Nelson and Rollie came from hard, harsh mill-towns along the Gatineau across the Ottawa River. They grew up with sulphur from paper mills and the exhaust from small manufacturing factories. One of these factories made plastics, including bags for supermarkets, umbrella handles and hardhats. As the season wore on there was little rain to be seen and with the hours long, a sense of camaraderie sustained us through the dust and oil and heat of pain. Then the long weekend leading up to Canadian Thanksgiving approached. So here we were, getting closer to a three-day rest and spanking true that morning, Rollie gets up on top of his machine and hollers — Rayhain tuddaye?! There were a few clouds in the northwest sky. His question held some promise, and if his prediction came true we would all have ourselves a four-day weekend.
Now, semiotics, the study of signs and significance of language and lexicography, is not something that you have dialogue about on a construction crew but as some thunder rolled in the approaching clouds, Rollie says: “Me Rollie, roll ‘um thunder” in a Native rain dance cadence. I yelled up over the machine: “Rollie — is it going rain today?” And he started to stomp one foot down on top of the roller: “Rayhain tuddaye! Rayhain! Rayhain! Ray-hain!” In short order the clouds opened. He laughed and howled and we were informed that we would be packing up and heading home.
In his enthusiasm Rollie started the roller and moved it along the edge of the highway we had been working on. These highways often have fairly deep ditches and if you get too close to the edge you can go over. Rollie kept up his stomp and dance as he stood above his levers and grinned and yelped at the sky. His roller moved too close to the edge in his inattentiveness and over he went tumbling in the same direction as the fifteen ton Buffalo Springfield roller. We stood in shock as we saw the roller tumble and Rollie disappear under it.
Nelson flew to the site: “Rollie? Rollie?! Ya okaye?” The other men ran to the tumbled machine. The foreman cursed and told all of us to stand back and sent someone to his crew truck to call in the accident. Within minutes Rollie jumps up all smiles and yells: “RAY-HAIN TUDDAYE! Rayhain! Rayhain!” His fortune was that, when the roller tumbled, he fell into a small dip in the ditch which protected his body as the roller went over him. Missing him completely. The older men scolded him for his carelessness. In a language he had no way of understanding they told him he was a fool and idiot but he picked up the vibe and raised his left arm as he stood in the ditch and brought his right hand down quickly over his left bicep: “No speeka da Hingleesh! No spinache! Va Funnycoolio! Yahoo!”
So began my deeper study of plastics and asphalt as, with the end of the long weekend, I gave thanks and left the asphalt trade to continue my studies. Barthes would have loved it. He would have loved Rollie. Maybe not lunched with him and Nelson and his cold hot dogs but he might have said something akin to: Semiotics eese sumtimes da wey teengs eese!
Here’s to you Rollie, the roller and Roland Barthes and Les Chanson de Roland.
PS: Too much synchronicity can ruin your day. Not enough of it can make it hard work.
SONGS FOR THINKIN’ ABOUT
Woody Guthrie. The above title is attributed to the Jeffersonian wit of Woody’s son, Arlo in a retrospective on Guthrie and Huddie Ledbetter (Leadbelly). “Songs for thinkin’ about.” Thinking about what? Thinking about girls? Thinking about death? Thinking about money and going to see the dentist when it cost too much? Thinking about movies? Thinking about the Bible? Allah? Christ? Buddha? Drive-in horror movies? Dichotomies and nuances in the translations of languages and dialects? Banana splits?
Though Guthrie senior may have enjoyed some of the above in his travelling, his focus on the marginalized and poor folk of the American Dust Bowl, and the politics that did little to get them out of their jam, has lived on through the music and words of Bobby Z, John Mellencamp, Bruce Springsteen, and a slew of other protest voices whose work started in the good old USA and found export for itself around the globe.
