hell. A fight a day it seemed, two a day at the end.
Reason: Steve too was not ready to “commit” to a personal relationship what with the whole world going to hell in hand-basket (his expression). Besides they all had plenty of time, a life-time to get “serious” and, forbidden words, “settle down.” Here is where the quarter-glad part comes in. Steve was getting in kind of heavy with some Weathermen-types and while that did not cause an argument a day between them it didn’t help. Joyell half expected to hear that Steve, Steve the meek pacifist, a freaking meek Catholic Worker guy just a couple years before, blew up something, or got blown up. Jesus, she thought, was I that hard to take, hard to get along with.
“I’m sorry to hear that Joyell. Maybe when we get a break later we can talk.” Of course, and maybe for the same Steve smoke-trailing-freight-dream-escape-seeking-the-great-American be-bop night reason, or maybe a heroic end traced out since boyhood redemptions reason, Jim and Joyell never would meet later, as Jim would be tied up, well, tied up in whatever organizational thing he was honcho of these days. Their time too had irrevocably passed. And now, and from here on in, this is Joyell’s time, her story, her voice as she enters the spacious but cold, distant from the well-stoked fireplace cold, conference room to the left of the great room with its rickety elongated table weighted down with timeless banging against ten thousand flickered night dreams, scarecrow chairs that caused more than one modern arched-back to falter helplessly, and unhealthy air, air make rank from too many spent speeches, and spent dreams.
*******
“Who is that guy over in the corner, that green corner coach, the guy with the kind of wispy just starting to fill out brown beard, and those fierce piercing goy blue eyes, that I just passed? I’ve not seen him around before,” Joyell asked herself and then Marge Goodwin, expecting Marge the crackerjack organizer of everything from antiwar marches to save the, and you can fill in the blank, to know all the players. Moreover Marge and Joyell got along well enough for Joyell to ask such a question, “girl talk,” they called it between themselves although to the “men” this was a book sealed with seven seals since the “correct” thing was to put such girlish things back in prehistoric times, four or five years ago okay. Joyell also sensed that since Marge’s “thing” with Jim hadn’t worked out they had something in common, although nothing was ever said. Nor would it be.
“Oh, that’s Frank Jackman, the anti-war GI who just got out of the stockade over at Fort Shaw last week and he is ready to do some work with us,” volunteered Marge. Later that evening Joyell would hear from a reliable source that Marge had gotten, or had tried to get, very familiar with the ex-army soldier resister. Marge had a thing for “heroic” guys. Heroic guys being guys like Jim, Joan Baez’s hubby, David Harris, who had refused draft induction, the Berrigan Brothers who were getting ready to do time for draft board record destruction (although she, Marge, couldn’t get that damn Catholic trick part that drove their actions) and now this Frank Jackman who had done a year, a tough soldier non-soldier year, some of it in solidarity, in the stockade for refusing go to Vietnam (and refusing to wear the military uniform at one point). Joyell also heard from another source that evening that it was no dice between Marge and Frank. This source thought it was that Marge, always getting what Marge wanted when it came to “movement men,” figured this guy would just cave in and take the ride. Not this guy, no way, not after taking on the “big boys” over at Fort Shaw. No dice, huh. That’s a point in his favor. But that was later fuel.
“Oh, that’s why his beard is so wispy and he is wearing those silly high top polished black boots and that size too big Army jacket with those bell-bottomed jeans. He certainly has the idea of what it takes to fit in here,” Joyell figured out, figured out loud. Marge just nodded, nodded kind of dismissively that she was right. And then left to do some organization business setting up the evening’s work.
And then suddenly, she, Joyell Davin (suitably Americanized, naturally, a couple of generations back), freshly-damaged in love’s unequal battles but apparently not ready to throw in the towel, got very quiet, very quiet like she always did when some guy caught her eye, well, more than her eye tonight, now that Steve was so much train smoke out in the cornfields somewhere. Maybe it was the New York City armor-coated brashness, hell Manhattan grow-up hard and necessary brashness required in a too many people universe, and learned from her very opinionated father, that her quietness tried to rein in at times like this so guys, guys like this Frank, wouldn’t be thrown off. But whatever it was that drove her quietness she was taking her peeks, her quiet half- peeks really, at this guy. With Steve, and a few other guys, it was mostly full steam ahead and let the devil take the hinter- post. This time her clock said take it easy, jesus, take it easy.
And as she found herself catching herself taking more and more of those telltale peeks she noticed, noticed almost by instinct, almost by some mystical sense that he was “checking” her out, although their dueling eyes had not met. Then, after Jim had finished giving the opening address about what the conferees were trying to do, this Frank Jackman stood up quickly without introduction and started talking, in a firm voice, about the need to up the ante, to create havoc in the streets, and in the army camps. And do it now, and with some sense of urgency. But he said it all in such way that everybody in the room, all forty or fifty of them, knew, or should have known, that this was not some ragtag wispy–bearded fly-by-night “days of rage” kid spirit, freshly bell-bottom pants minted, but some kind of revolutionary, some kind of radical anyway, who had thought about things a lot and wasn’t just a flame-thrower like she had seen too many of lately, including Steve, before he went to find himself.
