THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND - HOW LITTLE HAS CHANGED

On a recent Celtic Crush/SiriusXM show, I featured songs about James Connolly and Joe Hill, along with This Land is Your Land by Woody Guthrie.

As I was listening I realized just how little has changed. Immigration was the big polarizing issue in their early 20^th Century, just as it will be ours in this year’s presidential election.

And yet it would appear that much of our political establishment has no intention of hammering out an acceptable compromise to this existential American problem. No, far better use it to enrage sensibilities and get themselves re-elected!

What has James Connolly, martyred leader of the 1916 Insurrection in Ireland, got to do with US immigration anyway?

Well, between 1903 and 1910 he too was an immigrant, living in Troy, Elizabeth, and The Bronx.

A full time organizer for the International Workers of the World (The Wobblies), he sought to unionize textile workers then living under wage-slave conditions in the US.

Many were Jewish and Central European women fleeing the pogroms of Tsarist Russia, along with Italians and others from Southern Europe.

Most could not speak English and were despised by the Nativist Know-Nothings of the time. Like modern immigrants they too were accused of “poisoning the blood of our country.” 

Ironically, the great-grandchildren of those 20 Century disadvantaged immigrants are now the backbone of middle-class America.

What about Joe Hill?  Born Joel Emmanuel Hagglund in Gavle, Sweden, he didn’t even begin to speak English until after his US arrival in 1902 at the age of 22. He took whatever underpaid day labor he could find in New York and eventually made his way to the West Coast, where he narrowly escaped death during the San Francisco Earthquake.

What a brief but meteoric life! A soldier of fortune in an invasion of Mexico, a free-speech advocate, and eventually a galvanizing songwriter. He became the voice of all Americans,  immigrant and otherwise, who sought a living wage working 60 hour weeks in the direst of  conditions.

Needless to say, this Nordic immigrant and his hobo tribe, who rode the rails up and down the West Coast in search of work, were treated as disposable cogs in an unfettered boom and bust economy. 

Joe was executed in Salt Lake City in 1915 for a crime he didn’t commit, despite the intervention of President Woodrow Wilson.

Woody Guthrie, born a generation later, was no immigrant, though along with thousands of Okies he drifted west during the Depression in search of work. One of his finest songs, however, is Deportee, an ode to the plight of migrant workers. 

He also wrote This Land is Your Land in answer to God Bless America, because he felt Irving Berlin’s anthem did not reflect the reality that the vast majority of Americans was experiencing.

One can only wonder what Woody, Joe Hill, and James Connolly would think of Mr. Trump’s proposal to involve the US Armed Forces in rounding up 8 million or more illegal immigrants for deportation.

One could rationalize this threat as Donald simply being Donald, but this is no longer the garrulous hero of the NY Post’s Page 6, but the man who sat on his presidential hands while his “patriot” supporters attacked the US Capitol Building on January 6^th, 2021.

Though it’s unlikely that the US Army would allow itself to be used in such a manner, these are strange days.

This is a country of laws and a person who gains entry and petitions asylum is legally entitled to remain here until their case is heard. 

And yet, there’s little doubt the current immigration system has broken down on the southern borders.

So, fix it. Though it won’t be easy and will take compromise, that’s why we elect representatives.

The US has faced slavery, a civil war, and a host of other problems, and time after time our politicians have risen to the occasion. 

Ours is a big booming economy, with an aging population; until our politicians summon the courage to act, we need workers for the many jobs Americans won’t touch.

Though they look and sound different, there are Connolly’s and Joe Hills among the current asylum seekers, and you can be sure many of them are already singing their version of This Land Is Your Land. 

FRANK HERBERT, DUNE & A BOTTLE OF GLENFIDDICH

Have you gone to see the movie, Dune – Part 2 yet?

I’ve seen both, though I regret to say I remember nothing about Part 1.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy either movie, but Frank Herbert’s novel is not easily transposed to the big, or little, screen. The book is a riveting mélange of adventure and mysticism, hard edged environmentalism, and down & dirty politics. It features Paul Atreides, a reluctant hero for the ages.

Then again, Frank Herbert was a mighty man, original and driven, and an amazing storyteller. I met him once, we had a slight argument, and I fell under his considerable spell.

This happened in 1979, at a Science Fiction Convention held in The Sheraton Hotel, Boston.

I was a member of Turner & Kirwan of Wexford in those days. We’d had some success with our album Absolutely and Completely and were shopping around Adoramus, a “science friction” follow-up.

David Bowie had come to see us perform Adoramus in NYC and given it a thumbs up. On the strength of this, and some adroit canvassing by our fans, we were invited to play the Boston convention.

As befitted our newly exalted status, we were given a suite of rooms that our rowdy following immediately occupied, with sleeping bags and bodies strewn everywhere. Ah well, it was the 70s!

I remember little about the gig itself except that Isaac Asimov (I, Robot) loved the band, while the esteemed fantasy writer Anne McCaffrey (Dragonrider)  did not. Talk about Donald Trump being a great polarizer, there was no middle ground for Turner & Kirwan of Wexford. 

That being said, I was gravely disappointed that Frank Herbert, the convention guest of honor, hadn’t bothered to check us out.

However, I heard through the grapevine that his publishing company was throwing a reception for the great man.

Security was tight, but I had learned from knocking around New York that judicious name-dropping allied with muchos cojones could get you in almost anywhere.

The reception was a tame affair, considering that the convention itself was fueled by amphetamines, psychedelics, and God knows what else. Mr. Herbert was holding forth to a small circle of publishing people.

