Friday, May 30, 2008

Terror’s Advocate: a trial in itself

Terror's Advocate: a trial in itself

http://www.spiked-online.com/index.php?/site/earticle/5178/

Barbet Schroeder's documentary about the rogue French lawyer Jacques
Vergès is a confusing study of a man with questionable principles.

by Nathalie Rothschild
29 May 2008

It is often the sign of a good documentary if the director leaves the
audience to consider new questions, rather than simply providing a
set of answers.
--

Yes, film is a medium that lends itself well to polemics and
propaganda, and there is no reason why filmmakers should necessarily
shy away from making 'biased' documentaries. But sometimes a film
will raise a multitude of complex questions in relation to a single
subject without telling us exactly what we ought to think at the end
of it. This is often a sign that the director trusts viewers to
engage with the film, without being nervous about what we will do
after leaving the cinema – like vote for the wrong politicians or eat
the wrong food.

Barbet Schroeder's documentary, Terror's Advocate, which is about the
controversial French lawyer Jacques Vergès, certainly doesn't give
any answers. Unfortunately, that is only because it is a confusing,
rambling film.

Vergès is notorious for defending the crème de la crème of terrorists
and tyrants. His clients have included Nazi war criminal Klaus
Barbie, also known as the Butcher of Lyon; Venezuelan-born terrorist
Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, known as Carlos the Jackal; and the Holocaust
denier, Roger Garaudy. After the US-led invasion of Iraq in 2003,
Vergès was asked to represent Tariq Aziz, the deputy prime minister
under Saddam Hussein, and he later offered to act for Saddam, too.

The film starts off with Vergès' 'Cambodian connection'. There is a
glowing endorsement of Vergès by Pol Pot and images of the lawyer
fraternising with Khmer Rouges brothers, interspersed with an
interview in Vergès' office in which he says that technically there
was no genocide in Cambodia (with a quick cut to images showing piles
of human remains). We don't learn more of Vergès' involvement in
Cambodia's genocide tribunal or about his and Pol Pot's days as
members of the Association for Colonial Students in Paris. Instead,
it seems this sequence of the film is there as a message from the
director: 'This man is a genocide denier, and I am aware of it.'

What follows is a potted history of Vergès' career and an even
bittier history of international terrorism and post-colonial regimes.
Schroeder is unable to shed much light on either Vergès' life or on
world history. Despite a line of eloquent interviewees, great archive
footage and skilful camera work, the wealth of material has been
badly put together. When images of the many individuals Vergès has
defended and associated with, but who are not mentioned in the film
itself, appear alongside the final credits, it becomes clear that
Schroeder has only dealt with a small part of Vergès' 83-year life.
And it is not clear why.

Vergès is a grateful interviewee, enjoying his chance to pose as the
defender of the demonised and of anti-colonialist struggles, who has
always, in his own mind, pursued justice and a universal application
of the law; he continually sucks on a huge cigar and smiles slyly. He
is an impressive figure, and for the first part of the film he comes
off as quite the political hero. Born in Thailand in 1925 to a French
diplomat and a Vietnamese mother and brought up on the Indian Ocean
island of Réunion, Vergès later fought in the French Resistance and
was active in the anti-colonialist movement. 'For me', he explains in
the film, 'France was Montaigne, Diderot, the Revolution, and it was
intolerable to me that that could disappear'.

But Vergès is no blinkered patriot – he later defended members of the
Algerian independence movement, including Djamila Bouhired, who was
arrested for planting bombs in cafés and who became a symbol of the
Algerian struggle. Vergès later married Bouhired and they had two
children together.

In 1970, Vergès mysteriously disappeared for eight years. There are
various theories about where he went. Some believe he was hiding in
Cuba; others speculate that he sought refuge in the secret ANC
training camps in South Africa. Perhaps he went back to Réunion where
his twin brother is still living. Maybe he was hanging out with Pol
Pot in Cambodia or was arrested while acting as a Chinese agent.
Vergès himself skirts around the subject and so Schroeder relies on
the other interviewees to fill in the gaps.

It is during this sequence of the film that things just get
confusing. It seems impossible to find out where Vergès was during
most of the 1970s but the various guesses, unsubstantiated rumours
and contradictory testimonials give the film an air of conspiracy
theory rather than intriguing mystery.

Vergès is presented by many interviewees as a staunch defender of the
oppressed, enraged by his own early experiences of discrimination and
humiliation. But always identifying with victims or protecting, on
principle, those who are shunned by the majority is no noble cause.
This status as outcasts, it seems, is the lowest common denominator
that ties together all of Vergès' clients and political compatriots,
from the Algerian National Liberation Front to the Popular Front for
the Liberation of Palestine, from Red Army Faction and the
Baader–Meinhof Gang to the Khmer Rouge (international pariahs).

Speaking of the trial of Klaus Barbie in 1987, Vergès says he cannot
stand to see a man being humiliated (though the film notes it was
François Genoud, a Swiss Nazi who financed Palestinian terrorism, who
invited Vergès to represent Barbie). He certainly has a point when he
says that this was a showtrial. The court was set up in the town hall
in Lyon with space for 700 spectators and members of the press. With
a prosecution team of 40 lawyers on one side and Vergès on the other,
the then 73-year-old Barbie was found guilty of the 341 separate
charges brought against him.

Vergès, however, saw this as an opportunity to 'put France on trial',
to highlight its historical double standards and various crimes
against humanity. Not only did Vergès take advantage of Barbie's fate
himself, then, but he also uses the courtroom as a space to rewrite
history in the name of the victims he sympathises with; in effect,
Vergès creates his own showtrials.

Vergès nickname is 'Devil's Advocate' and it certainly seems apt. In
the film, he says that he is often asked whether he would defend
Hitler. His answer is 'I would even defend Bush – but only if he
would agree to plead guilty.' Now that is a man with a skewed sense
of history.

.

From quagmire to defeat

From quagmire to defeat

http://socialistworker.org/2008/05/30/from-quagmire-to-defeat

May 30, 2008

The war in Vietnam resulted in the greatest military defeat ever
suffered by the United States. Ever since, the U.S. ruling class and
its intellectual pundits have had to try to overcome what has become
known as the "Vietnam Syndrome"--the fear of the American ruling
establishment that any large-scale military engagement might become a
"quagmire" and provoke mass domestic opposition.

Joe Allen is a regular contributor to the International Socialist
Review and a columnist on film and television for SocialistWorker.org.

He is the author of a new book, Vietnam: The (Last) War the U.S.
Lost, an examination of the lessons of the Vietnam era, with the eye
of both a dedicated historian and an engaged participant in the
movement against today's U.S. wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Here,
with permission, we publish excerpts from one of the book's later chapters.
--

THE YEAR following the Tet Offensive of 1968 was the bloodiest year
of the American war in Vietnam. As revenge for the humiliation
suffered during the Tet Offensive, the United States unleashed a
frightening wave of destruction. Despite the huge military cost to
the National Liberation Front (NLF), it was clear that the Tet
Offensive had destroyed the ability of the United States to
effectively prosecute its war in Vietnam. In response, President
Lyndon Johnson announced that he would not seek re-election. In a
close race against Vice President Hubert Humphrey, Richard Nixon was
elected president, in part because he implied that he had a "secret
plan" to end the war in Vietnam. "The greatest honor history can
bestow is the title of peacemaker," he said in his inaugural speech.
It is a testament to the political quandary that the American ruling
class found itself in that an anticommunist militarist could package
himself as a "peace" candidate.

Despite all the talk of peace, the war would continue for another
four years. Almost as many Americans died in Vietnam during Nixon's
presidency as in the Johnson years. How does one explain this? The
incoming Nixon administration set itself the goal of bringing the
American war in Vietnam to an end without it being seen as a defeat
for U.S. imperialism. In attempting to achieve this, Nixon would not
only raise to new heights the destruction the United States would
inflict on Vietnam, but would widen the war into neighboring countries.

These war policies revived and deepened the antiwar movement in the
United States. The antiwar movement would surge to the zenith of its
strength, while soldiers, sailors and air force personnel began to
rebel in larger numbers. A special commission appointed by Nixon to
assess unrest on the campuses following the invasion of Cambodia, led
by William Scranton, the former Republican governor of Pennsylvania,
argued that the country was "so polarized" that the division in the
country over the war was "as deep as any since the Civil War."
Scranton declared that "nothing is more important than an end to the
war" in Vietnam. It was the strength of this opposition that not only
led to the final withdrawal of U.S. troops from Vietnam, but also to
the adoption of repressive measures by an increasingly paranoid Nixon
administration that would lead to its downfall.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Opposition to the War Deepens

Nixon may have weathered the domestic storm of protest, but he was
far from being in a secure political position. It became clear to him
that any further efforts to expand the war with U.S. ground troops
would risk another potential domestic upsurge. His Cambodia adventure
lifted the lid on protest in communities that had seen little antiwar
activity beforehand. This was particularly true among Mexican Americans.

One of the most important events of the antiwar movement that took
place in the wake of the Cambodia bombings was the Chicano
moratorium. "The war in Vietnam politicized the Chicano community,"
according to historian Rudy Acuña. "Although the Chicano population
officially numbered 10 to 12 percent of the total population of the
Southwest, Chicanos comprised 19.4 percent of those from that area
who were killed in Vietnam. From December 1967 to March 1969,
Chicanos suffered 19 percent of all casualties from the Southwest.
Chicanos from Texas sustained 25.2 percent of all casualties of that
state." This slow burn of casualty rates combined with a rising
movement against racial discrimination and oppression made the war in
Vietnam a particular flash-point of anger.

The Brown Berets, a revolutionary nationalist group of young Mexican
American activists predominately from the Los Angeles area, formed
the first National Chicano Moratorium Committee in 1969. They called
their first demonstration against the war, in solidarity with the
nationwide moratorium movement, on December 20, 1969, with two
thousand participants. They staged another protest two months later
on February 28, 1970, with about six thousand Mexican Americans in
attendance. In March 1970, at the Second Annual Chicano Youth
conference in Denver, it was decided to organize hundreds of local
moratorium actions against the war that would culminate with a
national event to be held in Los Angeles on July 29. In between the
conference and the planned national moratorium were the invasion of
Cambodia and the ensuing explosion of nationwide protest and the
state murders of protesters at Kent State and Jackson State.

Los Angeles was infamous for the racism and violence of its police
and sheriff's departments toward Mexicans. The violence of the
virtually all-white Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department against
the Mexican Americans grew ominously as the moratorium approached.
Acuña captures both the confidence of the antiwar marchers and the
quiet hatred of sheriff's deputies as the march began:

On the morning of the 29th contingents from all over the United
States arrived in East Los Angeles. By noon participants numbered
between 20,000 and 30,000. Conjuntos (musical groups) blared out
corridos; vivas and yells filled the air; placards read: "Raza si,
guerra no!" "Aztlan: Love it or Leave it!" as sheriff's deputies
lined the parade route. They stood helmeted, making no attempt to
establish contact with the marchers: no smiles, no small talk. The
march ended peaceably and the parade turned into Laguna Park.
Marchers settled down to enjoy the program; many had brought picnic
lunches. Mexican music and Chicano children entertained those assembled."

