I listened to Raglan Road by Luke Kelly recently. The song tells the story of Patrick Kavanagh’s unrequited love for the beautiful young Hilda Moriarty.
Kavanagh scribbled down the words of his poem and bade Kelly sing them to the air of Dawning of the Day one evening in the Bailey, a literary watering hole off Dublin’s Grafton Street. What a performance that must have been!
I hadn’t heard Kelly’s austere version in some years and was struck by the way he mines the diamond hard words for their inherent longing and regret without employing even a smidgen of melancholy.
It brought to mind the towering influence of Jimmie Miller. Who? Well, you might know him better as Ewan MacColl. Writer, singer, collector, poet, playwright, broadcaster, political activist, MacColl’s shadow still looms large over those of us from all shades of the spectrum who dabble in folk music.
Opinionated and authoritative, the man even ran a “school” where singers sat at the feet of the master, Luke Kelly amongst them. There MacColl pounded home the idea of the song’s sanctity and the duty of singers to immerse themselves in the words and music, then get out of the way and let the voice deliver the unadorned message.
Did he come to that understanding from Yeats’ dictum that “poetry should be as cold and passionate as the dawn,” or from the Calvinist heritage of his Scottish ancestry?
The man himself was born in Salford, home of fabled Manchester United. He would later immortalize this dingy conglomeration of factories and small terraced houses in “Dirty Old Town,” a song usually attributed to Shane McGowan.
McGowan doesn’t hesitate to credit MacColl’s influence, stating that in his youth he would never be caught dead in some stultifying folk club unless MacColl was performing within.
MacColl’s influence has transcended folk music. Listen to the restrained reading Roberta Flack gives “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” The man from Salford wrote that one too. In fact he first sang it over the phone as a gift to girlfriend Peggy Seeger while she was performing in the US. MacColl was for many years banned entry to the country because of his political views.
A confirmed Marxist, he had a fierce and uncompromising conviction in the dignity of workers – not just in their right to a fair standard of living, he also believed that many of the proletariat’s cultural values could be uplifting.
With that in mind, he set out to collect the songs and reminiscences of crofters and laborers, tramps and travelers, and the factory workers of the English industrial heartland.
He presented these in a series of groundbreaking BBC radio shows, though not in the dry anthropological manner of the day. Instead he introduced these “hidden” people in their unadulterated accents and earthy vitality, and bade them tell their own stories.
The shows caused a sensation because working people for the first time heard their own accents and experiences on the hitherto class-conscious national radio station. We’re long accustomed to this format now and perennially hear it exploited on call-in radio; but MacColl was an original who helped to give voice to the pent-up energy and raw talent that was being wasted and frustrated by the British class system.
I met him once in Folk City. He had finally been allowed into the US. He was older and there was a wistfulness in his eyes - there would be no working class republic built on truth and human decency. The room wasn’t even sold out, but everyone present was touched by the simple conviction of the man and the abiding power of his message.
And if some of his political ideas now seem outdated, his cultural ideals live on – one in particular, the notion that the singer is the servant of the song and not vice versa.
The next time you hear Raglan Road, if you can actually touch that “quiet street where old ghosts meet.” then you’ll know that Paddy Kavanagh’s unrequited love lives on - courtesy of one of MacColl’s children.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Astral Weeks Revisited
Earle Hitchner’s sterling review of Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks recreation launched many trains of thought as I rattled around in the back of a van some weeks back.
What’s so special about the original album? Suffice it to say that although it is decidedly of a time and place, Astral Weeks is timeless.
Interestingly enough, Van had already attempted to record some of the songs a short while earlier in 1968 and failed to capture their haunting essence - although many artists would give their eyeteeth to have these “failures” on their resume.
But luckily for us, the man from East Belfast persisted and his producers, sensing that the songs needed more than the R&B setting of the “failures,” hired four jazz musicians including the bassist, Richard Davis.
Davis, a giant of modern jazz, is still flummoxed that he is best known for his work on Astral Weeks. He recalled that back in ’68 he and his three comrades typically did a couple of sessions in the course of a day, then broke for dinner, and often a drink and a joint, before heading back to the studio for the night session.
On one such occasion, the artist had already locked himself in the vocalist booth with an acoustic guitar. When Davis asked what kind of music was required, he replied in a thick, almost unintelligible Belfast accent, “play whatever you like.”
And therein lies the magic. Without further ado Morrison let forth, leaving the band to catch his vibe. A number of the songs are slightly out of sync until Davis finds the pocket of Van’s strummed guitar and incandescent vocals. It’s a joy to hear the musicians search for each other then actually gel together, for nowadays such “imperfections” would be fixed digitally. There are times too when Davis exuberantly overplays his hand but this only serves to drive Morrison to stretch and slide along and in between the tones and tempos of his lyrics and melodies. But no matter where Van strays, this band of adventurous New York session heads is right there with him in a way that you’ll recognize from the best albums of Miles and Coltrane.
To be honest, I was relieved that I couldn’t attend the Madison Square Garden concerts. I’m sure they were great but it wasn’t hard to predict what Van would do. And he did it marvelously, if the CD “Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl” is any indicator.
I’m sure the man himself feels liberated. For a true artist refuses to get stuck in time but blazes on regardless; and Van has perennially been measured by this beautiful and ephemeral work he created back in ‘68.
