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THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY

Tom Paxton calls them "short shelf life songs." They're the ones you make for a moment in time, but six months later you’d have no reason to sing them. So why do they persist in memory? Mine, anyway. Perhaps summoned up by the re-emergence of Raul Castro, another Castro sibling came to mind – sister Juanita, who denounced the revolution and left Cuba early on, and who makes a guest appearance in this mid-60s song that Peter Jones and I wrote. Memory then took over, and a host of others came flooding back. Here they are, with links for the younger generation. The first is to the tune of “Rosin the Beau”:

HUAC SONG

Well, I’ve traveled all over Havana
And now to the US I’ll sail,
And I know that the HUAC Committee
Will be waiting to put me in jail.

Will be waiting to put me in jail, boys,
Will be waiting to put me in jail,
And I know that the HUAC Committee
Will be waiting to put me in jail.

I see the committee approaching,
That cruel remorseless old foe,
They say, “You’re found guilty of treason,
In the words of Juanita Castro.

In the words of Juanita Castro
In the words of Juanita Castro
They say, “You’re found guilty of treason,
In the words of Juanita Castro.

When I’m jailed and deprived of my passport,
A voice I will hear coming through,
“You’re unjustly deprived of your freedom,
Take your case to the ACLU.”

Take your case to the ACLU
Take your case to the ACLU
“You’re unjustly deprived of your freedom,
Take your case to the ACLU.”

Then get me a dozen stout liberals
To come to the aid of a friend,
And ask them to give an opinion,
And watch them cop out in the end.

And watch them cop out in the end,
And watch them cop out in the end
Then ask them to give an opinion,
And watch them cop out in the end.

When I’m dead and my obit is written,
The liberals will kick up a fuss,
They’ll say, “He’s a martyr to freedom,
We’re proud that he was one of us.”

We’re proud that he was one of us
We’re proud that he was one of us
They’ll say, “He’s a martyr to freedom,
We’re proud that he was one of us.”


And this one, from the same period, also with Peter Jones, to the tune of “The Wild Colonial Boy”:

THE WILD MIDWESTERN BOY

There was a wild Midwestern boy, Bob Zimmerman his name,
He was raised in Minnesota, the Mesabi iron range
He left his mother’s cozy home, he changed his father’s name
He called himself Bob Dylan, and to New York town he came.

He wandered through the Village, a-strummin’ his guitar,
He wore a cap of corduroy, and sang of peace and war,
He said the times were changing and filled young men’s hearts with joy,
A terror to the establishment was this wild Midwestern boy.

One day upon MacDougal Street, as Bob he strode along,
A-strummin’ on his guitar, and a-singin’ a protest song,
A vision came before his eyes, as plain as he could see,
The All-American Super Hits on WABC.

“Surrender now, Bob Dylan, and a millionaire become,
Surrender to the Establishment, you aren’t the only one.”
Bob plugged into an amplifier, and said, “I like the tone,”
Then promptly he sat down and made “Just Like a Rolling Stone.”

Now Dylan is a hero, with an amplified guitar
He sings of screwed-up women, and forsakes the Vietnam War,
He claims he’s got the misery, but he’s havin’ a lot of fun,
Gunnin’ his motorsickle down on Highway 61,

There was another from the same period, about Joe Namath, and I remember it all except for two lines, but that doesn’t count for a perfect memory. So I’ll go back farther into the past, to my college days at Bard, and this one I wrote with Lenny Rosen, to the tune of “The Frozen Logger”:

THE FROZEN BEATNIK

I sat down one evening,
‘Twas in an espresso café,
An 18-year-old waitress
To me these words did say:

“I see that you are a beatnik,
And not just a common weird,
For nobody but a beatnik
Stirs his coffee with his beard.

“My lover was a beatnik,
There’s none like him today,
If you told him there was pot in it
He would smoke a bale of hay.

“My lover came to see me,
‘Twas on a winter day,
He read to me his poetry
And rotted my mind away.

“I saw my lover leaving,
He was leaving on the sly,
When two men came up behid him
It was the FBI.

“And so I lost my lover
And in this café I’ve appeared,
And here I wait till someone
Stirs his coffee with his beard.”


