Creation and conviction...
I usually don't feel that ashamed of the infrequency of my LiveJournal posts; after all, they're intended primarily for my circle of close and developing friends, who generally hear about the important things taking place in my life long before I mention them here. I felt a little guilty, though, after attending a party this evening given by a few of those brave scribes who are participating in National Novel Writing Month. The goal is apparently to complete a 50,000-word novel in the course of one calendar month; and the work, additionally, must - egad! - make some sort of sense!
Visions of Kerouac and an endless roll of paper fed into a manual typewriter spring to mind when I'm there, of course; but in this computer age it's screens filled with paragraphs that incessantly inch upward, click-a-clack, as their amiable creators chat about politics and Native American symbols. Good food, wonderful atmosphere and genial companionship. Why am I not writing? I am now, two hours later.
"Miss Rhythm"...
Ruth Brown, of course, passed away Friday at the age of 78. She's not well-remembered today outside of a small circle of rhythm-and-blues fans and historians, but her musical and social impact was great. Atlantic Records, one of the most important labels in rock history, was tagged by Ahmet Ertegun the "House that Ruth Built," and for good reason: she was at the head of its stable of artists, responsible for its earliest hits and laying the groundwork for its later success. And, man, was she one hell of a singer: when her voice wasn't cracking and begging, imploring Mama to do something, anything about a man who "treats her daughter mean," it was like frozen butter, raspy only for a second, as she sang of love and longing.
She was important to me, too. One of the first albums I was given when I was very young, around five, was a copy of Rock and Roll Forever, the great 1956 Atlantic compilation. I loved that classic black-and-silver mono Atlantic label, but the music, and especially the idiosyncratic voices, captivated me. You can't really ask for more than Ray Charles wailing "It Should've Been Me" or Joe Turner's original "Shake, Rattle and Roll," but I always looked forward to the two Ruth Brown cuts. Her voice (as well as LaVern Baker's) on that record was the foundation of my tastes in female rock and rhythm-and-blues vocals; and whether I think about that influence consciously or not, it profoundly shaped the way I hear vocal music today.
Matters of conscience...
A friend recently took notice in her journal of a Chicago musician and activist, Malachi Ritscher, who set himself on fire in protest of the war in Iraq and has become a martyr for some and an object of derision for others. The news gave me some pause, too, as it recalled a similar suicide 15 years ago that also aroused considerable controversy and, on a personal level, led me to put into action my beliefs regarding the conflict then taking place.
I was in Western Massachusetts at the time, and the first Iraq war seemed to exist only in news headlines. There was discussion about it in classrooms and in the desultory, poorly-attended attempts to organize anti-war actions, but Jesse Helms aroused far more indignation than the surgical strikes of the U.S. Air Force. That changed when Timothy Levey sat down with a sign in his lap reading "Peace," doused himself with a can of gasoline in the middle of the Amherst Town Common, and lit a match.
I heard about what Levey had done the same day it happened, and it initially didn't make much of an impact on me. The next night, though, I wandered out to the common and found a makeshift memorial of cards, paintings, candles and other remembrances, and a small circle of people with thermoses and sleeping bags determined to spend the night in memory of his sacrifice. Those I spoke with each related to me that they had felt a condition I knew well from my own experience: a sense that the war was fundamentally wrong, but that there was no outlet to express that, nothing to bring together the many atomized people that undoubtedly must feel the same way. They told me that when they saw the site of Levey's self-martyrdom they knew they had to stay there. No real thought process - just conviction. Belief.
After several hours I returned to my dorm room to pick up some sweaters and sleeping gear, then ventured out once again to the common. This time I stayed. For almost a week a core group of six or seven people remained at the site philosophizing, making music, sharing passages from books, bantering, taking the occasional warm snort of Southern Comfort, and - second-most-importantly - talking about the genesis, circumstances and significance of Levey's act. The most important thing we did was plan. We planned political protests and laid the groundwork for future coalitions, and we did this not only because we believed in our principles but because we believed Greg Levey wanted us to. We knew it would be hollow and pointless for us to sit out in 15-degree weather all night without it meaning something and resulting in something, and we were sitting in 15-degree weather because Greg Levey had died. These talks were the germ of the over-1,000-strong protest in which about 40 of us were later arrested, the largest held in Amherst since Vietnam.
Levey's was a powerfully positive action on his own terms. It doesn't matter whether he was mentally unbalanced or selfish, as some argued at the time or even shouted as they passed the memorial and threw debris. It wasn't for us to judge him, and it isn't for anyone to judge Malachi Ritscher now. I know the effect that Levey had on my life, and any intentions contrary to those he expressed in his simple, concise and purposely horrifying act are and were irrelevant to that effect. I am thinking about Malachi Ritscher, and I am thinking frequently about the current war, as I know he intended that we do, and I am considering what I can do in my community to help make it stop. That is more than I was doing before he died; that is his effect.
The usual updates...
ECM releases occupy the turntable much of the time, while Gene Clark, Richard and Linda Thompson and a wide variety of little-known 60's and 70's psych and folk acts are currently co-managing the CD player. John Renbourn will soon be on duty. Tonight's reading, soon to commence, is several chapters of Robert H. Ferrell's Harry Truman biography. It's "a pleasant life," as Frost has it, to
set your breast to the bark of trees
That all your days are dim beneath,
And reaching up with a little knife,
To loose the resin and take it down
And bring it to market when you please,
but almost as pleasant to enjoy the fruits of others' adept gum-gathering.