Soon after the park filled, a small incident at a nearby liquor store
gave the police what Acuña calls "an excuse to break up the
demonstration." Five hundred helmeted, club-wielding deputies
attacked the peaceful crowd in the park. Their number eventually grew
to fifteen hundred as they occupied the park. Acuña again: "They
moved in military formation, sweeping the park. Wreckage could be
seen everywhere: baby strollers [were] trampled into the ground;
Victor Mendoza, walking with a cane, frantically looked for his
grandmother; four deputies beat a man in his sixties; tear gas filled the air."

There are many horror stories of racist violence from that day. "A
Chicano when he allegedly ran a blockade; his car hit a telephone
pole and he was electrocuted. A tear-gas canister exploded in a trash
can, killing a 15-year-old boy." But the worst was the murder of
Ruben Salazar, a popular reporter for KMEX-TV, the Spanish language
station. He and two coworkers stopped at a local bar after covering
the events at Laguna Park. Sheriff's deputies surrounded the bar and
shot a ten-inch tear-gas canister into the building that hit Salazar
in the head, killing him. Salazar was popular in the Mexican
community, making a name for himself by exposing police racism. He
had told coworkers that he received complaints and threats about his
reporting from L.A. Police Chief Ed Davis. Salazar's killers were
indicted by a federal grand jury for violating his civil rights, but
they were acquitted in federal court. The events at the Chicano
moratorium demonstrated not only the depth of anger toward the war
but also the willingness of government to use violence against
antiwar activists, particularly those who were people of color.

The invasion of Cambodia also accelerated opposition to the war in
the military. Vietnam veterans would now assume a leading position in
the antiwar movement, changing the face of the movement. Years later,
H. R. Haldeman, Nixon's chief of staff, lamented, "If the troops are
going to mutiny, you can't pursue an aggressive policy." Discontent
was so high, and the cost of the war was cutting so deeply into the
country, that support was collapsing even in military towns
previously known for their strident pro-war stances. Jon Huntsman, a
special assistant to the president, complained of the growing
"antiwar sentiment in once hawkish San Diego," home of the Pacific fleet.

The war was no longer politically sustainable for Nixon, who was soon
facing re-election. By April 1971, a Lou Harris poll revealed that by
a margin of 60 percent to 26 percent, Americans favored continued
U.S. troop withdrawals "even if the government of South Vietnam
collapsed." There was a "rapidly growing feeling that the United
States should get out of Vietnam as quickly as possible." On April 7,
1971, Nixon announced that another one hundred thousand U.S. troops
would be withdrawn from Vietnam by the beginning of December, leaving
roughly 184,000 still there. Though Nixon was reluctant to offer any
deadlines for complete withdrawal, it seems clear in retrospect that
the deadline he had in mind was the November 1972 election.

How deeply antiwar sentiment cut into the country was revealed in
late April, beginning with the Vietnam Veterans Against the War
(VVAW) actions in Washington between April 19 and 23, followed on
April 24, 1971 by a day of national demonstrations against the war.
According to Tom Wells:

Throughout the morning of April 24, demonstrators flooded the Ellipse
in Washington, the staging area for the day's march to the Capitol.
Most were young. Rank-and-file unionists, GIs, and veterans were
present in greater numbers than in past peace demonstrations.
According to a survey by the Washington Post, more than a third of
the protesters were attending such a demonstration for the first
time. 'I'm a member of the silent majority who isn't silent anymore,'
a 54-year-old-furniture storeowner from Michigan remarked. The survey
found that fewer than a quarter of the protesters considered
themselves radicals; most were liberals. At least thirty-nine members
of Congress endorsed the demonstration. So large was the turnout for
it that cars and buses carrying protesters were backed up for three
miles at the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel by 11 a.m. Many of the occupants
never made it to the demonstration.

The demonstration in Washington was estimated to have grown to about
half a million by the end of the day, making it up to that date the
largest single demonstration in American history. That same day in
San Francisco, more than two hundred thousand people marched against the war.

The April 24 national demonstrations were followed by nearly a week
of actions, culminating in an effort to shut down the federal
government on May 3. Nixon declared Washington, D.C. "open for
business," but upwards of seventy five thousand antiwar protesters
scattered through out the city on May 3, blocking traffic, sitting in
at various government buildings, and harassing political figures. The
D.C. police, backed by the federal government, began mass arrests of
demonstrators early in the morning. By 8:00 a.m., more than seven
thousand had already been arrested, and more arrests were to come. It
was open season on anybody the police didn't like. "Martial law might
not have been declared, but it was in effect."

The city jails couldn't handle the numbers arrested so a makeshift
outdoor detention camp was built near RFK Stadium, surrounded by an
eight-foot-high fence. People were held without food, water, or
sanitary facilities. "Calling this a concentration camp would be a
very apt description," declared Dr. Benjamin Spock, who was also held
in detention. The Black residents of Washington responded
sympathetically to the protesters, giving them food, water, and other
necessities. Federal Employees for Peace held a rally in Lafayette
Park across the street from the White House in the middle of the
police crackdown.

While the May Day protests were chaotic and didn't achieve their
objective of shutting down the government, they did, in the words of
a Ramparts article, send "shivers down its spine." The backlash
against the federal government's martial law–like tactics proved to
be a disaster for Nixon. Even such cynical insiders as CIA Director
Richard Helms later admitted, "It was obviously viewed by everybody
in the administration, particularly with all the arrests and the
howling about civil rights and human rights and all the rest of
it...as a very damaging kind of event. I don't think there was any
doubt about that."

From the first Vietnam moratorium events in November 1969, to the
explosion of rage following the following the Cambodian invasion, to
the spring events of 1971, millions of Americans were drawn into
political action against the war. The actions were become more
militant, more working class, more multiracial, and more left wing.
In mid-November 1972, Nixon announced that another forty-five
thousand U.S. troops would be withdrawn from Vietnam leaving roughly
139,000 there in early 1972.

The American ground war in Vietnam was grinding to an end, but the
bloody American air war continued to inflict unfathomable destruction
on the people of Southeast Asia. While antiwar activity continued
into 1972, it was much smaller; the movement too had already reached
its zenith.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Did the Large Demonstrations Make a Difference?

"We had an agenda we wanted to implement, and the principal
impediment to that objective in Vietnam was the mass demonstrations,
given aid and comfort and support by the liberal media, which was
attacking the president constantly."
--Pat Buchanan, Nixon White House aide and speechwriter

One of the lingering debates concerning the antiwar movement of the
1960s was the effectiveness of the many national demonstrations in
stopping or not stopping the war in Vietnam. This debate existed from
the very beginning to the very end of the antiwar movement. Soon
after the first national demonstration against the war organized by
SDS, leading SDS members concluded that national demonstrations were
a waste of time. Every time proposals were advanced for a national
protest, arguments would surface about the efficacy of mass
demonstrations. Many student activists felt a vague sense that
something more was needed. For example, before the October 1967
Pentagon March, the SDS national office declared, "We feel that these
large demonstrations--which are just public expressions of
belief--can have no significant effect on American policy in Vietnam.
Further, they delude many participants into thinking that the
'democratic' process in America functions in a meaningful way."

It wasn't just SDSers who drew these conclusions; radical pacifist
Dave Dellinger in 1971 noticed "a fatigue, a quasi-disillusionment"
with legal, mass demonstrations, a view that they were "yesterday's
mashed potatoes."

Part of the reason that many activists thought that mass
demonstrations were ineffective was because both Johnson and Nixon
claimed they weren't swayed by them, and simply because the war
continued, year in and year out, no matter how big the protests
got--at least until 1970, when large-scale pullouts began.

But there was also a more political aspect to the debate. As the
movement radicalized, there were those in the movement who elevated
the tactic of street fighting to the level of principle. On the other
side, there were those who made a fetish of legal, mass
demonstrations, to the point of actively discouraging more
confrontational tactics on the grounds that they would deter mass
participation in the movement.

The mass demonstrations were undoubtedly insufficient by themselves
to force the United States out of Vietnam, but they played an
important role in drawing in and educating new antiwar forces, as
well as raising activists' confidence that the movement was widening
its base and gaining overwhelming public support. Halstead offers the
example of 13-year-old Raul Gonzales, who described the impact of
running across the April 15, 1967, mobilization against the war in
Kezar Stadium on San Francisco:

I didn't know what was going on. So I asked someone. They said it was
a demonstration to get the troops out of Vietnam...Personally, I was
against the war, but I didn't really know why. I thought maybe I was
the only one against it. The rally impressed me...I had no arguments
against the war. From talking to people at the demonstration, and
listening to the speeches, I got arguments. It strengthened my
feelings. I took the arguments I learned there and the literature
that was being passed out and used that with my friends. Those who
were wavering tended to side with me now that I had the facts and
figures and the stuff I'd gotten at the demonstration.

Yet, at the same time, many activists were right in their conclusions
that more than large, set-piece protests were necessary to end the
war. Ultimately, it was a combination of protest at home (including
mass demonstrations, sit-ins, civil disobedience, student strikes,
etc.), rebellion among GIs, and the armed struggle of the Vietnamese
people that forced the United States to get out of Vietnam. In all
this, there was no Chinese wall between different forms of protest or
tactics--from mass peaceful demonstrations to blockades, sit-ins,
strikes, and so on. These different manifestations of protest flowed
in and out of one another and often one led to the other. The role of
mass protests was to mobilize the maximum public manifestation of
antiwar sentiment--a kind of movement roll call--used to feed the
movement's further growth in all its different manifestations.

The mass demonstrations also had an impact on soldiers, as well as on
the movement's attitude to soldiers. Fred Halstead recalls how all
this began at the October 1967 March on the Pentagon:

The army brought in several thousand troops--in addition to federal
marshals and police--to defend the Pentagon. Most of the troops were
ordinary soldiers acting as military police for the weekend. Of those
who confronted the crowd a few were angry, even brutal. But many were
visibly embarrassed by the situation, and some became friendly in the
course of contact with the demonstration. Word of this spread among
the demonstrators, and afterward throughout the movement as a
whole.... Before the Pentagon action, the idea of reaching GIs was
pressed by a minority. After the October 21, 1967 march, the movement
as a whole began to embrace the idea with some enthusiasm.

The impact of mass demonstrations on American GIs around the world
only grew as the war went on. It would be hard to see how soldiers,
sailors, and airmen would have moved against the war in such large
numbers without the impact of millions marching against the war at home.

.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

David Horowitz relishes jeers from UC Santa Cruz students

Conservative David Horowitz relishes jeers from UC Santa Cruz students

http://www.santacruzsentinel.com/ci_9412458?source=most_viewed

Kurtis Alexander - Sentinel Staff Writer
Article Launched: 05/29/2008

Before David Horowitz stepped into the lecture hall to face a wary
crowd of UC Santa Cruz students this week, he was seeking assurances
from university officials that campus police would have his back.

Such is life for a former liberal turned right-wing pundit who
travels from campus to campus insulting nontraditional curriculum and
chastising what he sees as a liberal bias at public universities.

His Web site named UC Santa Cruz the biggest culprit last year.

So Tuesday night, amid a skeptical student body, dozens of
demonstrators and talk of a faculty/student protest on the other side
of campus, Horowitz spent a good chunk of his hour-and-a-half
presentation at the Jack Baskin Auditorium on the defensive.

