Behold “Park Avenue”
(above) and “Stampede” (below), two instrumental shakers recorded in 1959 by
The Scarlets, a group that would release only one 45 before morphing into
another group, or disbanding, or running riot. To be fair, it’s always possible
they power-walked or jogged riot. “Park Avenue” is the B-side, but we present
it first because we prefer it just a smidgen better than “Stampede.” We admit
that “Park Avenue” is brighter; “Stampede” is more malevolent. Still, we prefer
the B-side, slightly. And in case you haven’t noticed, we specialize in bands
like The Scarlets, who poked their heads out for just one recording session in
1959 — during that fertile Shakers
Era between the appearance of Elvis and the British Invasion of the Beatles
et. al.
After listening to “Stampede” we feel like walking the hot
summer streets at sundown just looking to heist — or hoist — an armored car. It
doesn’t matter, heist or hoist, we’re just fairly jacked up. With “Park Avenue”
on the other hand, we want to walk the hot summer streets at sundown and find
us some new sweetie pies. We want to tell them all sorts of tales about
ourselves — “we just heisted an armored car” — “we just hoisted
an armored car” — before whirling them about a dance floor to the strains of
that phat saxophone. O, we have torrid affairs with our new sweetie pies, and O,
our new sweetie pies have torrid affairs with us. (For couple of minutes,
anyhow. . . . . It’s all very innocent fwiw.)
As for you, Dear Readers, skip the heisting and hoisting and
go right for the new sweetie pies. We suppose you can keep your old sweetie pies
if you must. The key thing is to medicate yourselves (in moderation) and prepare
to jump (knee high?) when that phat sax arrives.
Discography and
Personnel: “Stampede” b/w “Park Avenue.” Dot Records 16004, Hollywood, Calif.
(1959). Also released on Prince Records PR 1207, Hollywood, Calif. (1959). Likely
personnel: Tony Lepard (drums); John Sanzone (guitar); Pete Antonio aka Pete
Antell (lead guitar); Bert Salmirs (piano); Howard Herman (saxophone); unknown
additional musicians may include a second saxophone and upright bass. Composition
credits: Wally Zober, Bert Salmirs, and Pete Antonio (“Stampede”); Wally Zober
and Bert Salmirs (“Park Avenue”). Earlier on, the band may have been known as Tony Leopard and
the Spots before changing to other names such as the Escorts and the Scarlets.
Antell, Salmirs, and Herman went on to have lengthy careers in music. Sanzone
seems to have been a Vietnam Veteran who served in the U.S. Navy. Not much is
known about Lepard and any of the other musicians who may have played on these
tracks.
Sources of
information: Discogs page for The
Scarlets Howard Herman website Pete Antell website AllMusic page for
Bert Salmirs’ composing credits Blogpost with some biographical information
on John Sanzone John Clemente. Girl Groups: Fabulous Females Who Rocked
the World. Author House, 2013 September 28, 1959 issue
of The Billboard
Behold “Weekday Ave.” I sometimes consider it to be the jewel
of Joy on Fire’s hard-charging (and mildly charting) 2022 album States
of America. Your humble blogger served as lyricist and vocalist for said
album, and as you might imagine, Dear Reader, I brought some poetry to the mix.
In this regard, you might detect echoes of Robert Hayden and Paul Celan. See
below for those details, as well as the full lyrics, but first let’s have a look
“under the hood” at the fabulous musicians who provide “Weekday Ave.” with its
formidable pulse.
Songwriter and guitarist / bassist John Paul Carillo directs
the highly textured musical expedition of “Weekday Ave.” — one that seamlessly
enters a variety of idioms. The song burns low-medium (or straight up the
middle) with some notable climbing action. While JPC may describe the overall
sound of Joy on Fire as “punk jazz,” this piece resists category. Ultimately, “Weekday
Ave.” offers a potent urban elegy, but not without the energetic stripe of
optimism that courses through the band’s catalogue.
Enter saxophonist Anna Meadors, who displays enviable
versatility throughout. She doubles the vocals, chants in opposition to the
vocals, and confers the sort of lyrical statement on saxophones (alto and bari)
that endows the song with most of its emotional content. (She also audio-engineered
the proceedings, including the addition of some synth keyboards.)
Drummer Chris Olsen delivers propulsive, off-kilter percussion,
which amply contradicts the typical enervated rhythms found, these days, on a
typical American weekday avenue.
The outro is sheer magic, and owes to John’s guitar
communicating with psychedelic themes as well as futuristic content. It should
be retroactively added to the sci-fi flick Blade Runner.
As for the lyrics, they are mostly original, but borrow from
two twentieth century poets.
