An Sagairtín

"An Sagairtín" ("The Little Priest"), is a traditional Irish ballad, sung here unaccompanied in sean-nós style by Bríd Ní Mhaoilchiaráin. The lyrics and translations available at Mudcat are well worth a read.

Fiddler on the Minivan Roof

My last few posts have been devoid of any modern context, so...

Spring of '61

The 150th anniversary of the firing on Ft. Sumter seems an appropriate enough time to end the recent, unplanned hiatus of this blog. I have been thinking of focusing more on Civil War-related subjects in the midst of national commemoration.

Commemoration is often confused with celebration. While I would like to avoid using the occasion of the "Sesquicentennial" to perpetuate the mythologization of the Civil War into some Homeric epic, I also feel compelled to admit the obvious. It is beyond my capacity to truly comprehend the magnitude of the losses the people of this country experienced in the period of 1861-1865 and the years that followed. I cannot speak for the dead, nor can I venture to say I know the best way to honor them. There was a time when I at least believed that their sacrifices were necessary. I don't know what to believe anymore. Platitudes and generalizations help fit the Civil War into a tight little narrative to comfort and inspire the living. But the dead flit in and out of our peripheral, whispering inaudibly in the dark spaces or resting in eternal light or tucked into a dusty library shelf or shimmering in our hearts and minds or nothing nowhere at all.

I humbly submit this blog neither as a place to analyze military tactics and political strategies nor to anthologize the most important minds and bravest heroes, but as a mere dance in the dark. I am most interested in candlelight flickers, faces in the smoke, stories, songs, poems, images of the common and uncommon, heroes, deserters, civilians alike, their colloquial sounds, their pleasures and pains, their ghosts and reincarnations.

After a number of suggestions from various directions, I've changed the Civil War mixtape a little bit. Thanks to all those who provided feedback and criticism. Thanks also to the Irate Pirate and Gadaya, whose phenomenal blogs contributed several of the songs here. And of course, thank you to anyone who actually reads my ramblings.

Download: Spring of '61

Tracklisting:
1) French Carpenter - "Camp Chase"
2) J.D. Cornett - "Spring of '65"
3) Walt Whitman - Excerpt from "America"
4) Thomas Alexander (37th NC veteran) - Rebel Yell
5) Glen Faulkner - "Short-Cycle Blues Pattern)
6) Camptown Shakers - "Ol' Dan Tucker"
7) Clifton Hicks - "Going Across the Mountain"
8) Doc Watson and Gaither Carlton - "And Am I Born to Die (Idumea)"
9) Len Spencer and Company - Excerpt from Uncle Tom's Cabin
10) Hobart Smith - "Cuckoo Bird"
11) Tommy Jarrell & Fred Cockerham - "John Brown's Dream"
12) Frank C. Stanley - "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep"
13) Rutherford, Burnett And Moore - "Cumberland Gap"
14) Bascom Lamar Lunsford - "The Mermaid Song"
15) Bob Flesher - "Jim Along Josie"
16) Seán Ó Riada & Le Celtóirí Chualan With Darach Ó Catháin - "Ag Scaipeadh Na gCleití"
17) Carolina Chocolate Drops - "Dixie"
18) Texas Gladden - "Two Brothers"
19) Wayne Erbsen - "Southern Soldier Boy"
20) 16 Horsepower - "Wayfaring Stranger"
21) Seneca Indians - Funeral Chant
22) Dillard Chandler - "The Soldier Traveling From the North"
23) Buell Kazee - "The Dying Soldier (Brother Green)"
24) Eck Robertson - "Run Boy Run"
25) Frank Kittrell - "Want to Go to Meeting"
26) Woody Guthrie - "Buffalo Gals"
27) John McCormack - "Kathleen Mavourneen"

The Carnyx Unveiled

Image source: The carnyx howl by svantewit

Forget fifes and drums--Iron Age Celts charged into battle to the clamor of the carnyx, an enormous bronze war horn with a boar-shaped mouth. We may never know for certain what it sounded like, or how it was played, but some researchers and artists have ventured to try and recreate it. Working off the Deskford Carnyx, one such team unveiled their reconstructed carnyx at the National Museum of Scotland in April of 1993. Below, trombonist John Kenny delivers an intriguing performance from Carnyx & Co's Deskford clone. Imagine a gaggle of these things trumpeting across a broad field in Ireland, Britain, or France. Who needs armor when you've got that on your side?