"What you're witnessing here is a witch hunt, and I'm the witch," he
told the standing-room-only crowd of about 200.

Horowitz, who often shrugged and sighed as he does on cable news
stations, stood by his central platform -- that universities need a
balance of political thinking -- and cast himself as the outsider
willing to expose this unpopular truth.

But as reasonable as his points may have been, his jabs at some of
the university's most cherished thinkers -- feminists, Marxists,
Muslims -- seemed to alienate many in attendance and ultimately
undercut the efficacy of his message.

"He was just ranting," said junior Maeghan Tanner.

Others, though, were shaken by Horowitz's statements. A handful of
demonstrators banged on windows and held signs that read "Racist" and
"Kill Whitey," references to his positions against affirmative action
and reparations for slavery. Two audience members got in verbal spats
with Horowitz and were shown the door by police.

The reactions seemed to only embolden the pundit.

"You people are being robbed of your education dollar," he said. "You
can't get a good education if they're only telling you half the story."

His statements follow the argument of his well-known September 2007
article that called UCSC's curriculum "anything but academic" and the
college "beyond any doubt the most radical university in the United
States." In the article, Horowitz claimed popular professors like
Angela Davis and Paul Ortiz spoon-feed students a liberal agenda,
preventing students from seeing the bigger picture.

Across campus on Tuesday night, community studies professor Ortiz was
holding a "teach-in" with about 75 others to counter the presence of
the conservative.

"I would love to have the opportunity to debate him," said Ortiz on
Wednesday. "But I don't think he's really interested in a debate ...
it's more about entertainment and provoking people."

Ortiz, like many at the Baskin theater, took issue with how well
Horowitz really knows UC Santa Cruz and whether his claims of bias on
campus are legitimately researched.

Horowitz acknowledged that he'd only interviewed four or five
students for last year's story about the university and that his
methods were not those of U.S. News and World Report. He also said
his observations of bias only apply to UC Santa Cruz's liberal arts
programs, not its science and engineering divisions.

Horowitz appeared to win a few people over with these concessions.
And similarly, the larger-than-life figure, by the end of the night,
seemed impressed by the attention he was given by students.

"You've been a good audience," he said more than once.

Horowitz, who recently wrote the best-selling "Party of Defeat: How
Democrats and Radicals Undermined America's War on Terror Before and
After 9/11," has not always been a leading figure on the right.

Raised by parents who were card-carrying Communists, his early
political life involved the 1960s anti-war movement and fundraising
for the Black Panthers. These actions, he told the audience, he now,
at 69, regrets.

"And," he said, "I was never as stupidly left as your professors."
--

Contact Kurtis Alexander at 706-3267 or kalexander@santacruzsentinel.com.

.

1968 to 2008: a student’s take on history

1968 to 2008: a student's take on history

http://cityonahillpress.com/article.php?id=1278

May 22, 2008
Rachel Tennenbaum
Gender/Sexuality Editor

The revolution is coming.

Last week I was on the phone with my dad and we were talking about
the University of California and its various goings-on. I told him
about the problems with rising student fees, the ensuing, almost
inevitable, privatization of the UC system and the privatization of
research, such as the collaboration between UC Berkeley and BP. And
then I told him that I felt as though this was an example of the
direction in which the world was heading: a general co-modification
of everything, including education, and an overall out-of-touch
mentality between humans, their communities and the greater planet.

Then I got totally shot down.

"Rachel," my dad told me, "you sound like some crazy lefty college
conspiracy theorist."

What my dad wanted were facts ­ he needed numbers to support my claim
that I felt the world was ending.

After this conversation, I called my mom and told her about my
frustrations. "Dad doesn't get it," I told her, "He just wants facts.
And all I know how to do is feelings."

My mom began to talk about her youth, and she mentioned the year
1968. A 12-year-old French girl, my mom tells me that she did not
even recognize the streets of Paris, they were so crowded that May
exactly 40 years ago. It was 1968, when students took over
everything, in Paris, in New York, in Mexico. The images have stuck
with her forever ­ they've come to represent the epitomization of movements.

1968. The year begins on a dour note ­ on Jan. 10, the 10,000th
American plane is lost over Vietnam. January quickly progresses into
February, and Martin Luther King, Jr. delivers a sermon in Atlanta.
Preaching at the Ebenezer Baptist Church, the speech is especially
moving because in it, the reverend begins to eulogize his own life.
"I'd like somebody to mention that day that Martin Luther King, Jr.
tried to give his life serving others," he says. "I want you to say
that I tried to love and serve humanity." Exactly two months later in
Memphis, Tenn., King is shot and killed.

Spring rushes in and with it the rumblings of student rebellion. On
April 23, students at Columbia University gather to protest their
university's proposal to build a gym in Morningside Park, arguing
that the building lent itself to both segregation and gentrification.
The protest doubly serves to criticize Columbia's involvement with
the U.S. military and the Vietnam War. Demonstrations last a week,
and students take over Hamilton Hall. Columbia scraps plans to build the gym.

A month later, it is Paris that is up in arms. May 6 marks Bloody
Monday, the most violent day in the French student revolt. Five
thousand students march through the Latin Quarter of Paris. More than
20,000 students, teachers and supporters shut down the University of
Paris. Riots ensue with the police. The students espouse freedom,
leftist ideals and demand for their voices to be heard. France
changes forever. President Charles De Gaulle resigns a year later ­
some argue that it is because of the events of May 1968, a month that
lives in infamy for student movements everywhere.

Student movements pick up again in the fall, this time in Mexico
City. On Oct. 2, a march protesting the military's occupation at a
Mexican university ends in Tlatelolco Square for a peaceful rally.
The police and military open fire and shoot into the crowd, killing
between 200 and 300 people. Ten days later the Olympic games begin.
American Olympians Tommie Smith and John Carlos raise their fists in
a Black Power salute when awarded their medals, and are then stripped of them.

The year ends with Richard Nixon elected President, and with the
launch of Apollo 8, the first U.S. mission to orbit the moon.

"It was facts," my mother concludes. "But before facts, it was a
feeling. It was a movement." And she says the same is true today.

2008. In January, the price of oil hits $100 a barrel for the first
time. Kosovo declares independence from Serbia, and China conducts a
military crackdown in Tibet. This leads to major consequences in
April, when people gather to protest China's actions at the Olympic
Torch relay in London on April 6, Paris on the eighth and San
Francisco on the ninth.

In May, the nation is again in upheaval. On the first of the month,
longshoremen, workers and students take to the streets to protest the
war in Iraq, fight for worker's rights, and shed light on U.S.
immigration policies. At UC Santa Cruz, students rally in the Quarry
Plaza, then march through town.

UC students find themselves up in arms two weeks later when the UC
Board of Regents votes to raise student fees. Protests ensue at the
regents' meeting at UCLA.

Meanwhile, in Iraq there are 4,080 confirmed U.S. soldier deaths and
at least 85,000 Iraqi civilian deaths. The Olympics will open in
Beijing Aug. 8, and Nov. 4 is our next presidential election.

The parallels are quite eerie.

2008 is a tumultuous year, to say the least. We are seeing another
heated presidential election. We are stuck in another horrific, slow,
deadly war. We're seeing another Olympics again becoming politicized.
We are fighting for equal rights ­ still.

What did we learn about history repeating itself?

And how do we differ from 1968?

While we are dealing with social crises, it's undeniable that as a
planet we are faced with problems that we've never seen before, and
to a degree that we've never dealt with before. Even my parents agree
with this statement, which is a bit disheartening. "No," they tell
me, "things weren't this bad when we were your age."

What do we make of this?

I see that Santa Cruz is like Paris, and that if change is going to
start anywhere, it will start here. This is a call to the student
body of which I am a part.

In Santa Cruz we're seeing great leaps made. People are fighting big
battles here. In the area of sustainability we see programs like the
Farm and the Education For Sustainable Living Project (ESLP). The
Cantú Center, the Women's Center ­ they work tirelessly to promote
cultural awareness. We have a Pro-Peace club working for love. We are
seeing unity between campus workers, the American Federation of
State, County and Municipal Employees (AFSCME), and the student body.
We're seeing people fight for things that they believe strongly in,
and for all of the argued flaws, there's passion. People are getting
in touch with big things here. People get it.

And you know what? My dad relates to '68 too. He was at Columbia, at
Morningside Heights. This is where everything blew up. There were
feelings behind his work and they pushed facts that he insists on
now, that some of you are probably insisting on. This is all of us.

A small group of students rioting made changes in art, in film. They
changed the country, and they changed the world. Did you hear that?
Students can change the country, and the question then remains, why
not us? And how are we going to act? We've got good ideas on how to
save society, the planet and ourselves. What's it going to be?

So with these facts and uncanny parallels in hand, it falls to us,
UCSC students. We'll go big. We'll start in the forest, in the trees,
on the beach, in the water. In the classrooms, in the rallies. Hell,
we've already begun.

And yeah, it may be idealist, but it's our only option.

So good luck.

The revolution is here.

.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Military Recruiters Must Be Confronted [by Ron Kovic]

Stopping the War Machine:
Military Recruiters Must Be Confronted

http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/20080526_ron_kovic_on_berkeley_recruitment_resistance/

May 28, 2008
By Ron Kovic

As a former United States Marine Corps sergeant who was shot and
paralyzed from my mid-chest down during my second tour of duty in
Vietnam on Jan. 20, 1968, I am sending my complete support and
admiration to all those now involved in the courageous struggle to
stop military recruitment in Berkeley and across the country.

Not since the Vietnam War protests of the late 1960s has there been a
cause more just than the one you are now engaged in. Who knows better
the deep immorality and deception of military recruiters than those
of us who, decades ago, entered those same recruiting offices with
our fathers, believing in our hearts that we were being told the
truth­only to discover later we had been deceived and terribly
betrayed? Many of us paid for that deceit with our lives, years of
suffering and bodies and minds that were never the same again. If
only someone had warned us, if only someone had had the courage to
speak out against the madness that we were being led into, if only
someone could have protected us from the recruiters whose only wish
was to make their quota, send us to boot camp and hide from us the
dark secret of the nightmare which awaited us all.

Over the past five years, I have watched in horror the mirror image
of another Vietnam unfolding in Iraq. So many similarities, so many
things said that remind me of that war 30 years ago which left me
paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair for life. Refusing to learn
from the lessons of Vietnam, our government continues to pursue a
policy of deception, distortion, manipulation and denial, doing
everything it can to hide from the American people their true
intentions and agenda in Iraq. As we pass the fifth anniversary of
the start of this tragic and senseless war, I cannot help but think
of the young men and women who have been wounded, nearly 30,000,
flooding Walter Reed, Bethesda, Brooke Army Medical Center and
veterans hospitals all across our country. Paraplegics, amputees,
burn victims, the blinded, shocked and stunned, brain-damaged and
psychologically stressed, a whole new generation of severely maimed
men and women who were not even born when I came home wounded to the
Bronx Veterans Hospital in New York in 1968.

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which afflicted so many of us
after Vietnam, is just now beginning to appear among soldiers
recently returned from the current war. For some the agony and
suffering, the sleepless nights, anxiety attacks and awful bouts of
insomnia, alienation, anger and rage will last for decades­if not
their whole lives. They will be trapped in a permanent nightmare of
that war, of killing another man, a child, watching a friend die ...
fighting against an enemy that can never be seen, while at any moment
someone, a child, a woman, an old man­anyone­might kill them.