If you know Robert Hayden’s masterpiece “Those Winter
Sundays,” then you might recall the phrase “weekday weather” as it applies to
the speaker’s father, whose hands cracked selflessly during manual labor in
just such climatology. From there, I arrived at “Weekday Ave.” — the typical
American thoroughfare capable only of generating “glassy condos,” “cute
t-shirts,” and symbolic outrage during a crisis. The enjoyable play between
“Weekday Ave.” and “weekday haven’t you” ensued straightaway.
I drew a little more from post-Holocaust European poet Paul
Celan, whose lines “Die Welt ist fort // ich muß dich tragen” (“The world
is lost // I must carry you”) ring outward from his 1967 collection, Atemwende,
or Breath-Turn. I invert and jumble these thoughts, with the singer (me)
requiring the burden of being carried. Much of everything returns to love, and
the inward turn we all take, when we lose someone. While Celan may have
intended his lines to read with centripetal gravity, the genius of his language
may reside in its elasticity — and universality.
As John’s outro proceeds, the concept of feeling
inwardness springs forth. I suppose there is a difference between inwardness
and feeling inwardness. The way there is a difference between “Weekday
Ave.” and “weekday haven’t you.” The way we might trip along, numbly, without forming
“a thinker’s word.”
The lyrics follow below. States of America
can be heard and purchased [here]. As
always, Dear Reader, we urge you to don sensible attire, alter your mindset
responsibly, and hardly resist when your body begins to move without any
inhibitions. Oi.
Weekday Ave.
Scream, a siren The scream alone “O” of outrage & secondhand time
[Chorus:] Weekday Ave. Or weekday haven’t you? Weekday Ave. Weekday Ave. Weekday Ave. Or weekday haven’t you?
Yeah! / Yeah!
Glassy condos & cute t-shirts Never require A thinker’s word
[Chorus]
Da-da da-da! // You must carry me Da-da da-da! // The world is lost Da-da da-da! // And if the world is lost Da-da da-da! // I feel inwardness!
[Da-da da-da! + Chorus]
I feel inwardness […]
personnel
John Paul Carillo: bass guitar, electric guitar, songwriting Anna Meadors: Vocals, alto sax, bari sax, sound engineering Chris Olsen: Drums, percussion Dan Gutstein: Lyrics, vocals
“Weekday Ave.” & States of
America appeared on Procrastination Records (2022).
Behold “When Hollywood Goes Black and Tan.” Recorded in 1935
by singer-pianist par excellence Cleo Brown, the piece swings in the
most nourishing ways. Our musicology team has been working overtime to present complete
lyrics (below) and, as ever, our critical acumen. Let’s examine the mechanisms
of a bright tune that will propel us into the air, jumping.
a proper overview
of the song
The opening riff circles energetically a few times before
the band enters and the song drives toward the vocals. Brown’s voice veers
between propulsive forcefulness and angelic flourishes. Meanwhile, she confers
a torrential workout upon the keyboard, with her notoriously powerful left hand.
As a listener, Dear Reader, you may feel “swung” — but can you imagine what the
piano must’ve gone through? It experienced dizzying sensations that few
uprights have ever encountered. We love how the call and response verifies the
bold vision (in 1935) of a Black and tan Hollywood.
roots in ellington?
The royal Duke Ellington may have partly
inspired this song. He first recorded his own composition “Black and Tan Fantasy”
in 1927 and then, a couple of years later, starred in the early talkie Black
and Tan. This short fictional film would introduce the magnificent actress
and dancer Fredi Washington in her big screen debut. Not simply a musical, Black
and Tan turns surprisingly elegiac at its conclusion, with the Ellington Orchestra
playing “Black and Tan Fantasy” in a dimly-lit apartment setting as the
character played by Washington passes away. Added to the National Film Registry
in 2015, Black and Tan offers a remarkable conduit for the Ellington
composition, which has since been inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame.
a bold vision
If Ellington’s composition began to foreshadow societal change,
the Brown recording situated this coming transformation in the “promised land”
of Hollywood, among the country’s elite performers. Composed by the brotherly songwriting
duo of Leon René and Otis René, “When Hollywood Goes Black and Tan” introduces
a host of burgeoning African American talents. Louis Armstrong, for instance, had already made his mark as a jazz trumpeter and singer.