Oh God, is it that long ago? And was my old buddy, the legendary rock critic, Lester Bangs, who Earle quotes liberally, a mere 34 when he so stupidly passed away? Bouncing around in the back of a van, I recalled many of our booze-fueled conversations at the Bells of Hell in those golden days before people began to take Ronald Reagan seriously.
Was there something intrinsically Irish about Astral Weeks, Lester would often ask.
Yes, there was, Lester. Joyce is there in spades: “The love that loves to love the love…” along with the Calvinist repression of East Belfast’s rainy back streets. You can almost touch the sexual longing of the shy, but purposeful, exile lately arrived in New York City. At twenty-three, Van already had ten years of hymns and blues and soul and showbands and beat groups under his belt and it all came streaming to the surface on those two magical nights.
And that’s why I didn’t want to see Van in the Garden. It would have been like coming face to face with your first love. After the initial hug and the inevitable catching up, what would you talk about? Better leave the past where it belongs – in a different country.
On the new CD Van is his powerful, brilliant self, controlling every note and tempo, but the jittery genius of Davis’ bass playing is missing. Van knows what he wants nowadays – and he always gets it!
All well and good, Astral Weeks will forever capture those two extraordinary nights when jazz and poetry, blues and folk, love and longing came “slim slow sliding” together.
More power to you, Van! You created a timeless moment and you’ve finally liberated yourself from it. Your best days may yet be ahead. Rave on, indeed, a chara.
What’s so special about the original album? Suffice it to say that although it is decidedly of a time and place, Astral Weeks is timeless.
Interestingly enough, Van had already attempted to record some of the songs a short while earlier in 1968 and failed to capture their haunting essence - although many artists would give their eyeteeth to have these “failures” on their resume.
But luckily for us, the man from East Belfast persisted and his producers, sensing that the songs needed more than the R&B setting of the “failures,” hired four jazz musicians including the bassist, Richard Davis.
Davis, a giant of modern jazz, is still flummoxed that he is best known for his work on Astral Weeks. He recalled that back in ’68 he and his three comrades typically did a couple of sessions in the course of a day, then broke for dinner, and often a drink and a joint, before heading back to the studio for the night session.
On one such occasion, the artist had already locked himself in the vocalist booth with an acoustic guitar. When Davis asked what kind of music was required, he replied in a thick, almost unintelligible Belfast accent, “play whatever you like.”
And therein lies the magic. Without further ado Morrison let forth, leaving the band to catch his vibe. A number of the songs are slightly out of sync until Davis finds the pocket of Van’s strummed guitar and incandescent vocals. It’s a joy to hear the musicians search for each other then actually gel together, for nowadays such “imperfections” would be fixed digitally. There are times too when Davis exuberantly overplays his hand but this only serves to drive Morrison to stretch and slide along and in between the tones and tempos of his lyrics and melodies. But no matter where Van strays, this band of adventurous New York session heads is right there with him in a way that you’ll recognize from the best albums of Miles and Coltrane.
To be honest, I was relieved that I couldn’t attend the Madison Square Garden concerts. I’m sure they were great but it wasn’t hard to predict what Van would do. And he did it marvelously, if the CD “Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl” is any indicator.
I’m sure the man himself feels liberated. For a true artist refuses to get stuck in time but blazes on regardless; and Van has perennially been measured by this beautiful and ephemeral work he created back in ‘68.
Oh God, is it that long ago? And was my old buddy, the legendary rock critic, Lester Bangs, who Earle quotes liberally, a mere 34 when he so stupidly passed away? Bouncing around in the back of a van, I recalled many of our booze-fueled conversations at the Bells of Hell in those golden days before people began to take Ronald Reagan seriously.
Was there something intrinsically Irish about Astral Weeks, Lester would often ask.
Yes, there was, Lester. Joyce is there in spades: “The love that loves to love the love…” along with the Calvinist repression of East Belfast’s rainy back streets. You can almost touch the sexual longing of the shy, but purposeful, exile lately arrived in New York City. At twenty-three, Van already had ten years of hymns and blues and soul and showbands and beat groups under his belt and it all came streaming to the surface on those two magical nights.
And that’s why I didn’t want to see Van in the Garden. It would have been like coming face to face with your first love. After the initial hug and the inevitable catching up, what would you talk about? Better leave the past where it belongs – in a different country.
On the new CD Van is his powerful, brilliant self, controlling every note and tempo, but the jittery genius of Davis’ bass playing is missing. Van knows what he wants nowadays – and he always gets it!
All well and good, Astral Weeks will forever capture those two extraordinary nights when jazz and poetry, blues and folk, love and longing came “slim slow sliding” together.
More power to you, Van! You created a timeless moment and you’ve finally liberated yourself from it. Your best days may yet be ahead. Rave on, indeed, a chara.
Let's Go Murphys!
Unlike many New Yorkers I’ve always enjoyed my trips to Boston. There’s a sense of tradition that stretches back to the soulful philosophies of Thoreau and Emerson, while a stroll over to Cambridge can send your IQ soaring as you ingest the rarified air around Harvard.
And yet it’s hard not to be conscious that Boston is a city of divisions. When first playing up there in the 70’s it would not have been hard to imagine that African-Americans had not made it quite so far north such was the general pale complexion of the downtown area. In those days I had yet to become acquainted with Roxbury and its surrounding areas.