Authentic to the Bone

I must apologize for my lack of specificity in discussing the "authentic" in my last post. Rather than blathering, I thought I'd simply illustrate it with a Civil War geekout dose of fantastic, minstrel-style, Civil War era tunes. On video. Complete with seriously kickass bones a-clickety clackin'. Shit just got real.







For more 19th century minstrel bliss, check out Tim Twiss's Banjo Clubhouse and the YouTube channels of minstrelbanjo, giggletoot, and oldcremona.

Civil War Mixtape - Take 1

UPDATE: For the latest version of this mixtape, which fixes some broken files and changes up the list a bit, please see this post.


For years I've been in search of the perfect Civil War era music compilation. Disappointed with what I found along the way, I eventually started experimenting with making my own CD-length Civil War mixtape. It always ends in frustration as I end up being miserably unhappy with the results. Though I've since given up on the whole perfection thing (part of growing up, right?), anthologizing/mixtaping is nonetheless a surprisingly difficult art. My attempts at establishing parameters is usually one of biggest snags. Do I only include songs that can be absolutely verified to have existed during the Civil War? And what about the instruments and playing styles? Must they be also confirmed as absolutely accurate? I admit, this is a terribly neurotic way at approaching the task.

The Smithsonian Folkways album, Back Roads to Cold Mountain significantly changed my way of looking both at this mixtape project and at Civil War music in general. It's a ghostly collection, brilliantly compiled by musicologist (and former New Lost City Rambler) John Cohen and Cold Mountain author Charles Frazier. Many of the songs in it eventually made it into the movie, covered by a number of artists, including musician/actor Jack White of the White Stripes. Cohen and Frazier undoubtedly took some liberties in assembling this album, but it really got me thinking about what constitutes "authentic," particularly when it comes to studying a period that pre-dates recorded music. Many purist students of Civil War music, whose research is indispensable, won't consider something true Civil War music unless it can be verified in period sheet music and instructional songbooks. Such is the duty of a respectable scholar. But what if we go about this as informed artists? It gives us a little wiggle room, to be sure, but this is not just a lazy man's way out. I believe imagination is vital to the understanding of the Civil War. It would be foolish to assume that colloquial musicians of the period were all learning from books. Many people learned then as they did a century later, in the heyday of Appalachian field recordings--by a combination of oral, passed-on tradition and the occasional bit of improvisation. There's no way of knowing for certain what music sounded like that far back in the telephone game, which is where imagination comes into play.



So here's my disclaimer: this is not at all an attempt at collecting fully authentic Civil War music. Most of the songs here definitely existed at the time of the Civil War. I've certainly more than filled in some gaps. I've also added a bit of literature to the mix, including a wax cylinder recording, supposedly of Walt Whitman himself, and a turn-of-the-century recording of an excerpt from Uncle Tom's Cabin. These recordings date from the late nineteenth to the early twenty-first century. You may find some of them to be strange or even hard to listen to. This is a compilation inspired by the American Civil War, after all. Comfort is a cop out.

This is still a work in progress, so any feedback will be more than appreciated. In the meantime, tilt back your slouch hat, kick off your brogans, and prepare to be rocked in the cradle of the deep:

Download: Spring of '65

Tracklisting:
1) French Carpenter - "Camp Chase"
2) J.D. Cornett - "Spring of '65"
3) Walt Whitman - Excerpt from "America"
4) Thomas Alexander (37th NC veteran) - Rebel Yell
5) Glen Faulkner - "Short-Cycle Blues Pattern)
6) Camptown Shakers - "Ol' Dan Tucker"
7) Clifton Hicks - "Going Across the Mountain"
8) Doc Watson and Gaither Carlton - "And Am I Born to Die (Idumea)"
9) Tommy Jarrell and Fred Cockerham - "Fall on my Kness"
10) Len Spencer and Company - Excerpt from Uncle Tom's Cabin
11) Hobart Smith - "Cuckoo Bird"
12) Bob Holt - "John Brown's Dream"
13) Frank C. Stanley - "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep"
14) Bob Flesher - "Jim Along Josie"
15) Seán Ó Riada & Le Celtóirí Chualan With Darach Ó Catháin - "Ag Scaipeadh Na gCleití"
16) Carolina Chocolate Drops - "Dixie"
17) Texas Gladden - "Two Brothers"
18) Wayne Erbsen - "Southern Soldier Boy"
19) Jim Taylor - "Getting Out of the Way of the Federals/Run, Rebel, Run"
20) 16 Horsepower - "Wayfaring Stranger"
21) Seneca Indians - Funeral Chant
22) Dillard Chandler - "The Soldier Traveling From the North"
23) Buell Kazee - "The Dying Soldier (Brother Green)"
24) Frank Kittrell - "Want to Go to Meeting"
25) Woody Guthrie - "Buffalo Gals"
26) Oscar Parks - "The Battle of Stone River"
27) John McCormack - "Kathleen Mavourneen"

Indian War Whoop

Just stumbled across this brilliant psychedelic stop motion video by Carter Baldwin for Hoyt Ming and His Pep Steppers' classic "Indian War Whoop." I don't know about Ming, but Harry Smith and the Holy Modal Rounders would certainly be proud.

For more information on the song and its original performers, The Old Weird, America has a fantastic, comprehensive post with a brief history of the band, 14 variations of the song, 3 videos, and all 6 of the Pep Steppers' recordings. If you're still not sated, here's a wafer thin R. Crumb portrait to top it off. Don't worry, the cleaning lady's on her way with a bucket:

Mary Don't You Weep

Georgia field hands performing "Mary Don't You Weep," circa late 1920s-early '30s.

Jeffrey Lewis - The Complete History of Punk Rock

While we're on the subject of lineage, here's Jeffrey Lewis's musical history of the early development of punk out of New York City's folk/poetry scene of the 1950s and '60s. This really doesn't need an introduction.

If you enjoyed this, be sure to check out Lewis's homepage and his original music and comic books.

McAlpine's Fusiliers

Across the pond to Ireland. The Ronnie Drew Group (later the Dubliners) perform Dominic Behan's "McAlpine's Fusiliers." You can see the fire in Drew's eyes as he sings about the hardships faced by Irish laborers in England. I think it's worth noting that this was in 1963, right before the Beatles took America by storm performing "I Want to Hold Your Hand" on the Ed Sullivan Show. Though rock 'n' roll is an obvious direct ancestor of punk rock, it's easy here to see the vital role folk music traditions played in that and a number of other significant lineages. More on this later. In the meantime, enjoy:


Oh, and for the hell of it, here are the lyrics to "McAlpine's Fusiliers" and "I Want to Hold Your Hand:"

McAlpine's Fusiliers

As down the glen came McAlpine's men with their shovels slung behind them
It was in the pub they drank the sub and up in the spike you'll find them
They sweated blood and they washed down mud with pints and quarts of beer
And now we're on the road again with McAlpine's Fusiliers

I stripped to the skin with Darky Flynn way down upon the Isle of Grain
With Horseface Toole I knew the rule, no money if you stop for rain
When McAlpine's god was a well filled hod with your shoulders cut to bits and seared
And woe to he who looks for tea with McAlpine's Fusiliers

I remember the day that the Bear O'Shea fell into a concrete stairs
What the Horseface said, when he saw him dead, well it wasn't what the rich call prayers
I'm a navvy short was the one retort that reached unto my ears
When the going is rough, well you must be tough with McAlpine's Fusiliers

I've worked till the sweat near had me bet with Russian, Czech and Pole
On shuddering jams up in the hydro dams or underneath the Thames in a hole
I grafted hard and I've got me cards and many a gangers fist across me ears
If you pride your life, don't join, by Christ, with McAlpine's Fusiliers

I Want To Hold Your Hand

Oh yeah, I'll tell you something,
I think you'll understand.
When I'll say that something
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand.