Other names may not be quite as familiar: musician Bob Howard, actor Stepin
Fetchit, actress Nina Mae McKinney, and singer Ethel Waters. By comparing these
new Black stars to established white talents such as Fred Astaire and Ina
Claire, the pianist-singer Brown and her bandmates propound a very compelling Black
and tan reality. Notably, “The Mayor of Harlem” may refer to African
American dancer Bill “Bojangles” Robinson.
here’s good news and
it’s the newest
While a boxing match between champion James Braddock and
contender Joe Louis may have been “in the air,” the bout itself wouldn’t transpire until
1937, about two years after this song was recorded. In the end, Louis defeated
Braddock, capturing the lineal heavyweight title. In time, Louis would become
the first national African American hero, after he knocked out the German
fighter Max Schmeling on the eve of World War II. In celebrating the rise of Louis
and other stars, “When Hollywood Goes Black and Tan” doesn’t advocate the old dance
moves of “wing-and-buckin’” but insinuates that “Everybody will be truckin’”
instead. Yeah man!
the career of miss
brown
Born in 1909 in Mississippi, Cleo Brown moved as
a young teenager with her family to Chicago in the early 1920s. She learned stride
piano from her brother and, before long, began performing in Chicago speakeasies.
There, she met the likes of King Oliver and Louis Armstrong. Over the next
several years, she toured regionally with different groups and notably, in 1934,
performed at the same club (The Three Deuces) as jazz pianist Art Tatum. In
addition to Tatum, she met a who’s who in jazz circles while performing at The
Three Deuces. In 1935, Brown moved to New York, where she took over Fats Waller’s
radio show, signed a recording deal with Decca, and produced her first recordings.
Over the next 15 years, she toured all over the country before dropping out of show
business to become a nurse and a church musician. In the 1980s, pianist Marian
McPartland rediscovered Cleo Brown living in Denver and brought her to New York
to record a segment for McPartland’s show Piano Jazz that aired on NPR.
A short while later, the NEA awarded Cleo Brown a Jazz Masters Fellowship.
Based upon the NPR broadcast, just about anybody would note the graciousness
and kindliness of Miss Brown. She passed away in 1995.
complete lyrics
“When Hollywood Goes Black and Tan” Cleo Brown, 1935
Creole babies from Manhattan Will be leaving Harlem if they can Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) When Hollywood goes black and tan Louis Armstrong with his trumpet Will be heading westward with his band Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) When Hollywood goes black and tan Harlem crooners with a swing Will be singing at the studio Makes no difference if you can’t sing Just say, “Heedie-heedie-hidie-ho!” When they start to swing that rhythm I’ll be heading for that promised land Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) You won’t find them wing-and-buckin’ Everybody will be truckin’ It’s gonna be grand When Hollywood goes black and tan The mayor of Harlem says he’ll be there To give those boys a helpin’ hand Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) When Hollywood goes black and tan Old Bob Howard made a promise To latch onto that baby grand Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) When Hollywood goes black and tan Stepin Fetchit’s gonna sing and dance Like Fred Astaire Nina May don’t have to sing Cause she can be petite like Ina Claire Waters [is] gonna do a fan dance And shake those feathers off her fan Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) Yeah man! (Oh yeah, man!) Here’s good news and it’s the newest: Braddock’s going to meet Joe Louis It’s gonna be grand When Hollywood goes black and tan
discography Personnel: Cleo Brown (vocals, piano); Bobby Sherwood
(guitar); Manny Stein (string bass); Vic Berton (drums); backup vocals likely
by band. Recorded Nov. 20, 1935, in Los Angeles. “When Hollywood Goes Black and
Tan” released as Decca 632 and Brunswick 02123 B-side b/w “When” A-side. Lyrics
by Otis René and Leon René. [Interestingly enough, both songs on this release
share the same first word, even as they are very different songs. Most of all,
never underestimate the B-side!]
sources of
information —Whitney Balliett, American Singers: Twenty-Seven
Portraits in Song. University Press of Mississippi, Jackson, 2006. —Eugene Chadbourne, “Cleo Brown.” AllMusic Guide to the
Blues. Backbeat Books, San Francisco, 2003. —NEA Jazz Masters page for Cleo Brown. —NPR page
for Cleo Brown’s appearance on Piano Jazz. —Brian Rust, Jazz Records 1897-1942: Volume 1. Arlington
House, New Rochelle, NY, 1978. —Mary Unterbrink, Jazz Women at the Keyboard. McFarland,
Jefferson, NC, 1983. —Wikipedia page for “Black
and Tan Fantasy.” —Wikipedia page for Black
and Tan (film). —Wikipedia page
for Cleo Brown. —Wikipedia page for Leon René. —Wikipedia page for Otis René.