These traumas return home with us and we carry them, sometimes
hidden, for agonizing decades. They deeply impact our daily lives,
and the lives closest to us. To kill another human being, to take
another life out of this world with one pull of a trigger, is
something that never leaves you. It is as if a part of you dies with
that person. If you choose to keep on living, there may be a healing,
and even hope and happiness again, but that scar and memory and
sorrow will be with you forever. Why did the recruiters never mention
these things? This was never in the slick pamphlets they gave us.

Some of these veterans are showing up at homeless shelters around our
country, while others have begun to courageously speak out against
the senselessness and insanity of this war and to demand answers from
the leaders who sent them there. During the 2004 Democratic National
Convention, returning soldiers formed a group called Iraq Veterans
Against the War, just as we had marched in Miami in August of 1972 as
Vietnam Veterans Against the War. Still others have refused
deployment to Iraq, gone to Canada and begun resisting this immoral
and illegal war. Like many other Americans, I have seen them on
television or at the local veterans hospitals, but for the most part,
they remain hidden like the flag-draped caskets of our dead returned
to Dover Air Force Base in the dark of night, as this administration
continues to pursue a policy of censorship, tightly controlling the
images coming out of that war and rarely allowing the human cost of
its policy to be seen.

Many of us promised ourselves long ago that we would never allow what
happened to us in Vietnam to happen again. We had an obligation, a
responsibility, as citizens, as Americans, as human beings, to raise
our voices in protest. We could never forget the hospitals, the
intensive-care wards, the wounded all around us fighting for their
lives, those long and painful years after we came home, those lonely
nights. There were lives to save on both sides, young men and women
who would be disfigured and maimed, mothers and fathers who would
lose their sons and daughters, wives and other loved ones who would
suffer for decades to come if we did not do everything we could to
stop the momentum of this madness.

Mario Savio once said, "There's a time when the operation of the
machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can't
take part, you can't even passively take part, and you've got to put
your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon
all the apparatus and you've got to make it stop! And you've got to
indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that
unless you're free the machine will be prevented from working at all."

It is time to stop the war machine. It is time for bold and daring
action on the part of us all. Precious lives are at stake, both
American and Iraqi, and military recruiters must be confronted at
every turn, in every high school, every campus, every recruiting
office, on every street corner, in every town and city across
America. In no uncertain terms we must make it clear to them that by
their actions they represent a threat to our community, to our
children and all that we cherish. We must explain to them that
condemning our young men and women to their death, setting them up to
be horribly maimed, and psychologically damaged in a senseless and
immoral war, is wrong and unpatriotic and will not be tolerated by
Berkeley­or, for that matter, any town or city in the United States.

The days of deceiving, manipulating and victimizing our young people
are over. We have had enough, and I strongly encourage all of you to
use every means of creative, nonviolent civil disobedience to stop
military recruitment all across our country. I stand with you in this
important and courageous fight, and I am confident your actions in
the days ahead will inspire countless others across our country to do
everything they can to end this deeply immoral and illegal war.
--

(Note: This statement represents portions of several essays and
writings I have done over the past five years.­R.K.)

.

1968: The general strike and the student revolt in France

1968: The general strike and the student revolt in France

http://www.wsws.org/articles/2008/may2008/may1-m28.shtml

Part 1­A revolutionary situation develops

By Peter Schwarz
28 May 2008

The following is the first in a four-part series of articles.

There is barely another historical event that has commanded so much
public attention as the 40th anniversary of the uprisings of 1968. In
recent weeks, hundreds of articles, interviews, documentaries and
television films have been published on the student protests and
labour disputes that took place in that year­with certainly more
coverage in Germany than for any other comparable anniversary.

How is this interest in the events of 1968 to be explained?

The answer has less to do with the past than with the present and the
future. The year 1968 was characterised not merely by "student
revolts," which shook the US, Germany and France as well as Italy,
Japan, Mexico and many other countries. It was the prelude to the
biggest offensive by the international working class since the end of
the Second World War. This offensive lasted seven years, assumed on a
number of occasions revolutionary forms, forced the resignation of
governments, brought down dictatorships and rocked the system of
bourgeois rule to its foundations.

This was most apparent in France when in May 1968 10 million workers
took part in a general strike, occupied factories and brought the
government of General Charles de Gaulle to its knees. In 1969 the
so-called September strikes took place in Germany, and Italy
underwent a "hot autumn" of industrial confrontations. The US saw
mass antiwar demonstrations by the civil rights movement and
rebellions in inner-city ghettos. In Poland and Czechoslovakia­the
Prague Spring­workers revolted against the Stalinist dictatorship. In
the 1970s, right-wing dictatorships were toppled in Greece, Spain and
Portugal. During the same period, the US army suffered a humiliating
defeat in Vietnam.

The background to these events was the first profound crisis of the
capitalist economy since the Second World War. In 1966 a recession
shook the world economy. In 1971 the US government severed the link
between gold and the dollar and in so doing stripped away the
foundation of the world monetary system set up in Bretton Woods in
1944, which had formed the framework for the postwar boom. In 1973
the world economy sank even further into recession.

The wave of international protests, strikes and rebellions left their
mark. In a series of countries, wages and working conditions
improved­often to a considerable extent. The '68 movement also left
traces in the spheres of culture and broader social life. It swept
away the cloying and claustrophobic atmosphere of the 1950s and
1960s, bringing considerable improvements in the rights of women and
minorities. Universities were expanded and opened up to broader
layers of society. But capitalist rule and property relations
remained intact. The bourgeoisie was forced to make political and
social concessions, but it was able to hold on to power.

At the end of the 1970s the counteroffensive began. Margaret Thatcher
came to power in Great Britain, Ronald Reagan in the US and Helmut
Kohl in Germany. Social concessions were reversed and attacks on the
working class intensified.

Today storm clouds are on the horizon again, and social divisions are
more profound than ever. Millions are unemployed or work in
precarious jobs. In Eastern Europe and Asia an enormous army of
workers is being exploited for rock-bottom wages. The recent
financial crisis demonstrates that a collapse of the international
banking system is increasingly probable. Tensions between the great
powers are increasing and imperialist wars­such as that in Iraq­are
once again on the agenda. The inevitable result will be new conflicts
and class struggles.

This is the principal reason for the current interest in the events
of 1968. They could repeat themselves in another form. As the ruling
class tries to prepare itself, workers and young people must also
prepare by drawing the lessons from the experiences of 1968.

This series of articles concentrates on the events in France. Here,
class conflicts erupted to the surface with explosive power in May
and thoroughly disproved the thesis of the New Left that the working
class had been successfully integrated into capitalism via
consumption and the domination of the media. What appeared in January
to be a relatively harmless dispute between students and the
government turned within the space of a few weeks into a
revolutionary situation. The country was paralysed, the government
powerless and the trade unions had lost control of the situation. At
the end of May the working class was not only in a position to force
the resignation of the government led by President de Gaulle, but
also to overthrow the capitalist system and establish its own power.
This would have fundamentally changed the course of political events
throughout Europe­both east and west.

Such a development was prevented by the French Communist Party (PCF)
and its trade union ally, the CGT (Confédération générale du
travail), which strictly refused to take power and used all of its
influence to strangle the mass movement. The Communist Party received
additional backing from the Pabloite United Secretariat led by Ernest
Mandel and its French branches­the Parti communiste internationaliste
(PCI) led by Pierre Frank and the Jeunesse communiste révolutionnaire
(JCR) led by Alain Krivine. For 15 years the Pabloites had
systematically attacked the Marxist traditions of the Trotskyist
movement. Now they disorientated and misdirected students seeking an
alternative to Stalinism by putting forward Che Guevara and
anarchistic-type activism as role models.

The first part of this series deals with the development of the
student revolt and the general strike up to their highpoint at the
end of May. The second part examines the way in which the Communist
Party and the CGT helped General de Gaulle regain control of the
situation. The third part will deal with the role of the Pabloites
and the fourth with the Organisation communiste internationaliste
(OCI) led by Pierre Lambert. The OCI, still the official French
section of the International Committee of the Fourth International at
the time, adopted a centrist position in 1968 and soon after ended up
trailing behind the Socialist Party.

France before 1968

France in the 1960s is characterised by a profound contradiction. The
political regime is authoritarian and deeply reactionary. Its
personification is General de Gaulle, who appears to come from a
different era and who models the Fifth Republic entirely on his
person. De Gaulle is 68-years-old when he was elected president in
1958, and 78 when he resigns in 1969. However, under the ossified
regime of the old general, a rapid economic modernisation takes
place, fundamentally altering the social composition of French society.

At the end of the Second World War, large parts of France are based
on agriculture, with 37 percent of the population still making a
living from the land. In the subsequent 20 years, two-thirds of
French farmers leave the land and move into the cities, where
they­together with immigrant workers­add to the ranks of the working
class a young and militant social layer, difficult for the trade
union bureaucracy to control.

After the end of the Algerian War in 1962, the French economy grows
rapidly. The loss of its colonies forces the French bourgeoisie to
orient its economy more strongly towards Europe. In 1957 France had
already signed the Rome Treaty, the founding document of the European
Economic Community, the predecessor of the European Union. The
economic integration of Europe favours the construction of new
branches of industry, which more than compensate for the decline of
the coal mines and other old industries. In the areas of automobiles,
aircraft, aerospace, arms and nuclear power, new companies and new
factories open up with the support of the government. They are often
situated outside of the old industrial centres and are among the
strongholds of the general strike in 1968.

The city of Caen in Normandy is typical in this regard. The number of
inhabitants increases between 1954 and 1968 from 90,000 to 150,000,
of which half are under the age of 30. Saviem, an offshoot of the
carmaker Renault, employs around 3,000 workers. They are on strike in
January, four months before the general strike, temporarily occupying
the factory and engaging in fierce fighting with the police.

A radicalization is also noticeable within the trade unions. The old,
Catholic union, the CFTC (Confédération Française des Travailleurs
Chrétiens), breaks apart, and the majority of members reorganizes on
a secular basis in the CFDT (Confédération Française Démocratique du
Travail), which acknowledges the "class struggle" and at the start of
1966 agrees to a unity of action with the CGT.

The establishment of new industries brings with it a feverish
expansion of the education sector. New engineers, technicians and
skilled workers are urgently required. Between 1962 and 1968 alone,
the number of students doubles. The universities are overcrowded,
poorly equipped and­like the factories­controlled by a patriarchal
management with antiquated attitudes.

The opposition to the poor educational conditions and the
authoritarian university regime­among other things, the prohibition
of members from student residence halls visiting student
accommodation of the opposite sex­is an important factor in the
radicalization of students, who soon combine such issues with
political questions. In May 1966 the first demonstration against the
Vietnam War takes place. One year later, on 2 June 1967, student
Benno Ohnesorg is shot dead by police in Berlin, and the German
student protests find an echo in France.

In the same year the effects of the worldwide recession are being
felt and have a radicalizing impact on workers. For years, living
standards and working conditions had fallen behind the pace of
economic development. Wages are low, working hours long, and inside
the factories workers have no rights. Now unemployment and the
workload are increasing. The mining, steel, textile and construction
industries stagnate.