Have a wonderful Wednesday - and if you're one of my readers who's measuring his or her take this month by the word, best of luck!
Visions of Kerouac and an endless roll of paper fed into a manual typewriter spring to mind when I'm there, of course; but in this computer age it's screens filled with paragraphs that incessantly inch upward, click-a-clack, as their amiable creators chat about politics and Native American symbols. Good food, wonderful atmosphere and genial companionship. Why am I not writing? I am now, two hours later.
"Miss Rhythm"...
Ruth Brown, of course, passed away Friday at the age of 78. She's not well-remembered today outside of a small circle of rhythm-and-blues fans and historians, but her musical and social impact was great. Atlantic Records, one of the most important labels in rock history, was tagged by Ahmet Ertegun the "House that Ruth Built," and for good reason: she was at the head of its stable of artists, responsible for its earliest hits and laying the groundwork for its later success. And, man, was she one hell of a singer: when her voice wasn't cracking and begging, imploring Mama to do something, anything about a man who "treats her daughter mean," it was like frozen butter, raspy only for a second, as she sang of love and longing.
She was important to me, too. One of the first albums I was given when I was very young, around five, was a copy of Rock and Roll Forever, the great 1956 Atlantic compilation. I loved that classic black-and-silver mono Atlantic label, but the music, and especially the idiosyncratic voices, captivated me. You can't really ask for more than Ray Charles wailing "It Should've Been Me" or Joe Turner's original "Shake, Rattle and Roll," but I always looked forward to the two Ruth Brown cuts. Her voice (as well as LaVern Baker's) on that record was the foundation of my tastes in female rock and rhythm-and-blues vocals; and whether I think about that influence consciously or not, it profoundly shaped the way I hear vocal music today.
Matters of conscience...
A friend recently took notice in her journal of a Chicago musician and activist, Malachi Ritscher, who set himself on fire in protest of the war in Iraq and has become a martyr for some and an object of derision for others. The news gave me some pause, too, as it recalled a similar suicide 15 years ago that also aroused considerable controversy and, on a personal level, led me to put into action my beliefs regarding the conflict then taking place.
I was in Western Massachusetts at the time, and the first Iraq war seemed to exist only in news headlines. There was discussion about it in classrooms and in the desultory, poorly-attended attempts to organize anti-war actions, but Jesse Helms aroused far more indignation than the surgical strikes of the U.S. Air Force. That changed when Timothy Levey sat down with a sign in his lap reading "Peace," doused himself with a can of gasoline in the middle of the Amherst Town Common, and lit a match.
I heard about what Levey had done the same day it happened, and it initially didn't make much of an impact on me. The next night, though, I wandered out to the common and found a makeshift memorial of cards, paintings, candles and other remembrances, and a small circle of people with thermoses and sleeping bags determined to spend the night in memory of his sacrifice. Those I spoke with each related to me that they had felt a condition I knew well from my own experience: a sense that the war was fundamentally wrong, but that there was no outlet to express that, nothing to bring together the many atomized people that undoubtedly must feel the same way. They told me that when they saw the site of Levey's self-martyrdom they knew they had to stay there. No real thought process - just conviction. Belief.
After several hours I returned to my dorm room to pick up some sweaters and sleeping gear, then ventured out once again to the common. This time I stayed. For almost a week a core group of six or seven people remained at the site philosophizing, making music, sharing passages from books, bantering, taking the occasional warm snort of Southern Comfort, and - second-most-importantly - talking about the genesis, circumstances and significance of Levey's act. The most important thing we did was plan. We planned political protests and laid the groundwork for future coalitions, and we did this not only because we believed in our principles but because we believed Greg Levey wanted us to. We knew it would be hollow and pointless for us to sit out in 15-degree weather all night without it meaning something and resulting in something, and we were sitting in 15-degree weather because Greg Levey had died. These talks were the germ of the over-1,000-strong protest in which about 40 of us were later arrested, the largest held in Amherst since Vietnam.
Levey's was a powerfully positive action on his own terms. It doesn't matter whether he was mentally unbalanced or selfish, as some argued at the time or even shouted as they passed the memorial and threw debris. It wasn't for us to judge him, and it isn't for anyone to judge Malachi Ritscher now. I know the effect that Levey had on my life, and any intentions contrary to those he expressed in his simple, concise and purposely horrifying act are and were irrelevant to that effect. I am thinking about Malachi Ritscher, and I am thinking frequently about the current war, as I know he intended that we do, and I am considering what I can do in my community to help make it stop. That is more than I was doing before he died; that is his effect.
The usual updates...
ECM releases occupy the turntable much of the time, while Gene Clark, Richard and Linda Thompson and a wide variety of little-known 60's and 70's psych and folk acts are currently co-managing the CD player. John Renbourn will soon be on duty. Tonight's reading, soon to commence, is several chapters of Robert H. Ferrell's Harry Truman biography. It's "a pleasant life," as Frost has it, to
set your breast to the bark of trees
That all your days are dim beneath,
And reaching up with a little knife,
To loose the resin and take it down
And bring it to market when you please,
but almost as pleasant to enjoy the fruits of others' adept gum-gathering.
Have a wonderful Wednesday - and if you're one of my readers who's measuring his or her take this month by the word, best of luck!