Oh please, say to me
You'll let me be your man
And please, say to me
You'll let me hold your hand.
Now let me hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand.

And when I touch you I feel happy inside.
It's such a feeling that my love
I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide.

Yeah, you've got that something,
I think you'll understand.
When I'll say that something
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand.

And when I touch you I feel happy inside.
It's such a feeling that my love
I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide.

Yeh, you've got that something,
I think you'll understand.
When I'll feel that something
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand.

Hicks' Farewell

Nothing like some stirring, 185-year-old music to bridge the gap.

"Hicks' Farewell," performed by Tim Eriksen.

Pretty Saro

"Pretty Saro" is an old ballad first documented in 1911 in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina by folk music collector John Lomax. It is likely much older, though its exact provenance is up for speculation. Here are two versions. The first is a modern rendition by Sam Amidon (video by Jeremy Blatter). The second is a great example of the traditional unaccompanied ballad style. Cass Wallin performs it on a porch in the Burton Cove, Sodom Laurel, North Carolina in 1982.

Let Me Fall

"If I get drunk, if I get drunk,
just let me fall, little darling, on the ground..."

"Let Me Fall," performed by Tommy Jarrell and company at the Peach Pie Festival, Mount Airy, North Carolina. Recorded by Alan Lomax and crew, July 1983. More videos from the American Patchwork fieldwork and info about Alan Lomax and his collections at http://research.culturalequity.org.

Pretty Polly

A little creepiness for Halloween. An animated video by Jonas Tarestad based on Dock Boggs awesomely unsettling (unsettlingly awesome?) 1927 rendition of the old murder ballad "Pretty Polly." Before the true crime novel--and long before Law & Order--America got its murder fix from ballads. Weird.

R.I.P. Tuli Kupferberg

Tuli Kupferberg, a founding member of the Fugs, beat poet, punk prophet, and "world's oldest rockstar" died on July 12 at the age of 86.

I was fortunate enough to see a Fugs reunion show back in 2004. I was so moved that I wrote a review about it, which is kind of embarrassing to read now, but I'm going to share it anyway. I was corresponding with author (and Eclectica reviews editor) Kevin McGowin at the time, and he said he'd help me edit it and would consider for publication in his zine. After McGowin's tragic death that January, I tucked the review away in the far recesses of my "Documents" folder and hadn't looked at it until now. Anyway, here it is:

Enduring the “Torturous Twists of Time”
An Evening with the Fugs

Before I say anything else, I have a confession to make: I love America. There, I said it. It hasn’t been easy for me these days, but dammit, I love America.

Like many members of my generation, certain recent events and a certain current political regime left me feeling outraged, alienated, and sometimes even utterly helpless. My musical tastes have followed accordingly—I’m once again in a punk rock phase. It seems blaring the Dead Kennedys out the windows of my Volvo is usually enough to both nourish and sooth my angst. My renewed interest in the genre led me to stumble across a band that ironically rekindled in me a new patriotism, of sorts.

Several months ago, I read Steven Taylor’s memoir, False Prophet: Field Notes from the Punk Underground. In it, Taylor discusses the punk phenomenon from an ethnomusicological perspective, drawing on his experiences as a guitarist with the hardcore punk band False Prophets. In an overview of punk’s origins in the US, Taylor credits a rather colorful, albeit obscure band, the Fugs, with having been a significant influence on the precursors to punk. Started by poets Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg on the Lower East Side of Manhattan in 1965, the Fugs combined rock n’ roll with the beatnik building blocks of radical politics and, of course, poetry. What resulted was an early form of art-rock which Taylor contends laid the foundation for the birth of punk over the next decade. My imagination tickled, I turned to the internet to tell me more.