Playing in the various pubs and saloons of Somerville, Charlestown and Brighton, I was never less than aware of the huge Irish influence. The Boston Irish had come a long way from those tired and hungry who were dumped dockside after fleeing the ravages of the Potato Famine. And yet, literally and figuratively, it was still a long way from the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Southie to the Harvard-Yale game.
One could be forgiven for feeling that some things never change, because as enlightened as Thoreau, Emerson and the other Transcendentalists were, it’s possible to catch whiffs of class and even race prejudice in their references to the recently arrived Irish. Indeed, it is not unlike some of our own “there goes the neighborhood” attitude to the Latino emigrants of these times.
Such thoughts were on my mind some weeks back as I stood in Kenmore Square and watched a green shirted army descend on the House of Blues to cheer on the Dropkick Murphys. I have seen many bands from Boston capture the local imagination and become major hometown favorites including J. Geils, The Cars, Aerosmith, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones among others, but I’ve never witnessed anything like the Murphs. They not only represent Boston – they own the joint.
What’s it like to play a set before them? Well, it can be a formidable sight to gaze out at 2500 avid fans chanting “Let’s go Murphys” before you’ve even played a note. Luckily, all remnants of sensitivity were long ago stripped from Black 47 in raucous nights of apprenticeship on Bainbridge Avenue; we could at this stage give a decent account of ourselves opening for Godzilla.
But the Murphys and their audiences are a phenomenon. It’s like battling Tom Brady, Jon Papelbon, The Fields of Athenry, The Sex Pistols and the ghost of every immigrant who ever raised a glass in Dorchester all packed together into one adrenalized clenched fist.
It’s the spirit of ’76 Punk throbbing like a piston through the Black Velvet Band. It’s hardcore, three chord chants from the late lamented “Rat” meets the Wolfe Tones and Paddy Reilly leaping out of the juke boxes in the pubs of Quincy and Dorchester, and to top it all it’s coming at you at one hundred and forty beats a minute.
It may be loud and obnoxious to some but that’s the point. It’s pride and prejudice brought screaming to the surface. Pride in being Irish and strong enough to finally sweep away the second class tag that the Paddies endured across the centuries up in the stately red brick environs of Boston.
With fists in the air the Murphy army sang along to the working class anthems of their homegrown heroes. And their sweaty jubilant faces proclaimed that they had the last laugh on the Transcendentalists. For if the audience was largely of Irish descent, many of WASP heritage moshed and shouted along with their Gaelic sisters and brothers.
It’s far from everyone’s cup of tea: Irish ballads infused with the raw feral power of punk and a “to hell with the begrudgers” sense of entitlement. But at the end of the night, as the sweaty green shirted army filed out onto the street, I could have sworn I saw the ghosts of some of those tired and hungry from 1847 dance along beside them.
The square had truly been circled. Let’s go Murphys!
And yet it’s hard not to be conscious that Boston is a city of divisions. When first playing up there in the 70’s it would not have been hard to imagine that African-Americans had not made it quite so far north such was the general pale complexion of the downtown area. In those days I had yet to become acquainted with Roxbury and its surrounding areas.
Playing in the various pubs and saloons of Somerville, Charlestown and Brighton, I was never less than aware of the huge Irish influence. The Boston Irish had come a long way from those tired and hungry who were dumped dockside after fleeing the ravages of the Potato Famine. And yet, literally and figuratively, it was still a long way from the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Southie to the Harvard-Yale game.
One could be forgiven for feeling that some things never change, because as enlightened as Thoreau, Emerson and the other Transcendentalists were, it’s possible to catch whiffs of class and even race prejudice in their references to the recently arrived Irish. Indeed, it is not unlike some of our own “there goes the neighborhood” attitude to the Latino emigrants of these times.
Such thoughts were on my mind some weeks back as I stood in Kenmore Square and watched a green shirted army descend on the House of Blues to cheer on the Dropkick Murphys. I have seen many bands from Boston capture the local imagination and become major hometown favorites including J. Geils, The Cars, Aerosmith, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones among others, but I’ve never witnessed anything like the Murphs. They not only represent Boston – they own the joint.
What’s it like to play a set before them? Well, it can be a formidable sight to gaze out at 2500 avid fans chanting “Let’s go Murphys” before you’ve even played a note. Luckily, all remnants of sensitivity were long ago stripped from Black 47 in raucous nights of apprenticeship on Bainbridge Avenue; we could at this stage give a decent account of ourselves opening for Godzilla.
But the Murphys and their audiences are a phenomenon. It’s like battling Tom Brady, Jon Papelbon, The Fields of Athenry, The Sex Pistols and the ghost of every immigrant who ever raised a glass in Dorchester all packed together into one adrenalized clenched fist.
It’s the spirit of ’76 Punk throbbing like a piston through the Black Velvet Band. It’s hardcore, three chord chants from the late lamented “Rat” meets the Wolfe Tones and Paddy Reilly leaping out of the juke boxes in the pubs of Quincy and Dorchester, and to top it all it’s coming at you at one hundred and forty beats a minute.
It may be loud and obnoxious to some but that’s the point. It’s pride and prejudice brought screaming to the surface. Pride in being Irish and strong enough to finally sweep away the second class tag that the Paddies endured across the centuries up in the stately red brick environs of Boston.