And again from Bard, this one written all by my lonesome, to the tune of “Barbara Allen.” It contains one word that I’ve never actually heard used, though its meaning is clear. I have, however, seen it written, in Evan Hunter’s The Blackboard Jungle: “Do you know what planked means, West?” Here’s the song:

BARBARA FELDMAN

In New York town, where I was born,
There was a wild chick dwelling,
Made every cat to blow his cool,
Her name was Barbara Feldman.

All in the merry month of May,
When maidenheads were fallin’,
Sweet William in his own pad lay,
Dreamin’ of Barbara Feldman.

He made a phone call to her house
In the Bronx where she was dwellin’,
“Oh come ye to MacDougal Street,
The joint is really wailin’.”

When she first walked into that place,
A strange smell she was smellin’,
“What is that strange smell that I smell?”
“It’s a reefer, Barbara Feldman.”

Then slowly, slowly, she took a puff,
The first one she was tryin’,
Then slowly, slowly, she lay down,
“Oh, man, I’m really flyin’.

“You’ve turned me on to a great new kick,
How can I ever thank you?”
“That’s very easy, Barbara dear,
For now I’m going to plank you.”

Just then two cops knocked at the door,
While they were still a-ballin’,
“Oh come ye to the station house,
If your name be Barbara Feldman.”

They took them up before the judge,
And said to him, “Your honor,
We’ve arrested these two beatniks here
For possessing marijuana.:

They took them up before the judge,
Barbara Feldman and Sweet William,
She went to the Women’s Detention Home,
He went to Riker’s Island.

It had not been two months or three,
When she began a-swellin’.
“Sweet William, babe, what have you done?
You’ve knocked up Barbara Feldman.

“You should have used a contraceptive,
Why didn’t you think of it?”
Then tenderly he said to her,
“I thought you were on Enovid.

“A cruel blow’s been dealt to us
By the fickle hand of fortune,
But don’t you worry, Barbara dear,
We’ll get you an abortion.”

“Oh, not so fast, sweet Willie boy,
That’s not why I let you mount me,
You’ll marry me, and get a job,
And move to Fairfield County.”

Now he works for BBD and O,
And goes to the city to labor,
While Barbara’s having an affair
With the milkman and a neighbor.


And retreating back further in time, this is high school vintage, and a joint venture between me, my brother Jon, Peter Jones, and his brother Wendy. It’s not too PC, but it has a happy ending, and I’ve sung it for gay activists, who’ve loved it:

FRANKIE AND JOHNNY

Frankie and Johnny were fairies,
Oh Lordy how they could love,
Swore to be true to each other,
Just as true as the stars above,

He was his man,
But he done him wrong.

Frankie and Johnny went walkin’,
Johnny was dressed up in drag,
“Oh lordy me,” says Frankie,
“Don’t my Johnny look like a fag?”

He was his man,
But he done him wrong.

Frankie went down to the barroom,
Bought himself an imported beer,
Said to the gay bartender,
“Have you seen my lovin’ queer?”

He is my man,
But he’s doin’ me wrong.

“Well, I don’t want to cause you no trouble,
But I don’t want to raise no false hope,
I seen your lover Johnny,
Makin’ love with Truman Capote,

He is your man,
But he’s doin’ you wrong.

Frankie went to Fire Island,
He was hopin’ against hope,
But he seen his lover Johnny
Makin’ love with Truman Capote,

He was his man,
But he done him wrong.

Frankie went back to the Village,
Washed off all of his rouge,
Wiped off all his lipstick,
Kicked off his high heeled shoes,

He was his man,
But he done him wrong.

Frankie he went to the barber,
Said “Give me a big crewcut,
I’m gonna join the Marine Corps,
Just to cut my Johnny up,

He is my man,
But he done me wrong.

Now Frankie he is a Staff Sergeant,
Stationed down at Fort Dix,
Every weekend he comes to the Village,
Just to see his Johnny for kicks,

He is his man,
Does him no more wrong.

John R. Tunis, Leadbelly, Howard Koch

What authors or books influenced you most? People are discussing this on the NewPo list, and I sat down to write about my biggest influences. Pretty soon, I realized this was getting too long for a post to a listserv, in spite of the fact that there are only three names on it. It's also probably irrelevant to a poetry list, since none of these are poets. I'll think about poet-influences next. Here are the three.