When Frank was done he looked, half-looked really, quickly in her direction like he was seeking her, and just her, approval. And like he needed to know and know right this minute that she approved. She blushed, and hoped it did not show. And hoped that she had read his look in her direction correctly. But before that blush could subside she blushed again when out of nowhere this Frank gave her a another look, a serious checking out look if she knew her “movement” men, not a leer like some drunken barroom guy, or “come on, honey,” like a schoolboy but a let’s talk high “ism” talk later, and see what happens later, later. Maybe this umpteenth conference would work out after all.
So our Joyell was not surprised, not surprised at all, when during the break, the blessed break after two non-stop hours of waiting, Francis Alexander Jackman (that’s what he was called from when he was a kid and it kind of stuck but he preferred simply Frank) came up behind, tapped her gently on the shoulder to get her attention, introduced himself without fanfare or with any heroic poses, and thanked her for her work on his behalf.
“What do you mean, Frank?” she asked, bewildered by the question. “Oh, when your Peace Action committee came up to Fort Shaw and demonstrated for my freedom,” he replied in kind of a whisper voice, very different from his public voice, a voice that had known some tough times recently and maybe long ago too, but that soft whisper was what she needed, needed to hear from a righteous man, just now. The shrill of Steve’s voice, and a couple of others in her string of forgotten luck, still echoed in her brain.
“That was you? I didn’t make the connection. I didn’t know that was you, sorry, that was about a year ago and I have been going non-stop with this antiwar march and that women’s lib things. Were you in the stockade all that time?” she continued.
“Ya,” just a ya, not forlorn or anything like that but just a simple statement of fact, of the fact that he had needed to do what he did and that was that, next question, came that soft reply like this Frank and she were on some same wave-length. She was confused, confused more than a little that he had that strong effect on her after about five minutes of just general conversation.
Just then Marge, super-organizer but, as Joyell had already gathered intelligence on by then, not above having the last say in her little romances with the newest heroes of the movement, or trying to, called to Frank that Stanley Bloom, the big national anti-war organizer, wanted his input into something. But before he left soft -whispering still, calm still, unlike when he talked, talked peace action talk, he mentioned kind of kid-like, bashful kid-like, maybe they could meet later. Joyell could barely contain herself, and although she usually acted bashfully at these times, kind of a studied bashfulness starting out, even with Steve and some of the movement guys, she just blurted out, “We’d better.” He replied, a little stronger of voice than that previous whisper, “I guess that is a command, right?” And they both laughed, laughed an adventure ahead laugh.
Later came, evening session complete, as they were sitting across from each other in the great room, the great fireplace room where Eric was going through his second rendition of Freight Train to get the room revved up for his big stuff. Frank came over and asked, back to whisper asked, if Joyell would like to go outside for a breath of fresh winter air. Or maybe somewhere else, another room inside perhaps if she didn’t like the cold or snow. No second request was necessary, and no coyness on her part either with this guy, as she quickly went to the coat rack and put on her coat, scarf, and boots. And so it went.
They talked, or rather she talked a blue streak, a soft-spoken blue streak like Frank’s manner was contagious, and maybe it was. Then he would ask a question, and ask it in such a way that he really wanted to know, know her for her answer and not just to ask, polite ask. As they walked, and walked, and as the snow got deeper as they moved away from the pavilion she kind of fell, kind of helpless on purpose fell. On purpose fell expecting that he might kiss her. But all he did was pick her up, gently but firmly, held her in his arms just a fraction of a second, but a fraction of a second enough to let her know, and let her feel, that they had not seen the last of each other. And just for that cold, snow-driven February night, as war raged on in some distance land, and as she gathered in her tangled emotions after many romantic stumbles and man disappointments, that thought was enough.
Monday, December 12, 2011
From Out In The Be-Bop Blues Night-Singing The Blues For His Lord- The Reverend Gary Davis Is On Stage
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the Reverend Gary Davis playing Children Of Zion on Pete Seeger's 1960 television show Rainbow Quest.
CD Review
Twelve Gates To The City: Reverend Gary Davis: In Concert 1962-1966, Shanachie Records, 2000
I have mentioned many of the old time black male country blues singers in this space, for example, Son House, Bukka White and Skip James. I have also mentioned the close connection between this rural music, the routine of life on the farm (mainly the Mississippi Delta plantations or sharecropping) and simple religious expression in their works. The blues singer under review meets all of those criteria and more. The Reverend Gary Davis, although not as well known in the country blues pantheon, has had many of his songs covered by the denizens of the folk revival of the 1960's and some rock groups, like The Grateful Dead, looking for a connection with their roots. Thus, by one of the ironies of fate his tradition lives on in popular music. I would also mention here that his work was prominently displayed in one of the Masters Of The Blues documentaries that I have reviewed in this space. That placement is insurance that that the Reverend's musical virtuosity is of the highest order. As an instrumentalist he steals the show in that film. Enough said.