With fists in the air the Murphy army sang along to the working class anthems of their homegrown heroes. And their sweaty jubilant faces proclaimed that they had the last laugh on the Transcendentalists. For if the audience was largely of Irish descent, many of WASP heritage moshed and shouted along with their Gaelic sisters and brothers.
It’s far from everyone’s cup of tea: Irish ballads infused with the raw feral power of punk and a “to hell with the begrudgers” sense of entitlement. But at the end of the night, as the sweaty green shirted army filed out onto the street, I could have sworn I saw the ghosts of some of those tired and hungry from 1847 dance along beside them.
The square had truly been circled. Let’s go Murphys!
Death of the Bishop
“Another One Bites The Dust.” The title of the email gave me pause.
It was from an old Wexford friend, Jack O’Leary and my heart sank. It’s a wonder anyone is still standing in my hometown such is the rate of deaths and suicides. Indeed, so many people have been hopping into the Slaney, the Gardai have been summonsing those lucky enough to be fished out.
Ah well, nothing for it but a double click.
“Oh no, not the Bishop Rossiter!”
No one knows exactly how Anthony Rossiter got the nickname; he certainly didn’t act like one of those grave men wielding a crosier. Always smiling, a scallywag glint in his eye, the Bishop was a dancer of renown with the combined moves of Rod Stewart, Mick Jagger and Delaney’s donkey.
To top it all, he ran five miles a day. In fact, the Bishop moved in such a blur, it was hard to figure just how Death The Leveler managed to get a decent skelp in at him.
The news put a considerable dent in my day. Rossiter had been one of the gang – cavorting around the streets, pubs and discos of the old Wexford, not a tosser to his name but full to the gills of auld chat, charm and life.
An hour later I was still conjuring up memories when another email from O’Leary hopped into my box bearing the title: “Hold The Obituaries!”
I double clicked with ferocity and read, “Anthony Rossiter deceased - but not our one! More to follow.”
Thrusting my fist in the air I bellowed, “YES!” Me auld segosha had hopped from the coffin, ripped off his shroud and done a victory lap around the statue of Commodore John Barry. Even now he was tossing back pints at his own wake.
It got me thinking though, no matter how bad things are, there’s nothing sweeter than life. You can keep your heavens, hells and nirvanas – I’ll trade them all for an extra twenty-four hours on this mortal coil.
Bad as these economic times are, they pale in comparison to an eternity spent squinting up at the daisies. Things have been bad before – in the end, what results from them is all that counts.
Take the Great Depression - the money invested back then in roads, bridges and dams laid the foundation for the relative prosperity of the last seventy years.
And how about Social Security introduced as a safety net in 1935? It may go kaput in the next couple of decades, despite the fact that it’s all many will have in their golden years to keep the wolf from the door.
Surely, it’s time to re-examine this great program? If there’s one thing we can learn from the current financial debacle it’s that you cannot depend on the stock market to keep rising – have you had nerve enough to check out your 401(k) lately?
Small wonder! At a time when we should have been shoring up the social safety net, we were wasting billions blowing up Fallujah while running up the national credit card with Chairman Mao’s children.
It’s not an ideal time to reform the health insurance system, but if we don’t employers cannot afford to create meaningful jobs.
Nor are these great days to edge social security towards a workable European style pension plan, still FDR faced an even more daunting task in daring to propose the original program. He was called a communist and a traitor to his class who would pulverize capitalism. Yet he persevered and set the stage for a fairer and more compassionate America.
Now it’s our turn. It won’t be easy with unemployment rising, but the system has been broken for a long time - almost 50 million citizens uninsured, the infrastructure collapsing, a college degree costing upwards of six figures, and on and on…
Meaningful change won’t happen overnight, but there is a time to sow and a time to reap. We’ve been reaping the hell out of the system for many years with scarcely a seed tossed into the earth.
But it’s spring again. The Mets are playing ball - this is our year! Hey you gotta believe! After all, who could have guessed that the Bishop Rossiter would be drinking pints at his own wake?
It was from an old Wexford friend, Jack O’Leary and my heart sank. It’s a wonder anyone is still standing in my hometown such is the rate of deaths and suicides. Indeed, so many people have been hopping into the Slaney, the Gardai have been summonsing those lucky enough to be fished out.
Ah well, nothing for it but a double click.
“Oh no, not the Bishop Rossiter!”
No one knows exactly how Anthony Rossiter got the nickname; he certainly didn’t act like one of those grave men wielding a crosier. Always smiling, a scallywag glint in his eye, the Bishop was a dancer of renown with the combined moves of Rod Stewart, Mick Jagger and Delaney’s donkey.
To top it all, he ran five miles a day. In fact, the Bishop moved in such a blur, it was hard to figure just how Death The Leveler managed to get a decent skelp in at him.
The news put a considerable dent in my day. Rossiter had been one of the gang – cavorting around the streets, pubs and discos of the old Wexford, not a tosser to his name but full to the gills of auld chat, charm and life.
An hour later I was still conjuring up memories when another email from O’Leary hopped into my box bearing the title: “Hold The Obituaries!”
I double clicked with ferocity and read, “Anthony Rossiter deceased - but not our one! More to follow.”