Lo—the Fugs still existed, with (surprise surprise) Steve Taylor as their current guitarist. I’ll admit, this made me a little skeptical, but I was still curious. In a happy coincidence, I found that in a week they were playing the Knitting Factory, just a hop, skip, and a train ride away. I mentioned the show to my father, whose face immediately lit up.

“The Fugs? They still exist?” Although it’s difficult to see it now, my father was a hippie in college, back when the Vietnam War was in full swing. The pictures of him during this time never cease to astonish me—the man looked like Jesus and wore a peace sign as big as my fist. Now he’s a Reagan-convert, as clean cut as can be, working at an investment banking firm in Manhattan. Despite his current guise, at the mere mention of the Fugs a spark of nostalgia appeared in my father’s eyes so bright I knew what had to be done.

“Want to see them one more time?”

“I’ll meet you there.” Excellent, I thought, this will be nothing if not interesting.

Like any great venue for underground music, the Knitting Factory is, put simply, a shithole. Now this is perfect for me—I mean, with two-dollar PBRs, freaky people, and cheap live music, this place was heaven. The club is used to a young crowd, so it was quite a spectacle to see an audience of people who were mostly in their fifties or over, well past their partying days. Actually, I suppose a few of them looked as if they were still partying as hard as ever, but I digress. Certainly, the majority of these aged hippies and beatniks had been laying low for a while. “Where are the seats?” I overheard one woman ask an amused bouncer. “You mean we’re supposed to stand here the whole time?”

What followed was one of the most bizarre performances I’ve ever witnessed. Ed Sanders looked like an old professor and was just as fond of lecturing about relevant political issues. This was not, of course, without a sense of humor. A sense of self-awareness over their own preposterousness pervaded the Fugs’ entire performance. The band and their audience remembered the battles of the past with a certain pride mixed with incredulity over the memory of their rebellious generation’s triumphs and ordeals. They had once stood with open umbrellas to face a tidal wave, and now the Fugs were singing the old hymns with a new twist. When Sanders started an “impeach George Bush” chant, I could not help but chuckle at its obvious futility, yet I came to be moved by the band’s ability to revive the unapologetically idealistic spirit of American rebel rock.



Tuli Kupferberg received the most emphatic response from the audience. “Tuli! Tuli!” they chanted in between songs. This was not surprising, nor was it undeserved—the man is eighty years old and still going strong. Kupferberg reminded me of an old billy goat, thin and wrinkled, a natty little goatee hanging from his chin. His most hilarious performance was “Septuagenarian in Love,” set to the tune of Dion and the Belmonts’ “A Teenager in Love.” With a gruff voice like Jewish grandfather, he delivered delightfully childish lines like “If you should say ‘fuck off!’ today / I would still whack off to you.” The crowd was rolling. Kupferberg smiled, flexing a flabby bicep.

Other crowd-pleasing songs included “Slum Goddess,” “Kill for Peace,” and a rousing sing-along of a Mel Brooks classic. The crowd seemed to have mixed reactions to the Fugs’ slower, humorless adaptations of classic poems by Emily Dickinson and William Blake. The last few numbers were all mellow poetry tunes, and after each one, the fans would scream out requests for their favorite comical ditties. A man near me kept on shouting for a song called “Boobs-A-Lot.” When the last piece turned out to be another Blake poem, I thought I would surely see some of the worn-out old folks heading for the door. Instead, I was awed to see the bearded silhouette of the “Boobs-A-Lot” guy swaying in the dim light of the Knitting Factory, his whiskers bouncing as he sung along. In fact, I did not see anyone leave or even seem disappointed that some of their requests had not been met. What I did see was a small mob of aged hippies and a smattering of young punks and indie kids grooving together to a simple melody that was neither apologetic nor pretentious. It was music, pure and simple.