The leadership of the unions arranges protests from above in order
not to lose control. But local protests from below build up and are
brutally suppressed by the police. In February 1967 workers at the
textile manufacturer Rhodiacéta in the city of Besançon are the first
to occupy their factory, protesting against job cuts and demanding
better working conditions.

Farmers also demonstrate against falling incomes. In 1967 in the west
of France, several demonstrations by farmers develop into street
battles. According to a police report at the time, the farmers are
"numerous, aggressive, organized and armed with various projectiles:
bolts, cobblestones, metal splinters, bottles and pebbles."

At the beginning of 1968, France appears relatively quiet on the
surface, but underneath social tensions are fermenting. The entire
country resembles a powder keg. All that is needed to cause an
explosion is a random spark. This spark is provided by the student protests.

Students revolt and general strike

The University of Nanterre is among the colleges constructed in the
1960s. Built on land previously belonging to the armed forces, just
five kilometers outside of Paris, it is opened in 1964. It is
surrounded by poverty-stricken neighborhoods, so-called Bidonvilles,
and factories. On January 8, 1968, protesting students clash with
Youth Minister François Missoffe, who is in the region to open a new
swimming pool.

Although the incident itself is relatively insignificant, the
disciplinary measures instigated against the students, as well as the
repeated interventions by police, escalate the conflict and make
Nanterre the starting point of a movement that quickly spreads to
universities and high schools throughout the country. At its center
are demands for better learning conditions, free access to
university, more personal and political freedoms, the release of
arrested students, as well as opposition to the US war against
Vietnam, where at the end of January the Tet Offensive begins.

In some cities, such as Caen and Bordeaux, workers, students and high
school pupils jointly take to the streets. On April 12, a solidarity
demonstration takes place in Paris in support of the German student
Rudi Dutschke, who has been gunned down on the street in Berlin by an
enraged right-winger.

On March 22, 142 students occupy the administration building at the
University of Nanterre. The administration reacts by closing the
university completely for an entire month. The conflict then shifts
to the Sorbonne, the oldest university in France, located in the
Latin Quarter in Paris. On May 3, representatives from various
student organizations meet to discuss how the campaign should
proceed. Meanwhile, extreme right-wing groups are demonstrating
outside. The university dean calls the police who proceed to clear
the campus. A huge, spontaneous demonstration erupts. The police
react with extreme brutality and students respond by erecting
barricades. By the end of the night, around a hundred are left
injured and hundreds more arrested. On the day after the arrests a
court hands out harsh sentences to 13 students based solely on the
exclusive testimony of police officers.

The government and media strive to portray the street battles in the
Latin Quarter as the work of radical groups and troublemakers. The
Communist Party also joins the chorus against the students. Its
number two figure, Georges Marchais, who later becomes the party's
general secretary, fires a broadside against the student "pseudo
revolutionaries" on the front page of the party's newspaper Humanité.
He accuses them of abetting the "fascist provocateurs." Marchais is
above all unsettled by the fact that the students "distribute
leaflets and other propaganda material in increasing numbers at
factory gates and in the districts of immigrant workers." He bellows:
"These false revolutionaries must be exposed, for they are
objectively serving the interests of the Gaullist regime and the big
capitalist monopolies."

Such baiting has no effect, however. The country is shocked by the
brutal actions of the police, which are broadcast by radio stations.
Events now take on a momentum of their own. The demonstrations in
Paris become bigger and bigger with each passing day, and spread to
other cities. They are directed against police repression and demand
the release of those the students arrested. High school pupils also
participate in the strike. On May 8 a first one-day general strike
takes place in western France.

From May 10-11 the Latin Quarter is engulfed by the "Night of the
Barricades." Tens of thousands barricade themselves in the university
district, which is then stormed by police at two o'clock in the
morning using tear gas. Hundreds are injured.

The following day, Prime Minister Georges Pompidou, who has just
returned from a state visit to Iran, announces the reopening of the
Sorbonne University and the release of students in custody. However,
his actions can no longer control the situation. The unions,
including the Communist Party-dominated CGT, call a general strike
for May 13 against police repression. The unions fear losing control
over the militant workers if they act otherwise.

The strike call meets with a huge response. Numerous cities
experience the biggest mass demonstrations since the Second World
War. In Paris alone 800,000 take to the streets. Political demands
come to the forefront. Many demand the toppling of the government.
During the evening, the Sorbonne and other universities are
re-occupied by the students.

The plan of the trade unions to limit the general strike to one day
fails to materialize. On the following day, May 14, workers occupy
the Sud-Aviation factory in Nantes. The plant remains under control
of the workers for one month, with red flags flying over the
administration building. The regional director, Duvochel, is held
captive by the occupiers for 16 days. The general manager of
Sud-Aviation at this time is Maurice Papon, a Nazi collaborator, war
criminal and head of the Paris police in 1961, when he was
responsible for the killing of demonstrators protesting against the
Algeria war.

Workers at other factories follow the example at Sud-Aviation, and a
wave of occupations spreads across the country from May 15 through
May 20. Everywhere red flags are hoisted, and in many factories the
management is held captive. The actions affect hundreds of factories
and offices including the country's biggest factory, the main Renault
plant in Billancourt, which had played a central role in the strike
wave of 1947.

Initially the workers raise immediate demands, which differ from
place to place: fairer remuneration pay, a shortening of working
times, no dismissals, more rights for workers in the factory.
Workers' and action committees spring up in the occupied factories
and surrounding areas drawing in local residents, students and pupils
alongside the striking workers and technical and administrative
staff. The committees take responsibility for the organization of the
strikes and develop into forums of intensive political debate. The
same is true for the universities, which are to a large extent
occupied by students.

On May 20 the whole country is at a standstill­hit by a general
strike, although neither the trade unions nor any other organizations
have issued a call for such a strike. Factories, offices,
universities and schools are occupied, production and the transport
system paralyzed. Artists, journalists and even soccer players join
the movement. Ten million of France's 15 million-strong workforce are
involved in the action. Later studies have revised this figure down
somewhat to 7-9 million, but it still remains the most massive
general strike in French history. "Only" 3 million workers had taken
part in the general strike in 1936, while 2.5 million workers
participated in the general strike of 1947.

The strike wave reaches its peak between May 22 and 30, but lasts
long into July. More than 4 million workers remain on strike for
longer than three weeks and 2 million longer than four weeks.
According to the French Labor Ministry, a total of 150 million
working days are lost in 1968 because of strikes. In comparison the
strike by miners in Great Britain in 1974, which brought down the
Conservative government led by Edward Heath, resulted in a total of
14 million lost working days.

On May 20 the government has largely lost control of the country. The
demand for the resignation of de Gaulle and his government­"ten years
are enough"­is pervasive. On May 24, de Gaulle attempts to regain
control over the situation with a televised speech to the nation. He
promises a referendum giving students and workers more rights in
universities and companies. But his appearance only demonstrates his
impotence. His speech has no impact whatsoever.

In the first three weeks of May a revolutionary situation has
developed in France that has few precedents in history. With a
determined leadership, the movement could have sealed the political
fate of de Gaulle and his Fifth Republic. The security forces still
stood behind the regime, but they would hardly have withstood a
systematic political offensive. The sheer size of the movement would
have had a corrosive impact on their ranks.
--

To be continued

.

The Extra Long Life of 'Che'

The Extra Long Life of 'Che'

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/05/22/AR2008052204117.html

41/2-Hour Cannes Premiere Tests Cinephiles' Stamina

By William Booth
Washington Post Staff Writer
Friday, May 23, 2008

CANNES, France, May 22 -- After Steven Soderbergh's
4-hour-and-28-minute epic film about the grueling guerrilla campaigns
of the revolutionary hero and international male model Ernesto "Che"
Guevara paused for an intermission, bedraggled columns of cinephiles
stumbled from their seats into the lobby of Grand Theatre Lumiere,
rubbing feeling back into their eyeballs. Ushers, acting as emergency
medical corps, quickly administered fresh water and rations of Kit
Kat candy bars.

Troops huddled in the foyer to smoke last cigarettes and contemplate
what was to come, which was the rest of the film. But discipline was
strict, just a 15-minute respite and then once more into the breach
-- though at least one guest broke down to covertly gobble McDonald's
in a toilet stall.

Comrades, it is our duty to report: There were deserters.

Traitors! Too weak to sustain the continued emotional investment
necessary to survive the long, tragic, long, doomed Bolivian campaign
of Benicio Del Toro in Part 2 of "Che." The most highly anticipated
movie of the Cannes Film Festival took a heavy toll. The premiere got
underway at 6:46 p.m. and ended at 11:25 p.m. Upon seeing on the
screen the words "Day 328," a faint moan could be heard in our
section. But the struggle will continue. It must. Soderbergh does not
yet have an American buyer for his film. Distribution or death!

Reaction to the movie was, as they say, mixed. It appears that some
support Soderbergh and others have joined the résistance. At the
film's conclusion, the audience at the world premiere rose and gave
Soderbergh, Benicio and their cast of internationalistas a sustaining
ovation, shouting "fantastico" and "bravo!" Soderbergh, stone-faced
during intermission, finally broke into a smile and waved.

But Todd McCarthy of Variety expects it will be "back to the drawing
board" for an "intricately ambitious, defiantly nondramatic" work
that not only avoids the usual Hollywood biopic conventions, but
forgets to include "any suggestion of why the charismatic doctor,
fighter, diplomat, diarist and intellectual theorist became and
remains such a legendary figure."

Meaning "Braveheart" it's not.

"The film reeks of authenticity but also self-indulgence. A
potentially great performance by Benicio Del Toro in the title role
is buried beneath Soderbergh's stylistic tics and an almost complete
lack of dramatic tension," wrote Peter Howell in the Toronto Star.
"An incredibly ambitious, highly detailed mess," according to Roger
Friedman at FoxNews.com.

But Glenn Kenny of Indiewire found plenty to like in "Che," which
"benefits greatly from certain Soderberghian qualities that don't
always serve his other films well, e.g., detachment, formalism, and
intellectual curiosity." James Rocchi of Cinematical calls the end
result "masterful -- expressive, innovative, striking, exciting."

Perhaps it is just us, but we flashed on the HBO "Entourage" episode
where Vince and the boys take their Pablo Escobar film to Cannes and
it bombs. Did we mention that the Soderbergh film is 268 minutes
long? In Spanish? That the work includes Che's speech to the United
Nations, seemingly in its entirety? "Lawrence of Arabia" (we checked)
did its job in 210 minutes.

At the news conference on Thursday, Soderbergh was dismissive and
defensive. The filmmaker was asked, very politely, couldn't he have
made his movie -- and introduced his Che to America -- in less time
than it took to fly to Bali? Nope. "I can only make something I want
to see," said Soderbergh, whose career has veered lately from fat and
happy ("Ocean's Thirteen") to heartless and generally disliked ("The
Good German").

You see, Soderbergh explained, there is so much context. You gotta
have the context, or you wouldn't get Che. You have to have Part 1,
which is the victory of the Cuban revolution, where the Argentine
doctor fought alongside Fidel Castro, and won against all odds, to
get Part 2, in which the iconic Che travels incognito to Bolivia to
try to spark continental revolution, except the Bolivian peasants
aren't having it and Che is hunted down by the military and the
Yankees and shot like a dog.

