Showing posts with label Stan Rogers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stan Rogers. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Song for Day 49 - "Circle" by Harry Chapin

Songwriter Harry Chapin.
Day 49 - "Circle" by Harry Chapin


      The similarities between Harry Chapin (December 7, 1942 – July 16, 1981) and Stan Rogers (November 29, 1949 – June 2, 1983) are remarkable.  Both were born in their country's largest cultural center (i.e. New York versus Toronto), and into musical families.  From Wikipedia:
Chapin often remarked that he came from an artistic family. His father Jim Chapin, brothers Tom Chapin and Steve Chapin, and daughter Jen Chapin are musicians. His nieces Abigail and Lily Chapin perform under the name The Chapin Sisters. His paternal grandfather, James Ormsbee Chapin, was an artist who illustrated Robert Frost's first two books of poetry; his maternal grandfather was the philosopher and rhetorician Kenneth Burke.

Country singer Mary Chapin Carpenter is Chapin's fifth cousin.
    Harry's brother, Steve, wrote and sang the lovely "Let Time Go Lightly".


     Meanwhile, Stan's brother Garnet accompanied him throughout his career and his son, Nathan, amuses audiences by throat-singing "Amazing Grace".


     Both Harry and Stan were deeply philosophical and political, active in progressive politics and charity projects.  They were national treasures but entirely approachable;  I was fortunate enough to meet them in the 1970s.  Both wrote excellent romantic works but were known primarily for their narratives.  One partnered with a baritone, the other was a baritone.  Before their 40th birthday, both died in accidents en route to concerts;  one perishing after a landing, the other before taking off [in a rescue helicopter].

Earl Gray's 68th.
     Chapin's "Circle" isn't overtly political but it reminds us of the cyclical nature of politics.  It raises the question:  "Can we prolong the crests and soften the impact of the troughs?"  That leads us to this mercifully abbreviated rant:

     By definition, conservatives are from the panstentialist do-nothing "Why-Ask-Why?" end of the philosophical spectrum.  Progressives are dedicated to improving the lot of the population, but are we committed to improving ourselves, individually and collectively?  Many seem to granularize elections and regard the candidates as figures shadow boxing on treadmills.  In fact, elections are a continuum, a death race against a foe whose supporters and candidates may be cretinous but whose strategists are patient and calculating.

     At the top of the ferris wheel ride we needed to look around and see what was working for us.  Now, at the nadir (i.e. Congress, statehouses and White House gone, SCOTUS fading), we need to recapture the success that--forgive me for saying so--we should have been building on.  While 46% of Americans take a Bob Carter approach ("Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine."), even in the face of Genghis Don, we cannot afford to "let time go lightly";  we need to act.  We need inspirational leaders, not administrators or ideologues.  We need campaigners like Obama and Sanders (both 10 out of 10).  We need speakers like, again, Obama (a solid 8 out of ten as an orator);  no one else we're seeing today would win a slam even if it were judged by their family members.  


Harry Chapin's brother, Steve.
     A little sex appeal associated with the ticket didn't hurt the Obamas in 2008 and 2012, the Clintons in 1992 and 1996, John and Jacqueline Kennedy in 1960, or Melania and Ivanka Trump in 2016.  (It's not like the population is any less shallow than it was half a century ago!)

     We need "recognized obscurities":  candidates with some national name recognition but little or no baggage among Democrats.

     The good news is that we have uniters, Tom Perez and Keith Ellison, running the DNC.  We've shown that we can develop talent:  Bill Clinton was a disaster at the 1988 Democratic National Convention but became a passable public speaker (4 out of 10) before or during his 1992 run.

     We begin each election with an approximately 3% lead in members and leaners.  Given this advantage, if we are diligent about adapting and improving even after victories, we could turn that circle into an escalator.



Lyrics:

All my life's a circle;
Sunrise and sundown;
Moon rolls thru the nighttime;
Till the daybreak comes around.

All my life's a circle;
But I can't tell you why;
Season's spinning round again;
The years keep rollin' by.

It seems like I've been here before;
I can't remember when;
But I have this funny feeling;
That we'll all be together again.

No straight lines make up my life;
And all my roads have bends;
There's no clear-cut beginnings;
And so far no dead-ends.

Chorus:
I found you a thousand times;
I guess you done the same;
But then we lose each other;
It's like a children's game;

As I find you here again;
A thought runs through my mind;
Our love is like a circle;
Let's go 'round one more time.


Friday, February 3, 2017

Song for Day 15 of a 4 Year Funeral - "Barrett's Privateers" - by Stan Rogers

Day 15 - "Barrett's Privateers" - by Stan Rogers

    Everyone who met the legendary Stan Rogers (1949-1983) has a tale to tell, many of them embellished over time:

Songwriter Stan Rogers (1949-1983)
    Winter, early 1970s.  I was sitting around with my buddies, all of us in our teens, when Randy dashed in and tried to schlepp us off to see a great new folksinger.

    "I'm in," I said, grabbing my coat.

    "Yes," offered Randy, "he's playing at the Parkview."

     "I'm out," I said, tossing my coat.