Thrusting my fist in the air I bellowed, “YES!” Me auld segosha had hopped from the coffin, ripped off his shroud and done a victory lap around the statue of Commodore John Barry. Even now he was tossing back pints at his own wake.
It got me thinking though, no matter how bad things are, there’s nothing sweeter than life. You can keep your heavens, hells and nirvanas – I’ll trade them all for an extra twenty-four hours on this mortal coil.
Bad as these economic times are, they pale in comparison to an eternity spent squinting up at the daisies. Things have been bad before – in the end, what results from them is all that counts.
Take the Great Depression - the money invested back then in roads, bridges and dams laid the foundation for the relative prosperity of the last seventy years.
And how about Social Security introduced as a safety net in 1935? It may go kaput in the next couple of decades, despite the fact that it’s all many will have in their golden years to keep the wolf from the door.
Surely, it’s time to re-examine this great program? If there’s one thing we can learn from the current financial debacle it’s that you cannot depend on the stock market to keep rising – have you had nerve enough to check out your 401(k) lately?
Small wonder! At a time when we should have been shoring up the social safety net, we were wasting billions blowing up Fallujah while running up the national credit card with Chairman Mao’s children.
It’s not an ideal time to reform the health insurance system, but if we don’t employers cannot afford to create meaningful jobs.
Nor are these great days to edge social security towards a workable European style pension plan, still FDR faced an even more daunting task in daring to propose the original program. He was called a communist and a traitor to his class who would pulverize capitalism. Yet he persevered and set the stage for a fairer and more compassionate America.
Now it’s our turn. It won’t be easy with unemployment rising, but the system has been broken for a long time - almost 50 million citizens uninsured, the infrastructure collapsing, a college degree costing upwards of six figures, and on and on…
Meaningful change won’t happen overnight, but there is a time to sow and a time to reap. We’ve been reaping the hell out of the system for many years with scarcely a seed tossed into the earth.
But it’s spring again. The Mets are playing ball - this is our year! Hey you gotta believe! After all, who could have guessed that the Bishop Rossiter would be drinking pints at his own wake?
Thursday, 26 March 2009
State of the Union
Talk about a state of the union. I’ve passed through many states in the course of my recent travels with Black 47. How are things going out there in the country? Well, as ever, you’re hit with the sheer irrepressible sense of energy and optimism that Americans have always had in abundance; yet, these ineffable characteristics are curried with a deep anger, a brooding sense of anxiety and a revulsion towards politicians and the shadowy mix of financiers and speculators who many feel have sucked the life-blood out of the country.
In short, there’s almost a palpable sense of betrayal abroad. Most people feel that they’ve worked hard, done their part and deserve better. Some may have stretched to buy the home that was a bit beyond their means or overcharged their credit cards, but even they don’t want or expect handouts from the government, and they’re perfectly willing to work that extra job to get things back on the straight and narrow. The problem is: the ground is being pulled from beneath their feet as many face unemployment in tandem with rising health care and education costs.
Most are aghast at the wars and excesses of the last eight years, yet they hardly had time to celebrate the lifting cloud before the new president was swamped by a deluge of problems. The more financially secure feel that it’s the inevitable case of the chickens coming home to roost, while those who have already lost their jobs - or fear for them - are just plain frightened.
Everyone wishes to get the country back on track again. But, unlike the mobilization of World War Two, the enemy is not tangible. This time it’s not the Germans or the Japanese that are being confronted – it’s a basic lack of trust. The social contract that unified us was dismantled brick by brick in the recent go-go years of narcissism and “looking out for number one.”
And in the background there’s the endless chatter of cable TV, instant Internet news, partisan blogs and twitters that vilify and predict by the second, then recalibrate their opinions, nail a new victim and predict all over again.
Many people are disoriented because they must come to terms with the fact that the America they knew has changed. Where once we were a great manufacturing nation, now we have become a service society that gets paid to look after and entertain each other. Look at the glass darkly and it could seem that the US risks becoming a big Ronald McDonald, minimum-wage franchise.
Great ideas put into practice, however, can and will elevate the country. The next Apple or Google is even now being conceived in someone’s bedroom or garage. The keys, as ever, are education and innovation. While more and more people cannot afford the former, I saw no lack of the latter out there in the middle of America. In fact, many are already reeducating and reinventing themselves to meet what they fear is a coming meltdown.
They despise both Democratic and Republican poseurs and naysayers. They don’t trust the media and regard all the talking heads as mere pawns who will jump through any hoop to boost their ratings. They want positive change and they’re willing to pay for it, but they’re leery of spending their children’s heritage in parcels of “trust us” trillion dollar schemes that they have not been consulted about.
They are crying out for affordable health care and back the President’s as yet unannounced plans because they recognize that costs must be brought under control. None has a kind word to say for their current insurers and yet all are deathly afraid of losing their coverage.
Many are amazed that they trust this new President so deeply, including some who are borderline racists. They desperately want him to succeed and admire his quiet confidence. They will stick with him, though one gets the impression that time is tight and his political capital is finite.
In an age of bitter anxiety and dreams postponed, I was repeatedly struck by how much, and in such a short time, we have all come to depend upon President Barack Obama.