It seems as if the weight of history weighed them down. All these
details, which the film obsesses on, like they were going to be
graded by Fidel. The director said he himself was not a true
believer, nor was he really interested in the Cuban revolution. He
was interested in Che. "He's great movie material," said the
director. "Who lived one of most fascinating lives of the last century."

Del Toro mentions that they had enough material to make a seven-hour
film, and suggested that upon seeing the movie for the third time,
"they'll see things." Del Toro, who served as a producer on the film,
said, "The love people felt for this man made me want to get to know
more about this man."

Though Soderbergh does not appear to speak Spanish himself, he said,
"You can't make a film like this with any credibility if you don't
make it in Spanish."

His screenwriter, Peter Buchman, was asked very politely why he
decided to forgo the usual dramatic conventions. Soderbergh said,
yeah, "why aren't there more movie moments?"

"I quickly learned with Steven that movie moments were a bad idea,"
Buchman said." We wanted to get at the character of the man in a
different way."

Soderbergh said, "I find it hilarious that people say movies are too
conventional" and then they criticize him for being unconventional.
As for the "nondramatic" tone of the film, what Soderbergh sought was
"a sense of what it was like to hang out with this person." This cool
guy Che. "And that's it."

"It's all a very elaborate way for us to sell our own T-shirts," said
Del Toro. They hope.

.

Barack Obama's communist connections

[2 articles]

Barack Obama's communist connections

http://www.renewamerica.us/columns/vernon/080526

by Wes Vernon
May 26, 2008

The frontrunner for this year's Democrat presidential nomination
burst upon the scene from out of nowhere only in recent months. Two
or three years ago, Barrack Hussein Obama was an unknown outside his
Chicago bailiwick and in some other Illinois quarters. Even his time
in the Illinois State Senate was unremarkable.

So what do we know about him?

As this column has noted (see "Violent chickens roost on candidates'
shoulders" ­ April 21, 2008), Senator Obama has some Marxist
skeletons in his closet.

These include a Hawaiian "poet" named Frank Marshall Davis (whose
identity Obama tried to hide when referencing him in his book). Davis
had some considerable influence on the young Obama when they both
lived in Hawaii. Obama himself says as much in his book, referring to
his early mentor merely as "Frank." It took some recent digging to
confirm that Davis was in fact that influence. Did Obama really think
that the very act of hiding the man's true identity would make no one curious?

Davis has also been identified as a member of the Communist Party.
When the Senate Internal Security Subcommittee in 1956 asked him to
affirm or deny his membership in the party, he refused to respond,
citing the Fifth Amendment. Adding to that is the fact ­ revealed in
the news conference referenced below ­ that Davis began his communist
career in Chicago and was a friend and associate of the singer Paul
Robeson and the longshore union official Harry Bridges, both secret
Communist Party members.

Were it not for the Internet and talk radio, you would not know of
this ­ or other Obama associations ­ that should prompt media
curiosity involving a candidate for President of the United States.

We also have cited Obama's ties to the pro-communist terrorist couple
William Ayers and his wife Bernadine Dohrn, unrepentant for their
records of violent activity in sixties and seventies. They escaped
prison on a legal technicality.

But we have just scratched the surface

Comes now Herbert Romerstein, whose professional background in
security and intelligence matters we have mined on previous
occasions. He knows where the bodies are buried in this town. And
Cliff Kincaid's America's Survival, Inc., has wisely utilized the
wealth of information Romerstein possesses.

At a news conference here in Washington on May 22, Kincaid and
Romerstein released two documents that are chockablock with names,
dates, places ­ page after page detailing the "Obama connection" to
communists, socialists, and violent radicals. One deals with Obama's
associates in Hawaii, the other is focused on his background in Chicago.

Romerstein provided the wealth of knowledge required for this
undertaking. Kincaid provided the shoeleather for up-to-date
sleuthing, including a trip to Chicago.

The beginning

The Feb. 22 issue of Politico ­ a Washington sheet basically for
political insiders ­ added momentum to an already-major investigative
project on the part of America's Survival.

On that day, it ran a story spotlighting what might be called Obama's
political "coming out" 1995 reception at the home of Ayers and Dohrn.
Politico did not reveal any extensive background of those present.
However, with the encyclopedic memory of Romerstein ­ whose personal
library pinpoints the activities of thousands of America's enemies ­
America's Survival helpfully filled in the blanks.

Then-State Senator Alice Palmer announced to those gathered at the
Ayers/Dohrn residence that she was stepping down to make a run for
Congress and introduced Obama as her chosen successor.

Who is Alice Palmer?

Palmer is much more than the "influential liberal" described by Politico.

Ten years before the aforementioned meeting, Alice Palmer was an
official of a notorious Communist front group (so identified by the
FBI), the U.S. Peace Council, an affiliate of the World Peace
Council, an international Soviet front. It goes without saying that
during that era of the eighties, both of these mouthpieces for Moscow
were working feverishly to undermine President Reagan's arms buildup
which played a major role in the downfall of the Soviet Union. That
was the time of the worldwide Soviet-inspired nuclear "freeze"
movement in 1983, when Palmer was also mentioned as a participant on
the World Peace Council's Prague assembly.

In 1986, Palmer wrote an article for the People's Weekly World, a
house organ for the Communist Party USA (CPUSA). In that dispatch,
Palmer favorably recounted her experiences attending the 27th
Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

(Note: Because Palmer later tried to reclaim her place in the State
Senate, Obama moved to have her taken off the ballot. Thus this year,
according to America's Survival, she is supporting Senator Hillary
Clinton for President.)

Red press rejoices

Frank Chapman, a member of the U.S. Peace Council Executive
Committee, wrote what could be called a gloating letter to the
People's Weekly World right after Obama's victory this year in the
Iowa Democrat Party caucuses. Therein, he said the following:

"Obama's victory was more than a progressive move: It was a
dialectical leap ushering in a qualitatively new era of struggle.
Marx once compared [the] revolutionary new era of struggle with the
work of the mole, who sometimes burrows so far beneath the ground
that he leaves no trace of his movement on the surface. This is the
old revolutionary 'mole,' not only showing his traces on the surface
but also breaking through."

So who is the mole?

A "mole" on whom Karl Marx would have smiled benignly if he were
here? Chapman writes exuberantly as if he believed there was a "mole"
in the Obama campaign. Perhaps Obama himself? Is anybody in the
mainstream media just mildly curious?

As for Ayers and Dohrn

Apologists for William Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn (whose links to
Obama were an issue during his 2004 U.S. Senate campaign) liked to
say that the violent doings of their Weather Underground didn't kill
anyone other than their own members in accidental explosions.

Not so. Undercover informant Larry Grathwohl testified before the
Senate Internal Security Subcommittee in 1974 that Ayers emphatically
said Dohrn placed a bomb on the window ledge of a police station in
San Francisco that killed a police sergeant. That young officer had
his whole life ahead of him, but as America's Survival puts it, "to
Ayers and Dohrn, he was a 'pig.'"

Oh, yes, and here is an example of the nature of terrorists who pose
as "bleeding-heart liberals:"

Grathwohl reveals in his own book that ­ as plans were made for the
San Francisco police station bombing ­ he pointed out to Ayers that
the explosion could also "kill a few innocent customers at a
restaurant next door," adding "most of them are black."

Replied Ayers (according to Grathwohl's account): "We can't protect
all the innocent people in the world."

And there is more.

The cast of characters in this drama grows.

In an interview with this column, Romerstein elaborated on a comment
he made at the America's Survival news conference. The veteran
intelligence authority cited a former Obama advisor, Robert Malley.

You may have heard in the news earlier this month that Malley
suddenly cut his advisory ties to the Obama campaign after
acknowledging he had talked with Hamas, which is on the State
Department list of terrorist organizations. You also may recall that
Hamas advisor Ahmed Yousef was quoted as saying, "We like Mr. Obama.
We hope he will win the election." Not surprisingly, Senator John
McCain made an issue of that, adding that his hoped-for presidency
would be Hamas's "worst nightmare." It was then that Malley
disappeared from the Obama scene.

Here's what has not been widely reported: Malley is Program Director
for the International Crisis Group, lavishly funded by billionaire
George Soros, whose number one aim in life is to steer America and
the world sharply leftward. He reportedly would like to see a
national convention by 2020 to write a new constitution for the United States.

Robert Malley's father, Simon Malley, according to Romerstein and the
Discover the Network, was an important figure in the Egyptian
Communist Party, was pro-Soviet, passionately anti-Israel, and
anti-West. He was booted out of Egypt and later out of France for
awhile, to be welcomed back later when the more leftwing government
of the socialist Francois Mitterrand took over in Paris.

Romerstein and others believe that the effect of many of Robert
Malley's policies and approaches to the Middle East are antithetical
to the best interests of the United States. Whatever the intent,
critics argue, the net result ­ to whatever extent of Malley's
influence ­ is a plus for Hamas, Hezbollah, and other enemies of the
United States. An example cited is his view of the 2000 Camp David
Summit, in which he participated as a negotiator. Malley rejects the
opinion that all the blame for that conference's failure rests with
PLO terrorist Yasser Arafat.

Martin Peretz, in the New Republic, described Malley as "a rabid
hater of Israel," and described several of Malley's articles in the
New York Review of Books as "deceitful."

Many Americans thought the Clinton administration's security and
foreign policies were at times ­ to put it kindly ­ bizarre. Malley
served in some important posts in that White House, including as
assistant to National Security Director Sandy Berger.

So who is Barack Obama?

At the end of the America's Survival news conference, Kincaid said
America's Survival (A) has no intention of feeding this information
to the Clinton or McCain campaign, (B) has no connection in any way
with any political campaign, and (C) was hoping the media would
approach questions on Obama's background with the same kind of
investigative digging evident in "a very good" Washington Post story
that very day dealing with the McCain campaign's relations with lobbyists.

So again, who is Barack Obama?

We have only skimmed some highlights here on the Obama connection to
Marxist radicals. There is much more to tell. We will revisit the
issue ­ not necessarily in consecutive columns, but at the very
least, to the extent that the mainstream media choose to ignore the issue.

In the meantime, some comments by Romerstein in our own interview
with him are worth pondering:

"Obama speaks in slogans and never explains the thinking that goes
into his statements. That's what we need to know: To what extent do
these people influence him ­ the communist Frank Davis, the
neo-communists Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn, the anti-Semitic
pro-Arab terrorist groups that he met with in Chicago. To what extent
do they influence his thinking, and will he repudiate those people?"
--

Wes Vernon is a Washington-based writer and veteran broadcast journalist.

--------

Report: Obama mentored by Communist Party figure

http://worldnetdaily.com/index.php?fa=PAGE.view&pageId=65066

Investigations show ties to radicals who shaped him, helped launch
his political career

Posted: May 22, 2008
By Jerome R. Corsi

Barack Obama had extensive ties with extreme anti-American elements,
including agents of the Moscow-controlled Communist Party USA, in
Hawaii and Chicago, according to two new reports released yesterday
in Washington, D.C., by two experienced internal security investigators.