1. The baseball novels of John R. Tunis. In Tunis' novels, like The Kid From Tomkinsville, I first became aware of a writer behind the words -- I could feel someone writing it, injecting his own passion and personality into the story. I remember telling my mother one day when I was maybe 11 or 12, and had never particularly thought about growing up to be a writer, "When I grow up to be a writer, and people ask me about the greatest influence on my writing career, I'm going to say John R. Tunis. Although I didn't realize it at the tme, he was also teaching me my first lesson in telling a great, fast-paced story with vivid memorable characters, that also had a message. Tunis didn't bludgeon you with the message. In Keystone Kids, the main driving force of the novel is baseball, young shortstop Spike Russell being named player-manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and trying to guide his team to the pennant. but the missing ingredient is a catcher, and the Dodgers bring up a talented kid from the minors -- talented and Jewish. Spike has to deal with prejudice from teammates (this was written four years before Jackie Robinson), anti-Semitism from fans and sportswriters, and his own total lack of experience in reaching out to another culture. This is from memory, over 50 years ago. I did pick up a copy of the The Kid Comes Back at a yard sale recently, and it still held my interest. Great baseball stuff, and again, more. Roy Tucker, The Kid From Tomkinsville, now a major league veteran, enlists to fight in World War II, is injured in combat, and has to find the courage (and ultimately, a chiropractor) to get him through the injury and back to help the Dodgers in their stretch run. But before that, he's shot down in France, rescued by a Resistance group that seems more than little Communist, and Roy has to battle his own middle-American prejudice to accept these people who are saving his life. Then, he has to face the culture shock and resistance that all returning GIs must face, in that war and every other -- what Kipling talks about in "Tommy Atkins."

I realized how deep Tunis was still ingrained in me when I started to write a children's sports book for my grandson Josh, in which he and his friend go back in time and meet Pele. And I realized I was beiong drawn to do what Tunis did -- tell an exciting sports story, but never forget that it's also about something more.






2. Leadbelly, for the reasons mentioned in my last post. He first taught me about compression of words, about the power of what's left out, about saying more with less. I found Leadbelly when Probably "In the Pines" was the first song to hit me that way -- the girl whose tragedy we only glimpse, but we feel the immensity of it behind the stark, sparse words. It was only years later, when I began teaching Leadbelly's lyrics, that an important part of her tragedy hit me -- why she's lost her home, why she had to sleep in the pines. She lives in company housing in a company town, and the company takes back the house when her husband is killed in an on-the-job accident.

It was when I started teaching him, all those years later, when I put together my Literature of the Blues course, that I realized how powerful his influence still was, and had been for all of my writing life. Ashbery only provided a continuation of that influence, but more on that when I get to the list of poet-influences.

3. Howard Koch. Howard died in 1995, and I was honored to be asked to give one of the eulogies for him. Because Howard had been mentor and role model to all of those of my generation who grew up in the 50s and 60s, I made myself their voice, and collected stories and reminiscences from them. Here's one from my brother Jonathan, who recalled hearing the name of producer Howard W. Koch in connection with some current movie or other, and asking Noelle Gillmor (a name for another reminiscence), "Is Howard W. Koch the same as our Howard Koch?" Noelle replied, "The relationship between our Howard Koch and Howard W. Koch is roughly the same as the relationship between Jesus Christ and Jesus H. Christ."

But I digress, not for the first time. What I did say, for myself, at Howard's memorial, was that I knew Howard was a great man before I knew he was a great writer. I knew him for his kindness, his intelligence, his integrity, his keen and piercing insights into politics, society, and hypocrisy. So those were my first lessons in writing from Howard, and they're still among the most important that I've ever learned.

Later, I found out about Casablanca, and Sergeant York, and The Sea Hawk. And then I was probably 18, or maybe older, and already serious about becoming a writer. That's when I learned my other lesson from Howard -- that truth can have a heart, and a soul. That if something is romantic, and wonderful, and uplifting, that doesn't negate its truth -- it creates its own special kind of truth.

And there you have it.