A good friend recently asked me: “Where is the Woody Guthrie that is going to write the songs about the growing starvation and food shortages already in the world, especially in under-developed countries?” I point to “USA for Africa” and “Live Aid” propelled by Michael Jackson and Boomtown Rats frontman Bob Geldof in the 1980s. My friend says: “Yeah, but that was thirty years ago and it’s getting worse. Geldof got a knighthood and Jackson’s dead. What do you think John Lennon would be doing if he was still alive?” I answer that I think Lennon might be involved. But that’s based on hindsight. I say more likely that he would not be prancing around the stage like Mick Jagger.
Yet beyond the tragedy of losing Lennon, the world is compressing at a rapid rate. Food shortages are real and even effecting areas of the globe known for high sustaining productivity. These questions my friend can’t answer straight up. He can suggest what might be done or prepare in some manner for what he fears but the effects of his care are mostly conversational. I personally don’t believe hordes will come and eat beavers and all the deer in the forest. I do believe aid will continue to flow into countries more in need. I suspect that, if a drought came and water level drops occur in middle Canada, it will remain verdant unless there is a great war that nukes all possibilities of survival. I think people like to be altruistic. Like to feel they are doing good. A lot of people do this without announcing it or making it a religion of sorts. I think of the songs of Guthrie and ask my friend why he needs any others? Aren’t the many already written, recorded and available to all enough to have the point made?
His answer is that this must be a constant reminder. That just because we have a history of dustbowls and droughts it isn’t just history. It can happen again. I agree that that is likely true. He wants me to change my opinion about his farm being raided though. He would still be displeased even if I did change my opinion and concur. I suspect there would be surprise if I changed my actions and recognized the little details that make up my life and injure the environment and ecology. I don’t drive a car. He has two. He says it’s a necessary evil. How else to get the food around and farm the farm without machinery? I smoke. Didn’t for a number of years but started again. Not to annoy him. Not to annoy anyone. I ride a bike. I help out on the farm.
I understand Woody and Arlo and all the others that came and will come after them. I think here of my parents’ existence in agrarian Southern Italy. More akin to how my farm friend seems to want to live. They suffered and persevered. He’s transplanted to his farm from urbanity. I think my pal would like them. Maybe more than he likes my attitude and ways. They might have been able to teach each other something. Don’t remember much philanthropic instinct in my folks. My mother had no issue with feeding hungry beggars who came to our later North American door. But she didn’t preach it like an emergency — she just cooked enough to store for winter and go around. My farm pal is slightly impressed with this. He says I come from good blood but regardless of how well I can write a song, that I have a long way to go. That’s rarely a motivator. I let his condescension and patronizing language pass over my head like a tired wind. I have a garden.
The philanthropy of western celebrities has been effective in bringing attention to the issues of political corruption and starvation et al but where is the song, the songwriter, the artist that can change the direction, pointing to future and imminent disaster? My friend believes that when the food runs out in the cities, if a disaster of huge proportions hits, the city dwellers will be running to his fields for food and sustenance. I wonder how true this scenario would be and imagine it for a moment. What would my friend do? Would he run for the hills at the millions approaching? Would he say: “Well, me and Annie, we had a good run of it for twenty-five years and now it’s time to share”? Would he preserve what he has created and give it up with grace until his end? Would he alert all his farming community friends and stand up with rifles in some bizarre Alamo moment?
The answer to what he would do, what I would do, how it would all play out is very different
in speculative conversation than what it might really look like. That’s the catch. You can talk about it all you want but what would you do? Help ‘til you drop or fight ‘til you die? How to prepare for the incursion?
My friend doesn’t really have any answer to that yet I get the sense that at least his friends and family would be taken care of for as long as possible. He sees it as the responsibility of good government to encourage good citizenry but what if the world is just drying up and all the aid in the world won’t help the scenario. There are other friends who think that Americans are draining out Canadian lakes. I am not sure how this is done but I do notice water levels change though that might be a rainwater or ecological phenomenon. I am aware of the history of the Los Angeles Aqueduct and how it drained orchard waters to give heft and greater world commerce to what was once the town of San Gabriel.
Could this happen in Ontario, Canada? A drainage of water flow and the catastrophe of food shortages? My friend seems to think it is not far off. His mind has turned very environmental. But does that change things in the larger scheme? Will he even be around regardless of what he does for the posterity of those left after he goes and anything in him that is altruistic enough to leave his land and goods to hordes of the hungry or thirsty rising up from the cities?