Investigative journalist Cliff Kincaid and Herbert Romerstein, a
former investigator with the U.S. House Committee on Un-American
Activities, presented evidence Obama was mentored, while attending
high school in Hawaii, by Frank Marshall Davis, an African-American
poet and journalist who was also a CPUSA member.

The authors, in a separate report, document Obama's ties to radicals
in Chicago who helped launch his career.

In a paper entitled "Communism in Hawaii and the Obama Connection,"
http://www.usasurvival.org/docs/hawaii-obama.pdf
the authors document that in 1948, Davis decided to move from Chicago
to Honolulu at the suggestion of what they describe as two "secret
CPUSA members," actor Paul Robeson and Harry Bridges, the head of the
International Longshoremen's and Warehousemen Union, or ILWU.

In Chicago, Davis had worked for the Chicago Star newspaper; in
Honolulu, he was hired as a reporter for the Honolulu Record, both
identified by Kincaid and Romerstein as "communist front newspapers."

In his autobiography, "Dreams from My Father," Obama discusses the
influence a mentor identified in the book only as "Frank" had on his
intellectual development.

Obama described Frank as a drinking companion of his grandfather, who
had boasted of his association with African-American authors Richard
Wright and Langston Hughes during the time Frank was a journalist in Chicago.

Romerstein, in addition to having served as investigator with the
U.S. House Committee on Un-American Activities, served in the same
capacity with the House Committee on Internal Security and the House
Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. He was the head of the
Office to Counter Soviet Disinformation for the U.S. Information
Agency. Romerstein is also co-author of the influential book "The
Venona Secrets: Exposing Soviet Espionage and America's Traitors,"
which included extensive documentation of the communist activities of
Roosevelt administration staffer Alger Hiss.

Kincaid is the founder and president of America's Survival Inc., an
independent watchdog group that monitors the U.N. and international
terrorism. He is also editor of Accuracy in Media's AIM Report.

Are you a member of the Communist Party?

Kincaid and Romerstein quote Kathryn Takara of the University of
Hawaii, who wrote a dissertation on the life of Frank Marshall Davis,
confirming Davis was a significant influence on Obama when the
senator attended Punahou prep school in Hawaii from 1975 to 1979

A transcript of a 1956 hearing before the Senate Internal Security
Subcommittee discovered by internal security affairs researcher and
writer Max Friedman showed Davis took the Fifth Amendment when asked
by the subcommittee if he was or had ever been a member of the Communist Party.

In the second report, "Communism in Chicago and the Obama
Connection," Kincaid and Romerstein present evidence supporting their
contention the SDS organization from which the Weather Underground
organization and radicals Bill Ayers and Bernardine Dorhn came,
received financial contributions from the CPUSA, which in turn
receive its funding from Moscow.

Obama's run for the Illinois state Senate was launched by a
fundraiser organized at Ayers' and Dorhn's Chicago home by Alice
Palmer. Palmer had named Obama to succeed her in the state Senate in
1995, when she decided to run for a U.S. congressional seat.

Nine years before Palmer picked Obama to be her successor, she was
the only African-American journalist to travel to the Soviet Union to
attend the 27th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union,
according to an article Palmer wrote in the CPUSA newspaper, People's
Daily World, June 19, 1986.

"There has been no explanation of why Ayers et al. played a role in
launching Obama's political career," Kincaid wrote.

Kincaid and Romerstein present documentation that Tom Hayden, another
major figure in the SDS, is today one of four principal initiators of
the "Progressives for Obama" movement, which calls for ending the war
in Iraq "as quickly as possible, not in five years."

According to Kincaid and Romerstein, U.S. Peace Council executive
committee member Frank Chapman "blew the whistle on communist support
for Obama's presidential bid and his real agenda" in a letter to the
People's Weekly World after Obama's win in the Iowa Democratic Party caucuses.

"Obama's victory was more than a progressive move; it was a
dialectical leap ushering in a qualitatively new era of struggle,"
Chapman wrote. "Marx once compared revolutionary struggle with the
work of the mole, who sometimes burrows so far beneath the ground
that he leaves no trace of his movement on the surface.

Kincaid and Romerstein wrote, "The clear implication of Chapman's
letter is that Obama himself, or some of his Marxist supporters, are
acting like moles in the political process. The suggestion is that
something is being hidden from the public."

.

Digging Halted at Manson Ranch

Digging Halted at Manson Ranch

http://www.kesq.com/Global/story.asp?S=8352879&nav=9ptCcCva

May 21, 2008
By Nathan Baca, News Channel 3

The search for more victims at Charles Manson's former desert hideout
is over. Inyo County Sheriff's deputies ended their search early
Wednesday afternoon. No human remains were found.

The secluded Barker Ranch is in the Panamint mountain range in Death
Valley. News Channel 3 was the only local station with an inside look
at the remote ranch house.

Frozen in time, the inside of the Barker Ranch house shows few clues
identifying its former occupants: notorious mass murderer Charles
Manson and his "family."

Now, a team of Inyo County Sheriffs deputies is digging up the
grounds around the Barker Ranch, looking for other murder victims at
four possible burial sites. The search begins with gold prospector
Emmett Harder. Forty years ago, Charles Manson was his neighbor.

"When these hippies showed up then, why, they were just some of the
people that came in and out. They came to our mining camp. Carl and I
were brining high grade gold off the top. We have a mine that we
opened up," said Harder as he showed a 1969 photo of Charles Manson.
"This is Carl Rona, and this is Charles Manson, then. And I kinda
described him as a self-styled evangelist because he kept talking to
Carl about the Book of Revelations."

As we drive towards Manson's hideout, this canyon brings a whole new
meaning to 'secluded.' Its remoteness in the Death Valley National
Park gave Manson the chance to live by his own rules.

The Manson Family came to the secluded desert ranch to wait out the
coming race war they believed would come in 1969 between blacks and
whites. They were also looking for "the bottomless pit," an
underground city they believed existed underneath Death Valley.

Emmett recalls, "Charles Manson said, 'We're not hippies. We've
escaped from Haight-Ashbury and we're down here where we get away
from the troubles of the world.'"

When police officers came to arrest Manson, he was found hiding
underneath a cabinet. After Manson was convicted for seven murders,
Manson family member Susan Atkins told Emmett that bodies were buried
close to the Barker Ranch.

"I was told about by this girl another graphic account of members of
the family who decided to escape and when Manson and the rest of the
boys find out they had taken a dune buggy and were getting away, they
went after the, and she gave me a graphic account of that they'd come
back with trophies to demonstrate they'd murdered them," said Harder.
"The other murders, nobody was concerned about them. One was a boy
who's Volkswagen car broke down."

After hearing the account in Emmett's recent book, Sergeant Paul
Dostie of the Mammoth Lakes Police Department brought "Buster," a dog
specially trained in finding buried remains. The dog found five sites.

Scientists from the Oak Ridge National Laboratory in Tennessee
brought equipment that can effectively smell the dirt for dead
bodies. It also found some possible burial sites.

But the digging is slow, one inch at a time.

"I think our greatest fear is that we're three feet off and we can't
dig up the whole desert," said Sgt. Dostie.

Harder adds, "My first visit there in years and I got misty eyed and
I felt the horror of what they had done to themselves and what they
had done to other people. When I had been there with them, why...
They were a happy group of young people, enjoying the desert and
enjoying the freedom."

.

The Steve Miller Band still flies like an eagle

The Steve Miller Band still flies like an eagle

http://newsok.com/the-steve-miller-band-still-flies-like-an-eagle/article/3247252/?tm=1211520244

May 23, 2008
By Gene Triplett
Entertainment Editor

Time may keep on slippin' into the future, but it's not getting past
Steve Miller without being put to good use.

Not this year anyway, as 2008 marks the 40th anniversary of the
release of his band's first two albums, "Children of the Future" and
"Sailor." To celebrate, he's unleashing "Live from Chicago," a
special DVD boxed set documenting his two-night stand at the 2007
Ravinia Festival in the city where he interned with the blues greats.

He's also just completed enough new tracks to fill three albums ­ his
first studio recordings since 1993's "Wide River."

And he's embarked on a 37-city North American tour that will bring
him to the Zoo Amphitheatre on Thursday with show-opener Joe Cocker.

"We just played three nights at the Fillmore just to have some fun
and warm up, and then we went into Skywalker Ranch to record and we
brought in Andy Johns to do the engineering, and we've just had a
phenomenal month of recording and playing gigs and we're ready to go,
man," Miller said from his mountain home in the central Idaho Rockies.

The third of the three sold-out shows marked his 109th appearance at
the storied San Francisco auditorium. He took his first bow there in
1967, lured away from the fading Chicago blues scene by the promise
of the flower-power movement and its accompanying rock 'n' roll renaissance.

"Those days are long gone," he said. "That (sense of community) was
one of the most remarkable things about those times. It's sort of
tough to keep something like that together. ... That was really a
pretty idealistic time. Probably couldn't pull something like that
off nowadays. But it was like a big co-op, a community of artists and
promoters and lawyers and poster designers and sound people.
Everybody was working on it together, and that's what it took to make
it all happen, and it changed the whole world of rock 'n' roll, and
when you go see a rock 'n' roll concert today, it was those people
back in San Francisco that had that idea and brought it to fruition,
made it all happen."

But Miller still is making things happen four decades after the
Haight-Ashbury heyday, revisiting the bluesy roots that predate even
those heady times. The bonus features disc from the DVD contains a
film of Miller taking a taxi-cab tour through the south side Chicago
neighborhoods he used to frequent in 1964-'65, after he'd moved there
from Dallas. This was where the smoky clubs and barrooms regularly
featured such heavy blues hitters as Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters,
Jimmy Reed and Little Walter.

"It was a rude awakening because everything was gone," Miller
recalled. "You'd get to this place, and it'd be like the new world.
This is where Big John's used to be, or this is where Pepper's Lounge
was, where I first saw Howlin' Wolf, or this was Silvio's, and you'd
get there and there'd be like townhouses or modern apartment
buildings and stuff like that. Everything had really, really changed
a lot. And it was interesting, but what was good about it was hopping
in the cab and knowing you were heading over to Pepper's, it really
made me think about all of that."

Certainly, blues has informed even the poppiest of Miller's songs
over the years, from "Livin' in the U.S.A." to "Abracadabra," but
when he re-entered the studio for the first time in about 15 years,
many of the songs he and the band laid down were covers of the
classics by masters such as Robert Johnson, Charles Brown, James
Cotton, Slim Harpo, Elmore James and Bobby Bland. There are some new
originals, too, but the blues was obviously weighing heavy on Miller's mind.

"I think we'll probably break it up into a couple (of albums), but
they'll come out quickly," he said. "I think in today's world there's
no sense in overwhelming people. Go, hey, here's 40 new songs. I like
shorter records, 35, 45 minutes as opposed to 70 minutes of endless
stuff. I was just working on the segueing this morning, and it's
really interesting because there's three records in here and I'm
trying to stretch it to two."

Miller isn't sure whether Capitol, his longtime label, will issue the
music or he'll put it out himself. And when he's asked about the long
period between studio efforts, his answer is quite pointed.

"I mean, the record business sucks. Now I think we can put it out
without having to go through any record company bull----."