In short, there’s almost a palpable sense of betrayal abroad. Most people feel that they’ve worked hard, done their part and deserve better. Some may have stretched to buy the home that was a bit beyond their means or overcharged their credit cards, but even they don’t want or expect handouts from the government, and they’re perfectly willing to work that extra job to get things back on the straight and narrow. The problem is: the ground is being pulled from beneath their feet as many face unemployment in tandem with rising health care and education costs.
Most are aghast at the wars and excesses of the last eight years, yet they hardly had time to celebrate the lifting cloud before the new president was swamped by a deluge of problems. The more financially secure feel that it’s the inevitable case of the chickens coming home to roost, while those who have already lost their jobs - or fear for them - are just plain frightened.
Everyone wishes to get the country back on track again. But, unlike the mobilization of World War Two, the enemy is not tangible. This time it’s not the Germans or the Japanese that are being confronted – it’s a basic lack of trust. The social contract that unified us was dismantled brick by brick in the recent go-go years of narcissism and “looking out for number one.”
And in the background there’s the endless chatter of cable TV, instant Internet news, partisan blogs and twitters that vilify and predict by the second, then recalibrate their opinions, nail a new victim and predict all over again.
Many people are disoriented because they must come to terms with the fact that the America they knew has changed. Where once we were a great manufacturing nation, now we have become a service society that gets paid to look after and entertain each other. Look at the glass darkly and it could seem that the US risks becoming a big Ronald McDonald, minimum-wage franchise.
Great ideas put into practice, however, can and will elevate the country. The next Apple or Google is even now being conceived in someone’s bedroom or garage. The keys, as ever, are education and innovation. While more and more people cannot afford the former, I saw no lack of the latter out there in the middle of America. In fact, many are already reeducating and reinventing themselves to meet what they fear is a coming meltdown.
They despise both Democratic and Republican poseurs and naysayers. They don’t trust the media and regard all the talking heads as mere pawns who will jump through any hoop to boost their ratings. They want positive change and they’re willing to pay for it, but they’re leery of spending their children’s heritage in parcels of “trust us” trillion dollar schemes that they have not been consulted about.
They are crying out for affordable health care and back the President’s as yet unannounced plans because they recognize that costs must be brought under control. None has a kind word to say for their current insurers and yet all are deathly afraid of losing their coverage.
Many are amazed that they trust this new President so deeply, including some who are borderline racists. They desperately want him to succeed and admire his quiet confidence. They will stick with him, though one gets the impression that time is tight and his political capital is finite.
In an age of bitter anxiety and dreams postponed, I was repeatedly struck by how much, and in such a short time, we have all come to depend upon President Barack Obama.
Saint Patrick's Day
On one day a year, they congregated outside Old St. Patrick's Cathedral on Mulberry Street in New York City and marched in celebration. To some of these immigrant Irish and their American born children it was a religious occasion, but to most the gathering was an affirmation of their right not only to survive but to thrive in their adopted country.
That's what I sense on St. Patrick's Day - an echo from a time when the Irish were despised outsiders. And that's why I go along with the raucous energy, the excitement and even the green beer, the plastic shamrocks and the ubiquitous leprechaun.
I didn't always feel that way. When I arrived from Ireland, these manifestations of Irish-America were at best embarrassing. Back home, our own celebrations were rigid and religious; we did sport actual sprigs of shamrock but there was no beer, green or otherwise. The Parade up Fifth Avenue and the ensuing bacchanal seemed downright pagan by comparison.
I had other immigrant battles of my own ahead. The band, Black 47, was formed to create music that would reflect the complexity of immigrant and contemporary Irish-American life and to banish When Irish Eyes Are Smiling off to a well earned rest in the depths of Galway Bay.
This idea met with not a little resistance in the north Bronx and the south sides of Boston and Chicago; but when irate patrons would yell out during a reggae/reel "why can't yez sing somethin' Irish?" I would return the compliment with, "I'm from Ireland, I wrote it! That makes it Irish!”
With time and familiarity, Irish-America came to accept Black 47, probably more for our insistence that each generation bears responsibility for solving the political problems in the North of Ireland, than for recasting Danny Boy as a formidable gay construction worker.
I, in turn, learned to appreciate the traditions of the community I had joined along with the reasons for the ritualized celebration of our patron saint.
And now on St. Patrick's Day, no matter what stage I'm on, mixed in with the swirl of guitars, horns, pipes and drums, I hear an old, but jarring, memory of a people rejoicing as they rose up from their knees.
Our battles, for the most part, have been won; indeed, one has to search an encyclopedia for mention of the Know-Nothing Party or various 19th Century nativist politicians and gangs of bullyboys. Anti-Irish sentiment, not to mention Anti-Catholicism, is a rarity.
Might it not be time then for our New York St. Patrick's Day Parade to celebrate all Irish people no matter what religion (or lack thereof), sexuality or political conviction?
It's a broad step, I know. But with a just peace finally taking seed in the North of Ireland, might we not some day witness Dr. Paisley, Mr. Adams and various members of the Irish Gay community walk arm in arm up Fifth Avenue.
Impossible? Perhaps, but I, for one, would have wagered heavily 15 years ago that Sinn Fein would never sit in a Northern Irish Parliament. Times change, as do tactics and even rigid principles.