The bar, though well stocked, was deserted, so I poured myself a stiff one and joined the admirers.

The talk was about Dune and the novel’s deep moral and psychological underpinnings. Within minutes I was ready to chuck the music game and follow this prophet wherever he might lead. 

Then someone inquired what current politician came closest to Paul Atreides, the savior of Dune.

Without missing a beat, Herbert stated, “Ronald Reagan” – then Governor of California.

In deep shock, I chimed in, “You gotta be kiddin’ me!” and all eyes turned my way.

After a brief semi-heated exchange, Mr. Herbert then enunciated in great detail how Ronnie shared Paul’s libertarian leanings. It was a tour-de-force, particularly since I’d never been introduced to the concept of  libertarianism.

There was no anger in the great man’s expansive explanation, everything sounded perfectly logical, even poetical, to this James Connolly radical. And when he had exhausted the topic he excused himself.

I returned, somewhat depressed, to our suite where a very real environmental disaster had occurred. Booze had run out and the Sheraton was sticking by the draconian Boston 1am closing time.

There was only one thing for it. Inspired by my new-found libertarianism, I hastened back to the Herbert reception and slipped in unnoticed. Like Paul Atreides I was a man on a mission. I went straight to the bar, lifted a very large bottle of Glenfiddich and returned again to our suite – a redeeming hero unto our Turner & Kirwan following.

We partied ‘til dawn, then decided “To hell with Boston and it’s early closing” and drove back to New York. All the way down Route 95 I could hear Mr. Herbert’s insistent voice describing the new America that Ronald Reagan would soon usher in.

Turner & Kirwan never released Adoramus. Reagan’s 1980s were soon upon us, everyone wanted to dance away this new reality, and as one record company executive enigmatically pronounced while dismissing our science friction opus, “Did you ever try dancing to Pink Floyd?”

I don’t believe so. But I did get a lesson in libertarianism from Frank Herbert - and Dune continues to inspire.

A TREE HUGGER'S LAMENT

I’ve always been a bit of a tree-hugger. And why wouldn’t I, after spending so much time on my grandfather’s farm within a mile of Wexford town?

Since he was a cattle dealer the land was given over to fattening bullocks rather than growing grain, fruits, or vegetables. The lush fields were green and hushed, for cattle are  generally quiet, docile beasts. 

Late at night on  long journeys back to New York with Black 47, I’d often take mental strolls through those peaceful fields, stopping to admire trees, ponds, bunches of wild primroses, thrushes’ nests hidden amid the long grass, or views of the nearby meandering main road.

I’d sometimes wonder how I ended up living on heroin row in the East Village where the cries of dealers and junkies mixed seamlessly with police and ambulance sirens.

In general, though, I was at ease with the choices I’d made. As a man from Gweedore once put it to me in The Bronx: “Scenery is all well and good but you can’t eat it.”

As the years raced by, I was always busy on one creative thing or another, in fact we had just closed a successful run of Paradise Square in Berkeley CA, and were heading to Broadway, when the pandemic struck.

I don’t remember being particularly disappointed - life is full of ups and downs in music and theatre, and you learn to roll with the punches.

A friend had died early on from Covid, so I knew this disease was serious, and took every precaution. I even moved outside the city to a house near a beach and a state park.

The first week was strange; it was like stepping off a speeding treadmill – no meetings, phone calls, deadlines, just quietness.

Soon, the ospreys returned from the south, and for once I had time to devote to them. I had always admired these beautiful, tireless birds as they dived from on high into the nearby Long Island Sound.

Soon egrets, herons and piping plovers arrived and took their place among the seagulls, mockingbirds, crows, pigeons, doves and robins.

The birds seemed oblivious to us humans – stalked ourselves now by an invisible foe. It behooved us to keep away from other people, for who knew who was infected. And so I took long walks and, like everyone else, kept my distance.

That summer I relearned the value of silence and the solitary life. With so many humans barricaded indoors, the nearby state park hummed with wildlife. I saw foxes, coyotes, skunks,  racoons and deer, all exploring areas they had long ceded to humanity.

And high above, birds of all kinds were ever-present, reveling in their own harmonious cacophony.

After a year or so, I returned to the city, but my life had changed, I had been touched again by nature, much as had happened on my grandfather’s farm all those emigrant years ago. I resolved to hold on to my connection and, for the most part, I have.

 

On recent visits over March and early April to my pandemic refuge, however, I was stunned by the lack of birds and a new foreboding silence. There were seagulls, ducks and Canadian geese aplenty, but no robins, mockingbirds, blue jays, cardinals, and a scarcity of even crows and doves.

The egrets, herons, plovers, and ospreys returned as the days grew longer, but the local birds I just mentioned only began to trickle back in mid-April and in much fewer numbers than in previous years.

A nearby copse of holly trees still sports some red berries; these delicacies used to be devoured by ravenous birds by mid-March at the latest.

Experts agree that since 1970 almost 3 billion birds of virtually all species have vanished from North America, mostly because of climate change and encroaching humanity.

After much fear, suspicion and misinformation, we humans have survived the pandemic, but will the birds survive us?

How awful to think that on our watch the disappearance of birds could speed up even more, so that eventually it might be a rarity to hear their lovely songs.

And yet, despite all the damning evidence, we continue to vote for climate change deniers. How sad to think these misguided souls are so oblivious to their heritage and surroundings they would never even notice if the birds stopped singing.