     How shall I describe this venue, later torched by its owner for insurance money?  This was a place proscribed in life insurance policies.  They shared a phone number with a suicide hotline.  Even the cops wouldn't go into the Parkview.  Hell, bikers wouldn't go into the Parkview.  I certainly  didn't go into the Parkview.  (I'm not as dumb as I look.)

     My friends became more and more insistent, but I was rooted to the spot.  In a last ditch effort, I latched onto the door frame.

     Minutes later we were cruising down to Bay Street:  5 idiots in a rebuilt wreck that was half Chevelle and half Beaumont, one of us still holding a door frame.  (That would be me.)

     We got to the Parkview.  While entering, we saw two ruffians being ejected.

     "Should we tell the bouncer?" I asked.

     Randy rolled his eyes.

     "You see the bigger of the two dudes lying face down in the snowbank?"

     "Yes."

     "That," intoned Randy, "is the bouncer."

     "Oh," said I.  "Maybe we should just get the waiter and order our drinks."
 

     Blank stares from all.  Finally, Randy asked:

     "You see the SMALLER of the two dudes lying face down in the snowbank?"

     "Don't tell me, let me guess.  That is the waiter?"

    ( I told you I'm not as dumb as I look.)

     I watched as a waitress, apparently new to the job, asked a patron for Proof of Age.  The customer dragged the waitress out to the vestibule and showed her the RCMP's 10 Most Wanted List.  He was wanted for adult crimes so, obviously, she had to serve him.  (Why carry ID?)

     The patrons would signal their desire for a refill by throwing their empty beer bottles at the skull of the chief server (hence the term "head waiter").  It seems that this was the only way for customers to specify their favorite brand while capturing the attention of a staff member who didn't speak Cro-Magnon.

     The folksinger, one "Stan Rogers", didn't make a great personal impression on me at the time.  All he spoke about was his family in Toronto and how much he missed them.  This isn't what teenaged guys like us really wanted to hear.  (Stick to sports.)

     His performance certainly impressed me, though.  Over the next decade I bought all of his albums.  Upon hearing that he would be playing at the local Folk Festival I overcame my reluctance to attend--much as I adore folk music, 1,000 people sharing a Port-a-Potty isn't my idea of fun--and bought two passes to the event.

     This was June 2nd, 1983.  The rest, as they say, is history:  en route to Toronto from Texas, days before coming here for the Folk Festival, Stan's plane filled with smoke.  He died, along with 22 other passengers.  I ripped up my tickets.

     In my fondest dreams he made it here and I got to speak to him again.

     "You don't remember me--"

     "Sure I do," he would say.  "You're the moron with the door frame."


     Today's song is a defiant but tragic sea shanty, written by Stan Rogers because his drinking buddies wouldn't let him sing the lead in any established maritime tune.  It may be particularly resonant with anyone who has fought a Washington (or New York) juggernaut, only to lose both the legs they stood on (centrist or progressive) in an unmitigated disaster.

     At his parties, a certain abrasive actor from north of the 49th parallel used to out his compatriots by playing "Farewell to Nova Scotia" at parties.  The Canucks, he explained, would be the ones crying.  He added that "Barrett's Privateers" could serve in a similar capacity. 

    "Stick your head in the doorway of a bar and yell 'Oh, the year was 1778.'  If no one hollers back 'How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now!' there are no Canadians in the place."  When challenged on this he backtracked only slightly:  "Well, no Canadians I'd care to know, at least."

     Singing this song sober is considered close to sacrilege.






Lyrics:  (Explanation here.)

Oh, the year was 1778, 
HOW I WISH I WAS IN SHERBROOKE NOW!
A letter of marque come from the king,
To the scummiest vessel I'd ever seen,

CHORUS:
God damn them all!
I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold
We'd fire no guns-shed no tears
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier
The last of Barrett's Privateers.

Oh, Elcid Barrett cried the town, HOW I WISH I WAS . . .
For twenty brave men all fishermen who
would make for him the Antelope's crew
(chorus)

The Antelope sloop was a sickening sight,
She'd a list to the port and and her sails in rags
And the cook in scuppers with the staggers and the jags
(chorus)

On the King's birthday we put to sea,
We were 91 days to Montego Bay
Pumping like madmen all the way
(chorus)

On the 96th day we sailed again,
When a bloody great Yankee hove in sight
With our cracked four pounders we made to fight
(chorus)

The Yankee lay low down with gold,
She was broad and fat and loose in the stays
But to catch her took the Antelope two whole days
(chorus)

Then at length we stood two cables away,
Our cracked four pounders made an awful din
But with one fat ball the Yank stove us in
(chorus)

The Antelope shook and pitched on her side,
Barrett was smashed like a bowl of eggs
And the Maintruck carried off both me legs
(chorus)

So here I lay in my 23rd year,
It's been 6 years since we sailed away
And I just made Halifax yesterday
(chorus)


     Above all, do not die without hearing “Witch of the Westmoreland”, “The Lock Keeper", "Rawden Hills", “Fisherman's Wharf" and "The Last Watch". That would be the musical equivalent of never seeing Derek Edwards. YouTube awaits!

Links: Songs for a 4 Year Funeral