If I had more money, I would have more land and grow food for all. I’m not too sure I would have to tell the world about it though. That said, I dig writing a good song that speaks the truth and wants change for the better. Here’s to you good friend, to Woody, Bobby Z and all.
Pedro
Pedro, he had himself one last canteen.
There were holes in his shoes and holes in his jeans.
He came to town hungry and angry it seems
but he knew of a farm where they fed all who came
and danced in the fields and danced in the rain
with no fear of famine and slaughter . . .
(to be continued . . .)
WHO IS WHO? WINSTON CHURCHILL AND QUANTUM PHYSICS
Small town Ontario. Late fall. Almost Christmas and you can hear the short breath of the wind in this small town. You and your date go into a cafe. Or so it seems. Once inside, you realize it’s a dimly lit British pub.
On a stool sits a statue of Winston Churchill. No, wait! It isn’t a statue of Winston Churchill; it’s a woman who looks like Winston Churchill. Or maybe his sister. But not his dog. Definitely not his dog. You want to move a table so you can cozy up close to a fireplace that’s burning warmly and pleasantly. “Can I move the table?” you ask the Winston-Churchill-sister lookalike. “No doll,” she replies. You throw a smile around the place which has nothing much to smile at except that you’re with an easy-going date and you love British flags. They remind you of The Who.
You were hoping to find a fireplace for you and your date to cozy up to and here it is. But you can’t get close enough to it unless you were to do a protest sit-in and wait by the fireplace for the local constabulary to evict you. All you want really is to make the most of the time you have and you’ve come a long way from the city. Ah, the city — where bar owners let you move a table for the most part unless you plan on taking it outside and throwing it in the back of your car or truck.
Oh well. You go to Plan B: a table where you and your date can both look at the fireplace. You order a coffee and fish and chips. How could that not work in this British flag pub? You wonder what Pete Townshend or Keith Moon would do as you look at the table you were hoping to move. You think: “Yeah, they would maybe smash up the place!” — like auto-destructive art and Gibson guitars and drumkits, leaving it to Roger Daltrey to charm the place. Instead, as your stomach grumbles, you ingest a pale version of fish and chips and coleslaw that is more like coleslew. Your date, brave and good-hearted, tucks into her order of lasagna. Terrifically risky in the said environment.
The two of you are being stared at. But you laugh and your date laughs. You think you’d make a good statue. Or maybe this place is really a taxidermist’s shop and everything you see is made from the parts of previous customers. And maybe, just maybe the food is too?! — You think about the name of this town — Gram Williams. Who was he? Did he dine here? Is this his Churchill-resembling aunt? You think of the bad old Nazis bombing the Londoners into marmite sandwiches during WW2. But then you think of what the Brits did to Dresden and Chamberlain’s acquiescence to Hitleroo and his nasties.
All the while the day is getting darker. Traffic starts to load up the highways home. Where has everyone else been on this cozy late November day? Where are they all going? The red taillights go one way and the headlights go the other. It’s getting to look a lot like Christmas. “Maybe she’s like Eleanor Rigby,” you consider, reflecting yet again on the bar owner. She will live long but really is dying as she is living. Something happened here?! You recall seeing Hitchcock’s Psycho the day before. And you think: “Of course, that woman — ha — if I had decided to protest and fall asleep on the floor, she might have asked me to milk the cows in the morning, then taxidermied me in the still of night!”
In quantum physics, they say, things change just by looking at them. You see Roger Daltrey sweeping up the bar in the morning. He then sits on a bar stool and waits for the next customer to walk through the door . . . “Hello doll . . .” You’re a statue of an old woman who looks like Winston Churchill’s sister. Your date is now a fireplace. She concurs and goes from purr to roar. Outside Keith Moon is heading towards the door, howling and dragging in a haggard-looking Pete Townshend by the arm. You won’t get fooled again!