Whatever about Parade pipe dreams, we still must honor the memory of those who paved the way for us. Part of that responsibility is that Irish-Americans should never forget the new immigrants from other lands, legal and undocumented.
Many, like our forebears, are fleeing poverty and are striving to feed and educate their families. It would be the ultimate irony if an Irish-American were to look down upon the least of them; for to my mind there is no place in the Irish soul for racism, sectarianism, homophobia or even dumb old Archie Bunker type xenophobia.
I once heard Pete Hamill ask: "What does the Pakistani taxi driver say to his children when he gets home after 12 hours behind the wheel?" I can't say for certain but I'll bet he echoes many of the sentiments of those Irish who gathered outside Old St. Patrick's Cathedral on Mulberry Street so many immigrant years and tears ago.
That's what I sense on St. Patrick's Day - an echo from a time when the Irish were despised outsiders. And that's why I go along with the raucous energy, the excitement and even the green beer, the plastic shamrocks and the ubiquitous leprechaun.
I didn't always feel that way. When I arrived from Ireland, these manifestations of Irish-America were at best embarrassing. Back home, our own celebrations were rigid and religious; we did sport actual sprigs of shamrock but there was no beer, green or otherwise. The Parade up Fifth Avenue and the ensuing bacchanal seemed downright pagan by comparison.
I had other immigrant battles of my own ahead. The band, Black 47, was formed to create music that would reflect the complexity of immigrant and contemporary Irish-American life and to banish When Irish Eyes Are Smiling off to a well earned rest in the depths of Galway Bay.
This idea met with not a little resistance in the north Bronx and the south sides of Boston and Chicago; but when irate patrons would yell out during a reggae/reel "why can't yez sing somethin' Irish?" I would return the compliment with, "I'm from Ireland, I wrote it! That makes it Irish!”
With time and familiarity, Irish-America came to accept Black 47, probably more for our insistence that each generation bears responsibility for solving the political problems in the North of Ireland, than for recasting Danny Boy as a formidable gay construction worker.
I, in turn, learned to appreciate the traditions of the community I had joined along with the reasons for the ritualized celebration of our patron saint.
And now on St. Patrick's Day, no matter what stage I'm on, mixed in with the swirl of guitars, horns, pipes and drums, I hear an old, but jarring, memory of a people rejoicing as they rose up from their knees.
Our battles, for the most part, have been won; indeed, one has to search an encyclopedia for mention of the Know-Nothing Party or various 19th Century nativist politicians and gangs of bullyboys. Anti-Irish sentiment, not to mention Anti-Catholicism, is a rarity.
Might it not be time then for our New York St. Patrick's Day Parade to celebrate all Irish people no matter what religion (or lack thereof), sexuality or political conviction?
It's a broad step, I know. But with a just peace finally taking seed in the North of Ireland, might we not some day witness Dr. Paisley, Mr. Adams and various members of the Irish Gay community walk arm in arm up Fifth Avenue.
Impossible? Perhaps, but I, for one, would have wagered heavily 15 years ago that Sinn Fein would never sit in a Northern Irish Parliament. Times change, as do tactics and even rigid principles.
Whatever about Parade pipe dreams, we still must honor the memory of those who paved the way for us. Part of that responsibility is that Irish-Americans should never forget the new immigrants from other lands, legal and undocumented.
Many, like our forebears, are fleeing poverty and are striving to feed and educate their families. It would be the ultimate irony if an Irish-American were to look down upon the least of them; for to my mind there is no place in the Irish soul for racism, sectarianism, homophobia or even dumb old Archie Bunker type xenophobia.
I once heard Pete Hamill ask: "What does the Pakistani taxi driver say to his children when he gets home after 12 hours behind the wheel?" I can't say for certain but I'll bet he echoes many of the sentiments of those Irish who gathered outside Old St. Patrick's Cathedral on Mulberry Street so many immigrant years and tears ago.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Nationalization
Nationalization! The dreaded “N” word is on all lips except the President’s. Has the former “most liberal member of the senate” been mesmerized by the soothing, soporific cadences of Gov. Bobby Jindal?
I think not. After all he has introduced a stimulus the like of which could raise FDR from the dead, while I hear that his health insurance plan has Speaker Pelosi hoisting her skirts and dancing the Tarantella. The only fly in the ointment is that he continues to treat a growing number of zombie banks as though his communion penny was deposited amongst them.
As long as the financial system of the country totters on a foundation of “toxic assets,” President Obama, Treasury Secretary Geithner and Lawrence Summers, can huff and puff ‘til the cows come home but they will not return the US to economic normality. Then again, as Bob Dylan once pointed out, “I don’t know what normal is anymore.” After the recent economic shellacking who does? Makes you almost long for good old Dubya voodoo economics when the war in Iraq was fought without costing the country a dime.
President Obama’s dithering is indeed puzzling. He seems to have so much else right. Spend your way out of the approaching deflation, break the stranglehold of petro-dictators, and provide a sane national health system so that when jobs eventually begin trickling back employers wont have to shoulder prohibitively expensive health insurance.
It’s staggering that the President still listens to his Treasury Secretary, the same gentleman who barely raised a whimper at the New York Fed during the worst Wall Street excesses. At least, Mr. Geithner appears to be banned from spouting anemic daytime prognostications for fear the Dow will keel over and slide into the Hudson.