The Cuban composer
plays a version from his 1954 albumLecuona
Plays Lecuona. It
would be the (relative) calm before the shakers.
the king of 1947 cuban
pop Behold “Malagueña.” Cuban composer Ernesto Lecuona wrote the
piano piece no later than 1931, with reference to the Spanish town Málaga. In
1947, LIFE magazine crowned Lecuona the king of Cuba’s popular music,
and noted that “Malagueña” had been, by then, a hit in the United States for 16
years. (According to LIFE, Tin Pan Alley music publishing houses in New
York had sold 100,000 copies of the composition every year since 1931.)
Performances and / or recordings by Marco Rizo, Caterina
Valente, Violetta Villas, Connie Francis, and Stan Kenton — not to mention the
royal figure of Count Basie — would continue to popularize the song among audiences all over the world. But we digress. After all, we here at Blood
And Gutstein tend to specialize in a genre known as “Long Lost.” And the songs
we tend to put forward will rattle your speakers. Therefore, let’s take a look
at three examples of how rock ‘n’ roll transformed this Cuban composition into a banging shaker.
three rock ‘n’ roll extravaganzas
Ali Hassan aka Al Hazan. This song asserts itself immediately and jumps soon thereafter. With
piano just as percussive as the drums, and played to excess in the upper
register (we approve), the arrangement makes plenty of potent arguments,
including: — “Given the hubbub, why don’t we engage in romance?” — “Yes, let’s.” — “Well, all reet then. Shall we remove our garments?” — “We shall.” Not to be outdone, the guitar really wails. Thus, we have
some percussive keys, phat drums (the train is coming), and blistering
guitar. We have people ripping each other’s duds off, no less! Session information: Ali Hassan (Al Hazan) producer piano; Sharky Hall (drums); Ray Pohlman (guitar); and Carol Kaye (fender bass). A-side “Malagueña” b/w B-side “Chopsticks.” Philles 103, Los Angeles, 1962. Compositional credit: Ernesto Lecuona. A-side “Malagueña” b/w B-side “Chopsticks.” Philles
103, Los Angeles, 1962. [Notably, the Philles label was founded by none other
than the notorious Phil Spector and one Lester Sill. Also notably, Al Hazan
played piano on the UK number one hit “Nut Rocker” by B. Bumble and the
Stingers.]
The Wildtones. Little is known about this group, which may
have cut only two songs under that name. On the one hand, “King Cobra” may be a
bit deceptive, as the classic “Malagueña” riff runs nearly throughout the entire
song (on guitar), and offers the other musicians a sturdy, hypnotic ladder upon
which they can howl into or batter their instruments. On the other hand, “King
Cobra” is probably an apt summary for the mayhem that ensues, especially the
venomous saxophone. Or, “blistering,” if you will, and you will. Call the
drumming “surfy,” call the horn “borderline avant,” call the guitar “twangy”
(or Duane Eddy-esque) and then you’ll have some estimation of this eclectic
cacophony! Session information: The Wildtones. Musicians unknown.
A-side “King Cobra” b/w B-side “Mendelssohn Rock.” Tee Gee 105, New York, 1958.
Writing credited to “Ford” and “Newman.” [Notably, Tee Gee records was owned by
George Goldner, a pioneer record producer who recorded, interestingly enough,
the song “Gee” by The Crows, which became a hit on both the R&B and pop
charts.]
The Trashmen / Los Trashmen. These Midwest rockers present a
clear-cut surf treatment of the song. It reverberates heavily with ghost waves (we approve) and behaves suspensefully before the lead guitarist slashes into
the proceedings. As a “building” or “climbing” or “burrowing” song, we find the
musicians drifting into and out of numerous effervescent idioms. The
“smoothest” cover of the three rock ‘n’ roll versions, don’t underestimate this
song’s edgy properties and virtuosic musicianship. It propels the surfer, after
all, through the barrel of a breaker! Session information: The Trashmen. Likely personnel: Troy
Andreason (guitar), Dal Winslow (guitar), Robert Reed (bass), Steve Wahrer
(drums). The song was recorded in 1963 or early 1964, and would be released in
LP, EP, and 7-inch formats in the U.S. and abroad. For the original LP release,
see Surfin’ Bird, Garrett Records, January 1964. Otherwise, we have Los
Trashmen, Gamma 578 A-side “Malagueña Surf” b/w B-side “Mi Cuate” (Mexico, 1965). [Speaking of the
band’s flagship song, “Surfin’ Bird,” it rose to No. 4 in the charts in 1963-64,
and would go on to be covered by several bands, including the Ramones and the
Cramps, and appear in film, television, video games, and other extravaganzas.]