Stick out songs here are the much-covered Samson and Delilah (most famously, I think, by Dave Van Ronk), Cocaine Blues (from when it was legal, of course), Twelve Keys To The City and the gospelly Blow Gabriel and Who Shall Deliver Poor Me.
Some Biographical Information From the Back Cover Of This Album
Durham, North Carolina in the 1930's was a moderate sized town whose economy was driven by tobacco farming. The tobacco crop acted somewhat as a buffer against the worst ravages of the Depression. During the fall harvest, with its attendant tobacco auctions, there was a bit more money around, and that, naturally, attracted musicians. Performers would drift in from the countryside and frequently took up residence and stayed on. Two master musicians who made Durham their home, whose careers extended decades until they become literally world famous, were Reverend Gary Davis and Sonny Terry.
REV. GARY DAVIS
Reverend Gary Davis was one of the greatest traditional guitarists of the century. He could play fluently in all major keys and improvise continually without repetition. His finger picking style was remarkably free, executing a rapid treble run with his thumb as easily as with his index finger and he had great command of many different styles, representing most aspects of black music he heard as a young man at he beginning of the century. Beyond his blues-gospel guitar, Davis was equally adept at ragtime, marches, breakdowns, vaudeville songs, and much more. Born in Lawrence County, South Carolina in 1895, Davis was raised by his grandmother, who made his first guitar for him. Learning from relatives and itinerant musicians, he also took up banjo and harmonica. His blindness was probably due to a congenital condition. By the time he was a young man he was considered among the elite musicians in his area of South Carolina where, as in most Southern coastal states, clean and fancy finger picking with emphasis on the melody was the favored style. Sometime in the early 1950's, Davis started a ministry and repudiated blues. In 1935, he recorded twelve gospel songs that rank among the masterpieces of the genre. In 1944, he moved to New York where he continued his church work, and sometimes did some street singing in Harlem. By the early 1960's, with the re-emergence of interest in traditional black music, Davis finally received the recognition and prominences he so richly deserved.
CD Review
Twelve Gates To The City: Reverend Gary Davis: In Concert 1962-1966, Shanachie Records, 2000
I have mentioned many of the old time black male country blues singers in this space, for example, Son House, Bukka White and Skip James. I have also mentioned the close connection between this rural music, the routine of life on the farm (mainly the Mississippi Delta plantations or sharecropping) and simple religious expression in their works. The blues singer under review meets all of those criteria and more. The Reverend Gary Davis, although not as well known in the country blues pantheon, has had many of his songs covered by the denizens of the folk revival of the 1960's and some rock groups, like The Grateful Dead, looking for a connection with their roots. Thus, by one of the ironies of fate his tradition lives on in popular music. I would also mention here that his work was prominently displayed in one of the Masters Of The Blues documentaries that I have reviewed in this space. That placement is insurance that that the Reverend's musical virtuosity is of the highest order. As an instrumentalist he steals the show in that film. Enough said.
Stick out songs here are the much-covered Samson and Delilah (most famously, I think, by Dave Van Ronk), Cocaine Blues (from when it was legal, of course), Twelve Keys To The City and the gospelly Blow Gabriel and Who Shall Deliver Poor Me.
Some Biographical Information From the Back Cover Of This Album
Durham, North Carolina in the 1930's was a moderate sized town whose economy was driven by tobacco farming. The tobacco crop acted somewhat as a buffer against the worst ravages of the Depression. During the fall harvest, with its attendant tobacco auctions, there was a bit more money around, and that, naturally, attracted musicians. Performers would drift in from the countryside and frequently took up residence and stayed on. Two master musicians who made Durham their home, whose careers extended decades until they become literally world famous, were Reverend Gary Davis and Sonny Terry.
REV. GARY DAVIS
Reverend Gary Davis was one of the greatest traditional guitarists of the century. He could play fluently in all major keys and improvise continually without repetition. His finger picking style was remarkably free, executing a rapid treble run with his thumb as easily as with his index finger and he had great command of many different styles, representing most aspects of black music he heard as a young man at he beginning of the century. Beyond his blues-gospel guitar, Davis was equally adept at ragtime, marches, breakdowns, vaudeville songs, and much more. Born in Lawrence County, South Carolina in 1895, Davis was raised by his grandmother, who made his first guitar for him. Learning from relatives and itinerant musicians, he also took up banjo and harmonica. His blindness was probably due to a congenital condition. By the time he was a young man he was considered among the elite musicians in his area of South Carolina where, as in most Southern coastal states, clean and fancy finger picking with emphasis on the melody was the favored style. Sometime in the early 1950's, Davis started a ministry and repudiated blues. In 1935, he recorded twelve gospel songs that rank among the masterpieces of the genre. In 1944, he moved to New York where he continued his church work, and sometimes did some street singing in Harlem. By the early 1960's, with the re-emergence of interest in traditional black music, Davis finally received the recognition and prominences he so richly deserved.
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