To be sure, the show was wrought with obvious mistakes. The band clearly had not rehearsed much, but their clumsiness actually added to their charm. A lot of bands like to brag about sincerity, inclusiveness, and their ability to “make the crowd part of the act.” This was truer for the Fugs than any other band I’ve seen. The show I saw was less a concert than an overall experience, albeit a bizarre one. The band’s childlike playfulness, coupled with a political idealism that would seem anachronistic to some, left me with a sensation I had not felt in a very long time: hope. The spirit of rebellion the Fugs captured in their performance is one that is as absurd, varied, and paradoxical as the American Left has been throughout its history. I could see why art-rockers, beats, hippies, and punks could all find inspiration from this band. As for me, I felt that I had caught a fleeting glimpse at the sort of revolution my father had been a part of in his earlier years and I felt that my generation could rekindle that passion and build upon it. My country was starting to seem less dismal again.
After the show, my father headed for home and I made for the Knitting Factory’s bar with a couple friends. Upon seeing Steven Taylor walk past the door, I bolted out after him.

“Dr. Taylor, you were awesome out there,” I said, shaking his hand. “Would you like to take a shot of tequila with me and my friends?” At the word “tequila,” he stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. He considered it for a moment.

“Tequila? You know what…thank you but I better not. I really should help the band pack up.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “God bless you.” God bless you? Is that an appropriate thing to say to the guitarist for the Fugs? Sure, I’d had a few, but since when did a few beers turn me into Tiny fucking Tim? While I still cannot offer a reasonable explanation, I will say this: as the night progressed, I found myself blessing everyone. I mean, I blessed the boys I drank tequila with, I blessed the bartender who served it to us, the people outside who eyed my friend’s hand-rolled cigarettes with a mixture of suspicion and jealousy, and the cabby who ferried our asses back to Grand Central. Shit, I probably blessed the train.

So God bless you too, dear reader, and God bless the Fugs, Ed, Tuli, Toby, Steve, and Scott, and God bless my father and all the aging hippies, beatniks, punks, new-agers, and the young people like myself who came to absorb their insanity. God bless us, everyone.

And dare I say it—God bless America?

For the History-Obsessed

I've been obsessed with the Civil War since I was a little kid. Why? I've come up with various theories at various points, but the simple truth is, I have no idea. There was no life-changing event that I recall, nor did I have any friends, elementary school teachers, or family members who were likewise fixated on this period of American history. I don't even have an ancestor (as far as I know) who participated in the Civil War. So why the obsession?

I have no theories; I've given up on theories. I'd love to hear from fellow history buffs--why is the past so compelling to you? For many of our peers, our preoccupation with history seems nerdy at best, outright weird and alienating at worst. But how many among us have heard a hoarse, whispered voice where there was no mouth to utter, or, one way or another, felt the touch of a vanished hand?

Don't get me wrong, there is no place I'd rather be than right here, and there's no time in which I'd rather be than right now (no wait--right...now), but at the same time I understand those who feel drawn to the past through some sort of escapist mentality. America's current culture seems to waver between a soulless, consumerist mass media-driven plastic made-in-China flag-waving (phew...) and just plain self-hate. At the same time, we've progressed beyond centuries of bigotry and exploitation, though of course we have a hell of a long way to go.

What is my point? Well, I don't really have one. Though I was a history major, I always felt extremely uncomfortable with the idea of creating and defending a thesis. Regardless of what position I chose, I always felt part liar. Which I think is why I'm so attracting to poetry and the arts in general--I love paradox.

In other news, the U.S. House of Representatives today passed a bill that will repeal the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy which bans openly queer men and women from serving in the nation's armed forces. The measure still needs to be passed by the Senate and be approved by a military study group, Defense Secretary Robert Gates, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Mike Mullen, and President Barack Obama. Still, it represents a significant moment in our nation's history as a major step towards the open admission of gay, lesbian, and bisexual citizens into the armed forces. Since queer men and women have been serving in the military since before there was even any concept of "sexual orientation," it's about damn time. Though I will generally try avoid discussing present-day politics on this blog, this is an issue about which I cannot hold my tongue. Peace.


U.S. Sailors, 1944. Charles Fenno Jacobs. Source: National Archives.


Charlie Poole & The North Carolina Ramblers - "Ramblin' Blues" (1928)

And Waves Wash the Imprints Off the Sand

Richmond, Virginia, April 1865. Source: Library of Congress.


Hobart Smith - "Wabash Blues"