the upshot Rock musicians have always repurposed songs from other eras and genres. This continued, for sure, with “Malagueña.” These bands rocked all of our pronouns: we, us, me, I, and you. Now that you’ve been rocked, Dear Reader, it’s up to you how
to proceed. We always suggest moderation here at Blood And Gutstein. Thus, you
could jump, there, all by yourself, if you need an aerobic workout. You could
surf if your abode abuts (!) saltwater climes. Or you could telephone your
sweetie pie and propose romance. We have found that mere mention of the song
title — “Malagueña” — tends to propose romance. Yes, you can text, ping, and
DM, if you must, and if you must, just propose romance responsibly and (always)
bear the gift of music, wink wink.
sources of
information: Billboardadvertisement
(for Surfin’ Bird) January 11, 1964 Black Cat Netherlands page for Al Hazan Discogs entry
for “King Cobra” by The Wildtones Discogs entry
for Lecuona Plays Lecuona, 1954-55 Discogs entry
for “Malagueña” by Ali Hassan / Al Hazan Discogs entry
for “Malagueña Surf” by The Trashmen LIFEarticle
on Cuban music Oct. 6, 1947 Wikipedia entry for George
Goldner Wikipedia entry for “Malagueña” Wikipedia entry for Surfin’
Bird (album) Wikipedia entry for “Surfin’
Bird” (song)
Behold the music video for “In Speaking Like Thunder.” It completely
eradicates the distance between Jazzpunk and Horror, leaving us stranded in a world
that crosses rural sectarianism with discordant Middle Ages topographies. With
music by Joy on Fire, lyrics and vocals by your humble blogger, and video by
Daphne Bacon and Cody Snyder, “In Speaking Like Thunder” will have you reaching
for a talisman and a baggie of shrooms alike.
The main character and his fellow townsfolk attempt to
confront a series of omens in the form of moonlit disturbances, grisly discoveries
in the woods, puzzling iconography, and dizzying isolations. A proliferation of
period weapons — scythe, axe, pitchfork — accompany the period garb of a
transcendent era. Viewers will hardly doubt the extensive lubrication proffered
by meads, wines, and grogs; surely, there must be some greenery in that phat
pipe!
After a torch-wielding posse melts away, the main character confronts
a bipedal forest beast who has fostered all the mayhem. The man bows down
before the beast. He embraces the beast. The two even dance together. Then, the
clouds part and the full moon confers some sobriety on what will surely be a gruesome
conclusion. The lines “At night / I am the night” may apply to the powerful
beast, or they may apply broadly to the moon-force, or the presence that speaks
“like thunder.”
The music veers between an up-register drone and crunching
narrative; between free jazz outrage and gnawing synthesis. Indeed, all these
sounds congeal at once as the instruments stretch toward the denouement of the
final, mad dance. As for the lyrics, this is the second time I wrote a song in French,
before bringing it over to English. (Also see “Unknown City.”) My French is
hardly perfect, but in the translation, cometh the jaggedness.
The lyrics in both languages follow below. May they inspire
new thoughts and images. May you play the song loud, pour yourself something mildly
intoxicating, and jump around in the usual manner. Oi.
In Speaking Like Thunder
In speaking The thunder In speaking Like thunder In speaking The thunder In speaking Like thunder
My word As crazy as My word As crazy as the mouth My word as crazy as The mouth of God My word as crazy as The Mouth of God
At night I am the night At night I am the night At night I am the night At night I am the night
At night In speaking I am the night Like thunder At night In speaking I am the night Like thunder
En Parlant Comme le Tonnere
En parlant Le tonnere En parlant Comme le tonnere En parlant Le tonnere En parlant Comme le tonnere
Ma parole Aussi fou que Ma parole Aussi fou que la bouche Ma parole aussi fou que La
bouche de dieu Ma parole aussi fou que La
bouche de dieu
A nuit Je suis la nuit A nuit Je suis la nuit A nuit Je suis la nuit A nuit Je suis la nuit
A nuit En parlant Je suis la nuit Comme le tonnere A nuit En parlant Je suis la nuit Comme le tonnere
Up the alley of “a folk singer unlike anyone else you’ve ever
heard before” we arrive (inevitably) at the complicated, complex figure of
Karen Dalton. Virtually all her singing can pierce you, yet her most
distinctive work, the traditional folk song “Katie Cruel,” will carve deep into
your being. If you’re brave enough to give a damn, the tune will absolutely shatter
your invulnerability. No small part of that reaction will owe to the song’s elusive,
riddling chorus. Ascertaining its meaning may resemble the impossible feat of
trying to catch echoes with your hands, yet may be crucial to comprehending the
entireties of Dalton’s tragic demise.