PICKLES AND NASHVILLE
Ah — Bulgarian Cowgirls! Long-legged with big warm eyes. Thus comes a correspondence from country music capital Nashville, TN, with photographs of a certain Olga on my shared music web-site. This site is designed to give opportunity to artists to project their work into social media. Connect artists with each other and allow for the placement of an artist’s songs and biography, including upcoming performances and blogs — and a bank should any viewer want to purchase one of your compositions.
From the photos, this woman looks like she is real country. Tight jeans, straw cowboy hat curled at the rim and an acoustic six-string guitar flailed over her back as she walks a railroad track looking back at you with her head turned slightly over her shoulder. Lips just a little parted as if singing a tune or saying a soft “Hi.”
Wow! Nashville! That’s an important town in the scheme of songwriting and music production. You know many local artists in your own hometown but now someone from Nashville wants to let you know how good you are. This correspondence excites your sense of getting your music recognized. You say: “Wow, what I’m creating must be good for me to get a note of congratulations from Nashville — and wow again — from a stunning looking cowgirl!” All a guy could want, right?
But the Bulgarian name lingers a little in the back of your mind. “Isn’t that a strange name for a cowgirl country music star? She certainly doesn’t look like the Bulgarian, Eastern European women who used to wrestle and weight-lift and throw shot-puts in the Olympic Games. What’s Bulgaria got to do with Nashville? you wonder. When you tune in to listen to a sample of her songs, the voice sounds “real country” so you think Olga must be just a bad choice of stage name, given the American south and its star girl names like Dolly, Courtney, Emmy-lou and Loretta. Yeah, what’s in a name, anyhow? And look at all the cowboys on stage strumming with her and others drinking beer and raising their glasses in the small club shots? She’s gotta be real!
You write back a thank you note for becoming a fan on your site. You have put up a few blues oriented songs with a touch of jazz from your latest CD. Very urban blues with lyrics edging on sheer poetry in rhythm and delivery. Almost a lyrical spoken-word jazz rap style. She writes again saying she loves my sound. Her English is perfect as you read the text. Just as in her songs, she seems pretty American as much as you can detect tone in written words, and besides she uses a lot of LOLs and always signs off w
ith )-: or something that’s supposed to signify a cheerful cyber-smile. This is very Valley-girl in your mind.
So as she writes telling you how interesting Nashville is, you begin to think that it might be a town you’d like to visit. You give her your personal email as the social media website doesn’t allow longer exchanges. In her message she says: “Ola, Hello — It’s Olga from Nashville.” So you write back and forth a few times and then agree to call each other. She calls first. Tells you she’s got these free phone cards that give her special rates almost any time of day. While you are at your desk working one day she calls and a deep Eastern European voice announces that you have to forgive her ‘cause she’s eating pickles. You are a little taken a-back as you listen to the crunch and slosh and the weight and old country slowness in her voice. Nothing like the pictures she has sent. Nothing like the light country twang in her songs.
As she talks about how high rent is in downtown Nashville, you try to put together the photos and this voice from the other side of where there used to be “The Wall.” You keep thinking Colonel Klink and Hogan’s Heroes and the German and Russian bad guys in all the dramas and comedies you’ve seen. A little Bela Lugosi with some Marlene Dietrich and Garbo thrown into your ear. But the crunch of pickles brings you back to the moment. “I seeng for da moneey een Sopheeya, but mine man hee’s gonned back an’ aye trye countrees for da museek. I’m good seenger, you know.” “Hmm,” you say under your breath. You remember reading about Japanese Karaoke Cowboys but this is different. “Did you like country music in Bulgaria? Or did you just kinda get into it here in North America?” “No, da peeple een Bulgareeya don’ like da Western museek. What you call da Countree eh Western Museek dare. I go where I am. Eet’s good, you know . . . I ad- . . . how do you saye, add-just prettee fine. after da husband leaves.” “And now where’s your husband? Did he leave for good or do you ever go back to Bulgaria?” I ask. “He’s peeg! I don’ sleep gud but I seeng. You do da Blues, you know?”
Critics Who Know Jack Page 14