As for Lawrence Summers - all I ever hear is just how smart he is. Well, he wasn’t so smart when he endorsed deregulation back during his own treasury reign; while his views on women’s aptitude for mathematics when President of Harvard were hardly those of a considered thinker. Even had he been correct in his Archie Bunker musings, he was either too arrogant or unaware to muzzle himself. Show me the home where a woman hasn’t the best handle on mathematics, practical or theoretical; and point out the lady who would allow banks to keep their tainted assets on the books at some fairytale price rather than at market value.
President Obama is throwing good money after bad into the black holes that are Citigroup, Bank of America and AIG. Better send in the shock troops now and find out if these institutions are, as suspected, basically insolvent. Short-term nationalization – or whatever genteel term you’d prefer - won’t be pretty but eventually a credible financial floor will be established, thereby encouraging the private sector to invest in and reclaim these failed banks again.
The real fear is that neither the vast sums needed nor the public’s goodwill will still be on tap unless the problem is faced immediately. Governor Jindal is already taking rehabilitation classes at the Sarah Palin School of Economics, and Newt Gingrich waits in the wings ready to resurrect the Reagan deregulatory revolution.
Try not to get sidetracked by all the hot air about clamping down on the bonuses of Wall Street executives. Those billions are mere drops in the bucket compared to the trillions that our masters of the universe have gambled – and lost - on securitized mortgages. We’ve had all the smokescreens and Band-Aid economics we can handle. How about a dose of reality for a change?
Anyway, enough doom and gloom! I for one am hedging my bets. I have applied for a shovel-ready stimulus grant and plan to start an all-ages retirement community up in E. Durham. We’ll do yoga in the morning, drink dollar beers in the Blackthorn all afternoon while watching the Mets sweep to the World Series. And, in a masterstroke of synergistic marketing, I have approached both Guinness and Viagra to donate a pint and a pill for each member’s nightcap. As the subway driver said, “they’ll never know what hit them!”
I will be accepting applicants at BB Kings on March 17th. All those who oppose nationalization will receive preference. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
I think not. After all he has introduced a stimulus the like of which could raise FDR from the dead, while I hear that his health insurance plan has Speaker Pelosi hoisting her skirts and dancing the Tarantella. The only fly in the ointment is that he continues to treat a growing number of zombie banks as though his communion penny was deposited amongst them.
As long as the financial system of the country totters on a foundation of “toxic assets,” President Obama, Treasury Secretary Geithner and Lawrence Summers, can huff and puff ‘til the cows come home but they will not return the US to economic normality. Then again, as Bob Dylan once pointed out, “I don’t know what normal is anymore.” After the recent economic shellacking who does? Makes you almost long for good old Dubya voodoo economics when the war in Iraq was fought without costing the country a dime.
President Obama’s dithering is indeed puzzling. He seems to have so much else right. Spend your way out of the approaching deflation, break the stranglehold of petro-dictators, and provide a sane national health system so that when jobs eventually begin trickling back employers wont have to shoulder prohibitively expensive health insurance.
It’s staggering that the President still listens to his Treasury Secretary, the same gentleman who barely raised a whimper at the New York Fed during the worst Wall Street excesses. At least, Mr. Geithner appears to be banned from spouting anemic daytime prognostications for fear the Dow will keel over and slide into the Hudson.
As for Lawrence Summers - all I ever hear is just how smart he is. Well, he wasn’t so smart when he endorsed deregulation back during his own treasury reign; while his views on women’s aptitude for mathematics when President of Harvard were hardly those of a considered thinker. Even had he been correct in his Archie Bunker musings, he was either too arrogant or unaware to muzzle himself. Show me the home where a woman hasn’t the best handle on mathematics, practical or theoretical; and point out the lady who would allow banks to keep their tainted assets on the books at some fairytale price rather than at market value.
President Obama is throwing good money after bad into the black holes that are Citigroup, Bank of America and AIG. Better send in the shock troops now and find out if these institutions are, as suspected, basically insolvent. Short-term nationalization – or whatever genteel term you’d prefer - won’t be pretty but eventually a credible financial floor will be established, thereby encouraging the private sector to invest in and reclaim these failed banks again.
The real fear is that neither the vast sums needed nor the public’s goodwill will still be on tap unless the problem is faced immediately. Governor Jindal is already taking rehabilitation classes at the Sarah Palin School of Economics, and Newt Gingrich waits in the wings ready to resurrect the Reagan deregulatory revolution.
Try not to get sidetracked by all the hot air about clamping down on the bonuses of Wall Street executives. Those billions are mere drops in the bucket compared to the trillions that our masters of the universe have gambled – and lost - on securitized mortgages. We’ve had all the smokescreens and Band-Aid economics we can handle. How about a dose of reality for a change?
Anyway, enough doom and gloom! I for one am hedging my bets. I have applied for a shovel-ready stimulus grant and plan to start an all-ages retirement community up in E. Durham. We’ll do yoga in the morning, drink dollar beers in the Blackthorn all afternoon while watching the Mets sweep to the World Series. And, in a masterstroke of synergistic marketing, I have approached both Guinness and Viagra to donate a pint and a pill for each member’s nightcap. As the subway driver said, “they’ll never know what hit them!”
I will be accepting applicants at BB Kings on March 17th. All those who oppose nationalization will receive preference. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
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