an all-too-brief
bio After leaving Oklahoma in the early 1960s, the part-Cherokee, part-Irish Dalton
became a fixture in the Greenwich Village folk scene. Bob Dylan famously
referred to her as his favorite singer. Perhaps the most nourishing thing about
Karen Dalton’s career is that she cut a reluctant pose when it came to “success”
— unwilling or unable to clamber aboard the “ladder of fame.” Handfuls of
tragedies (such as heartbreaking stories involving her two estranged children)
contrast with the irresistible virtuosity of her music, though ultimately, she
drifted into obscurity. Dalton passed away in 1993 near Woodstock, New York. A
heroin addict, she had likely acquired AIDS through sharing needles. Some of
her recordings and live performances from the 1960s and 1970s have been
reissued, underscoring their persistent vitality. Over the last several years,
at least three documentaries (film and audio) have accompanied a resurgence of
interest in her music.
more on “katie
cruel” The traditional American folk song “Katie Cruel” (sometimes titled
“Katy Cruel”) may date back to the eighteenth century. A 1939 work, Folk
Songs of Old New England, as presented by folklorist Eloise Hubbard
Linscott, situates the tune among the region’s historical “ballads, folk songs,
and ditties.” Linscott further describes “Katie Cruel” as a marching song favored
during the Revolutionary War. She offers notated music alongside an array
of lyrics.
Dalton recorded the song at least five or six times, often accompanying
herself on banjo. In some of these versions, she whistles. The most famous
rendition of “Katie Cruel,” however, pairs Dalton’s vocals and banjo with the violin
of Bobby Notkoff. This recording, captured on the 1971 album In My Own Time,
ought to puncture the thickest, most world-weary veneers. Where Dalton may have
whistled on solo renditions, Notkoff instead enters on violin, just bursting with
reverence for the song’s elegiac carpentry. It could be argued that both he and
Dalton understood the song equitably.
A few critics have approached Dalton’s
performances of the song. One writer, Rick Moody, correctly characterized
“Katie Cruel” as Dalton’s “signature tune,” yet misapprehended Notkoff’s role
in the song. He deems the effort “an intrusive fiddle.” Another writer, Barney Hoskyns, offers a welcome
improvement. In designating Dalton’s recording of “Katie Cruel” as being both
“darkly chilling” and “terrifying[ly] beautiful,” Hoskyns acknowledges the
accompaniment of Notkoff’s “spooky electric violin.” And by “electric” he may suggest
“plugged in,” or reminiscent of high voltage, or both.
dalton’s lyrics Here are Dalton’s lyrics for your consideration as you
absorb the song. We suggest you especially meditate on the two iterations of
the chorus.
When I first came to town They called me the roving jewel Now they’ve changed their tune (And) call me Katie Cruel
Through the woods I am going Through the boggy mire (And) straightway down the road Till I come to my heart’s desire
[Chorus] If I was where I would be Then I’d be where I am not Here I am where I must be Where I would be, I cannot
When I first came to town They bought me drinks aplenty Now they’ve changed their tune (And) hand me the bottles empty
[Chorus] If I was where I would be Then I’d be where I am not Here I am where I must be Where I would be, I cannot
At first appearing in town as an attractive
drifter, namely, “the roving jewel,” the speaker subsequently traverses the
woods and bogs as an outsider. No longer receiving free “drinks aplenty” at the
tavern, the speaker has been callously nicknamed “Katie Cruel.” In an equally damaging
turnabout, she is the recipient of empty bottles, a gutting twist of mockery. “Katie
Cruel” traffics in both estrangement and the tides of isolation. The potent
mystery of the song revolves around whatever led to the “changed tune” of the
townspeople. What had the speaker done, to deserve the withdrawal of their kindliness?
She’s not being stoned to death, as in Shirley Jackson’s famous short story,
“The Lottery,” but she is being shunned to death.
and the chorus? The oppositional values of the lyrics may correlate with Dalton’s
own clashing presences. She was Dylan’s favorite singer, on the one hand, yet
didn’t succeed as a popular musician. As “the roving jewel,” Dalton arrived in Greenwich
Village and became a fixture during the American folk revival, but years later,
by then largely forgotten by her community, she grappled with the vagaries of
addiction and terminal illness. Her physical appearance, though marred by
missing teeth, was undeniably beautiful. Dalton therefore resembles the character
she sings about, in “Katie Cruel.” That she listed too deeply into the fictional
world of the song and began to resemble (or embrace) its outcome, cannot be
conclusively thrown aside. The lyrics are mournful without specifically
mentioning death, yet the tune obviously conjures the acids of loss through the
devastating grief of the music.
Dalton, of course, did not invent “Katie Cruel.” She adapted
the lyrics from the tune’s traditional form. It may be helpful to compare the
1939 anthologized chorus (from New England) with the chorus that Dalton frequently
recorded, as there are minor differences:
Oh, that I was where I would be Then should I be where I am not Here I am where I must be Where I would be, I cannot —Linscott, 1939
If I was where I would be Then I’d be where I am not Here I am where I must be Where I would be, I cannot —Dalton, 1971 (among other times)
The most important word in both renditions — given its
repetition — might be the indistinct locator, “where.” The speaker,
accordingly, searches for footing. “If I was where I would be” relies heavily
upon the conditional word, “would.” It imagines an impossible alternative journey, or era, and in doing so, confers a gloomy sense of irony on the ensuing line:
“Then I’d be where I am not.” Dalton alleges a certain inescapability when she
sings “Here I am where I must be,” that is, in the world of being dubbed Katie
Cruel and trudging the desolate landscape as an outcast. “Where I would be, I
cannot” trails off, cementing the singer’s demise. Since Dalton “cannot” situate
herself in the place “where [she] would be,” the listener, of a sudden, apprehends
the doom, the blow the singer cannot overcome.
coda “Katie Cruel” drifted towards Karen Dalton
perhaps from the distant days of the Revolutionary War. She embraced the tune
and made it the “jewel” of her repertoire. She may have even resembled the
“roving jewel” she sang about, enduring multiple tragedies akin to those
revealed in the lyrics. The chorus itself doesn’t merely reinforce these
tragedies, but deals in multiple presences. It may conjure the way Dalton’s
song hovers about us now, preparing each of us for that solitary “going,” the
way we would be and the way we must be, as the late-day sunshine
glances off our fingertips and the love, like a fierce echo, escapes our
grasp.
sources of
information: BBC audio documentarySweet Mother KD (2016). The Guardianarticle
on the 2021 Karen Dalton documentary film. Barney Hoskyns. Small Town Talk. Da Capo Press, 2016. Eloise Hubbard Linscott. Folk Songs of Old New England.
The MacMillan Co., 1939. “Rick Moody on Karen Dalton.” icon. Amy Scholder,
editor. Feminist Press, 2014. Washington Postarticle
on Dalton’s mysterious life (and 2021 documentary). Wikipedia page for Karen Dalton.
Discographic information for “Katie Cruel.” Karen Dalton, In
My Own Time, fourth track. Traditional lyrics, arranged by Karen Dalton.
Recorded in New York, 1970-1971. Released 1971 on Paramount Records. Dalton:
banjo, vocals; Bobby Notkoff: violin. Dalton
recorded other versions of the song at other times and performed it often
during live appearances.
This manifesto begins
with love. For my mentor and close friend, Faye Moskowitz, who passed away in February.
A love that can no longer be expressed, directly, to the person whom I love.
Faye changed my life, through hundreds of interactions. Teaching, listening,
sharing, crying, singing, even smoking weed once, yep. What does one do with grief that keeps
ringing outward? Understandably, loss can turn to outrage, given the subtractions
we must endure.
I listen to “In My
Head” quite often. I’m jealous of the group, Gilla Band (or “Girl Band”), who hail
from Dublin. This song is emblematic of the music I’d like to make: short,
powerful, and aggressive. It’s the group’s first single, from 10 years ago.
When the vocalist, Dara Kiely, screams toward the end—well, that’s how I feel,
about losing Faye. You transport your feelings to a song and make them fit.
I did something similar on a piece, “Uh Huh,” I recorded
with Joy on Fire, the band I collaborated with to produce States of America,
an album which we released in June. In the middle of the tune, when our saxophonist
Anna Meadors (above, left) tears the building down, I do some shouting. But it’s not like
Kiely in Gilla Band. I think he means it a bit more. And it’s something,
frankly, I need to work on.
I listen to John Coltrane’s composition “Equinox” (recorded in
1960) every day. He’s more famous for other compositions but I keep returning
to this blues because of the gravity established by the pianist, McCoy Tyner, and
Coltrane, too, when he enters the song on tenor sax. Of course, Coltrane’s notes
become brighter, the brightness of grief, because he was a cerebral and sweet individual,
I would imagine. Don’t take my word for it, though. Go listen to “In a Sentimental
Way” released in 1963 by Trane and Duke Ellington.
You could look upon the1963 Ellington & Coltrane album
as a “super-group” effort. I do. Together with my friend, Emily Cohen, I’m assembling a “super-group”
to help tell the story of the folk song “Liza Jane.” (Above: find a conceptual
trailer featuring harmonica player Phil Wiggins.) It’s not public yet, the
super-group, so I can’t reveal the identities of the musicians, but they’re amazing.
We’re going to film them, extensively, in performance, in 2023. The group is
older and younger, men and women, Black and white, folk and blues and rock, banjo
and fiddle and violin and slide guitar and quills . . . .
2023 will also see
the release of POOR GAL: The Cultural History of Little Liza Jane,
forthcoming from University Press of Mississippi. I wrote the book during a
torrid six months, while the pandemic raged. Above, I say “the folk song ‘Liza
Jane’” but it’s a family of songs, an extremely unruly lot at that. This book’s
the hardest thing I’ve ever written, and undoubtedly, flawed. But I mean it,
the writing. Just as much as Kiely means his yelling in Gilla Band. The story
of this family of songs, well, is bigger than me. And that’s part of the
supermanifesto. Writing is not about “me.” Rather, it’s bigger than “me.”
I did okay as a writer in 2022. A book of poems, Metacarpalism,
appeared from Unsolicited Press, out yonder in Portland, Ore. The Washington,
D.C. press Primary Writing Books produced my prose-and-photography collection, The
Fox Who Loves Me. Grantmakers, literally, kept me afloat: the Maryland
State Arts Council and the Arts & Humanities Council of Montgomery County
(Md.) I am indebted to the kindness and professionalism of these presses and organizations.
A few weeks ago, my close friend Doug Lang (above) passed away. Doug
was a poet, and a teacher, who inspired people with his writing, Welsh wit, and
comprehensive knowledge of American culture. We grew especially close after his
childhood football team, Swansea City, climbed into the Premier League for a
few years. A group of us became hooligans upon this development, often getting
tight off stout at 10 am in pubs, and listing out into the sunshine, to crow
about our worldview. Doug enjoyed this “bloke” activity quite a bit, and now,
once more, there’s love that can no longer be expressed, directly, to the
person whom I love.
I will always be Swansea, “O City Said I.”
One of the Swansea City hooligans (Casey) turned me on to Gilla
Band and another (Rod) turned me on to Dry Cleaning, a group from London. I’m a
bit obsessed with “Magic of Meghan” and with the singer, Florence Shaw. She
projects so much tragedy at the microphone, and of course, the lyrics are often
spoken, which is what I tried to do with Joy on Fire. She has amazing timing,
and often delivers scathing satire. The “whoops” (all three of them) are quite nourishing.
I was once at a reading facilitated by the English
department where Faye and I taught. Since students were there, it was a “dry” event,
but I’d bootlegged-in a bitteen of the spirits, and, having extensive knowledge
of the domicile, I snuck through some secret passageways and doorways, where I
would situate myself in a private enclave, where I could partake of a “nip.” Privately,
or so I thought, because once I stepped-through into the ostensible safety of the
enclave, there was Faye, smoking a joint(!)
At a party once (but not the one depicted above.) Doug with
an “ass pocket of whiskey.” I have to put it like this: an “English aristocratic
sort” had insisted that Doug’s hometown of Swansea had not been bombarded during World War II. Doug retorted that he’d lived through said bombardments as a very
young boy. (Wikipedia, et cetera, confirms Doug’s account.) Anyhow, this “English
aristocratic sort” had attended the event with his trousers rolled very high,
and Doug made sure that the fellow understood the folly of the trouser-rolling,
as we were on the second floor, in a city that wasn’t bracing for a flood. It
wasn’t even raining.
When your best friend from the animal kingdom emerges from
the mist. The scoundrel. The trickster. The beautiful vixen. She knows she’s a good-looking
fox because I tell her as much every time I jog with her after sunset.
It wouldn’t be a true “Blood And Gutstein” without an old
R&B number that will rattle your windowpanes. Behold: “Big Bo’s Iron Horse”
from 1962. This has been a longish, searching, raking post, one that expressed despair,
and yet, there is much vitality ahead of us, in 2023 and beyond. Let us jump.
Let us flounce. It’s hard to know where the manifesto leaves off, and where the
supermanifesto begins. Where our hands touch, and where we embrace. Most of all,
let us acknowledge the love that’s still around us. Even in sorrow, the love we
feel for those we’ve lost will inform the very next love we develop with a new
soul, and if that soul is you, my friend, then I want you to know how much I love
you, and maybe, in some small way, you can see just where I’m coming from.
discographic
information for “Big Bo’s Iron Horse”
Big Bo and the Arrows. Willie “Big Bo” Thomas, Jr. (tenor sax).
Other musicians, potentially including organ, bass, drums, guitar, horns: unknown.
Gay-Shel Records, 1962, Dallas, Tex. “Big Bo’s Iron Horse” 701A b/w “Hully Gully”
701B.