Miller said Capitol is already "real chapped" at him anyway, since he
produced and released the DVD on the Coming Home imprint. The
company, which specializes in concert DVDs, spent $2 million
producing the film, which was shot with multiple high-definition
cameras and recorded in 5.1 (Dolby) Surround Sound.

"That's about a million and a half more than Capitol Records has
spent on the Steve Miller Band in the last 15 years," he said. "And
it was kind of fun watching it on a big screen with guys from Capitol
Records who were getting smaller and smaller and smaller in their
seats, realizing that they hadn't done anything. So that's kind of
the record business. But I don't want to bore my audience with
grousing about my boss."

After all, life's too short, and Miller is just beginning to realize
that. Maybe it started with that cab ride through Chicago's south side.

"I'm finally beginning to deal with the fact that I'm gettin' older,"
he said. "I don't feel old, and I work out and I'm in shape and I go
out and play rock 'n' roll all the time. So it's kind of hard to feel
my real age. But I'm 64 this year and, you know, the last 10 years
went by in it seems like about a year. I mean, 1998 doesn't seem that
long ago. So that means the next 10 years are gonna go by twice as
fast, so I'm savoring each tour and each thing we do. Because you
don't know how long it's gonna run and how long the body's gonna hold
up. I'm willing right now. I feel great."

And there's no time like the present.

.

Judy Collins says the past is always with us

Judy Collins says the past is always with us

http://www.canada.com/vancouversun/news/arts/story.html?id=fabf3ed5-f77a-4da5-bebf-da48c4151118

Legendary artist will discuss how she learns from life's twists

Yvonne Zacharias, Vancouver Sun
Published: Monday, May 26, 2008

JUDY COLLINS: UNIQUE LIVES & EXPERIENCES
Orpheum Theatre, Tuesday, May 27, 7:30 p.m., Tickets $31 to $70
at Ticketmaster

Oh so many years ago, on cold winter nights in my small prairie home
town, I used to take my $50 guitar to the basement in my family's
home and try to play.

As a teenager, I was inspired by the many great folk singers of the
day like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen. But
there was one whose voice stood out from all the others. She was Judy Collins.

Now, some 35 years later, I mentioned to my 21-year-old son that I
would be interviewing Collins. He plays electric guitar and is a big
fan of all kinds of music ranging from the Rolling Stones to Stevie
Ray Vaughan, Muddy Waters, Guns N' Roses and The Clash.

He knew exactly who Collins is and immediately went to the computer
to turn on Collins singing Amazing Grace in the Kohn Cathedral in
West Germany in the 1970s.

Our little condo was suffused with the strains of her hauntingly
beautiful voice. I closed my eyes and was transported to another
place. Each note sounded as clear as a crystal bell.

I tell this story not to draw attention to ourselves but simply
because I can think of none other that illustrates how Collins's
music has touched generations. It has withstood the test of time.

When I tell Collins this story during our phone interview, she thanks
me for it and pauses in that thoughtful way of hers to ask me
questions about my son.

Mothers and sons are a subject near to Collins's heart.

In 1992, her son Clark committed suicide at the age of 33. Just as a
painter paints through his grief and a writer writes through her
grief, Collins wrote and sang her way through the sorrow.

She also feels that Clark is still present in her life. "I see
connections, whatever anyone wants to call it. Visitations, odd
synchronicities, things that happen, people who show up in my life."

Collins says she happens to believe in the spiritual connection. "I
don't think we disappear. I can tell you that. I think the presences
are with us. That is enough for me. Proof of the fact that it is not
a nothing situation."

At age 69, the American folk legend is still recording and moving in
new directions. She has her own record label and she is working on
her ninth book. While most people think of her as a singer, she has
had a diverse artistic career. Besides being a writer, she has been a
painter and a filmmaker.

Collins produced and co-directed with Jil Godmilow the film Antonio:
A Portrait of the Woman which was nominated for an Academy Award in
1974. It tells the story of Collins's teacher Antonio Brico, the
famed orchestral conductor. At age 29, she conducted the Berlin
Philharmonic. She went on to conduct symphonies in San Francisco, Los
Angeles and her own orchestra in New York. She was quite likely the
first female conductor in the world.

Her fondness for Brico can't be overstated. "She was a marvelous
example. She was phenomenal."

But the person who had the greatest influence on Collins was her
father, Chuck Collins, a singer, composer and broadcaster during the
golden age of radio.

"He had such good taste in songs and he was a real professional. He
had a radio show for 30 years. He was a reader and writer who exposed
us to all kinds of literature."

She lost him to a brain aneurysm when he was only 57.

Those weren't the only hardships in her life. She has struggled with
alcoholism and depression, going through years of therapy. Still, she
maintains that everything happens for a reason although we don't
often like what happens or know the reasons.

Take the death of her son. "I know that that journey has taken me to
places where I obviously needed to go or I don't think it would have happened."

Collins will trace this journey when she comes to Vancouver, where
incidentally her sister lives, to appear at Unique Lives &
Experiences Tuesday evening. And yes, she will sing, but she can't
say what. "I break into song spontaneously. No one can tell exactly
where. The songs are part of the journey."

She will also talk about the joys in her life. She adores Clark's
daughter, her granddaughter, who is now 20 and living in New York but
planning to move to California.

After divorcing her first husband, her second marriage to architect
and designer, Louis Nelson, has been a happy one. "I feel very lucky
to be with the same guy for 30 years. I never thought I'd see that.
It gets better every year."

She adds with a laugh, "That is pretty good for an old hippy."
--

YZacharias@png.canwest.com

.

How my mother's fanatical views tore us apart

How my mother's fanatical views tore us apart

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1021293/How-mothers-fanatical-views-tore-apart.html

By Rebecca Walker
23rd May 2008

She's revered as a trail-blazing feminist and author Alice Walker
touched the lives of a generation of women. A champion of women's
rights, she has always argued that motherhood is a form of servitude.
But one woman didn't buy in to Alice's beliefs - her daughter, Rebecca, 38.

Here the writer describes what it was like to grow up as the daughter
of a cultural icon, and why she feels so blessed to be the sort of
woman 64-year-old Alice despises - a mother.
--

The other day I was vacuuming when my son came bounding into the
room. 'Mummy, Mummy, let me help,' he cried. His little hands were
grabbing me around the knees and his huge brown eyes were looking up
at me. I was overwhelmed by a huge surge of happiness.

I love the way his head nestles in the crook of my neck. I love the
way his face falls into a mask of eager concentration when I help him
learn the alphabet. But most of all, I simply love hearing his little
voice calling: 'Mummy, Mummy.'

It reminds me of just how blessed I am. The truth is that I very
nearly missed out on becoming a mother - thanks to being brought up
by a rabid feminist who thought motherhood was about the worst thing
that could happen to a woman.

You see, my mum taught me that children enslave women. I grew up
believing that children are millstones around your neck, and the idea
that motherhood can make you blissfully happy is a complete fairytale.

In fact, having a child has been the most rewarding experience of my
life. Far from 'enslaving' me, three-and-a-half-year-old Tenzin has
opened my world. My only regret is that I discovered the joys of
motherhood so late - I have been trying for a second child for two
years, but so far with no luck.

I was raised to believe that women need men like a fish needs a
bicycle. But I strongly feel children need two parents and the
thought of raising Tenzin without my partner, Glen, 52, would be terrifying.

As the child of divorced parents, I know only too well the painful
consequences of being brought up in those circumstances. Feminism has
much to answer for denigrating men and encouraging women to seek
independence whatever the cost to their families.

My mother's feminist principles coloured every aspect of my life. As
a little girl, I wasn't even allowed to play with dolls or stuffed
toys in case they brought out a maternal instinct. It was drummed
into me that being a mother, raising children and running a home were
a form of slavery. Having a career, travelling the world and being
independent were what really mattered according to her.

I love my mother very much, but I haven't seen her or spoken to her
since I became pregnant. She has never seen my son - her only
grandchild. My crime? Daring to question her ideology.

Well, so be it. My mother may be revered by women around the
world - goodness knows, many even have shrines to her. But I
honestly believe it's time to puncture the myth and to reveal what
life was really like to grow up as a child of the feminist revolution.

My parents met and fell in love in Mississippi during the civil
rights movement. Dad [Mel Leventhal], was the brilliant lawyer son of
a Jewish family who had fled the Holocaust. Mum was the impoverished
eighth child of sharecroppers from Georgia. When they married in
1967, inter-racial weddings were still illegal in some states.

My early childhood was very happy although my parents were terribly
busy, encouraging me to grow up fast. I was only one when I was sent
off to nursery school. I'm told they even made me walk down the
street to the school.

When I was eight, my parents divorced. From then on I was shuttled
between two worlds - my father's very conservative, traditional,
wealthy, white suburban community in New York, and my mother's avant
garde multi-racial community in California. I spent two years with
each parent - a bizarre way of doing things.

Ironically, my mother regards herself as a hugely maternal woman.
Believing that women are suppressed, she has campaigned for their
rights around the world and set up organisations to aid women
abandoned in Africa - offering herself up as a mother figure.

But, while she has taken care of daughters all over the world and is
hugely revered for her public work and service, my childhood tells a
very different story. I came very low down in her
priorities - after work, political integrity, self-fulfilment,
friendships, spiritual life, fame and travel.

My mother would always do what she wanted - for example taking off
to Greece for two months in the summer, leaving me with relatives
when I was a teenager. Is that independent, or just plain selfish?

I was 16 when I found a now-famous poem she wrote comparing me to
various calamities that struck and impeded the lives of other women
writers. Virginia Woolf was mentally ill and the Brontes died
prematurely. My mother had me - a 'delightful distraction', but a
calamity nevertheless. I found that a huge shock and very upsetting.

According to the strident feminist ideology of the Seventies, women
were sisters first, and my mother chose to see me as a sister rather
than a daughter. From the age of 13, I spent days at a time alone
while my mother retreated to her writing studio - some 100 miles
away. I was left with money to buy my own meals and lived on a diet
of fast food.

Sisters together

A neighbour, not much older than me, was deputised to look after me.
I never complained. I saw it as my job to protect my mother and never
distract her from her writing. It never crossed my mind to say that I
needed some time and attention from her.

When I was beaten up at school - accused of being a snob because I
had lighter skin than my black classmates - I always told my mother
that everything was fine, that I had won the fight. I didn't want to
worry her.

But the truth was I was very lonely and, with my mother's knowledge,
started having sex at 13. I guess it was a relief for my mother as it
meant I was less demanding. And she felt that being sexually active
was empowering for me because it meant I was in control of my body.

Now I simply cannot understand how she could have been so permissive.
I barely want my son to leave the house on a play-date, let alone
start sleeping around while barely out of junior school.

A good mother is attentive, sets boundaries and makes the world safe
for her child. But my mother did none of those things.

Although I was on the Pill - something I had arranged at 13,
visiting the doctor with my best friend - I fell pregnant at 14. I
organised an abortion myself. Now I shudder at the memory. I was only
a little girl. I don't remember my mother being shocked or upset. She
tried to be supportive, accompanying me with her boyfriend.

Although I believe that an abortion was the right decision for me
then, the aftermath haunted me for decades. It ate away at my
self-confidence and, until I had Tenzin, I was terrified that I'd
never be able to have a baby because of what I had done to the child
I had destroyed. For feminists to say that abortion carries no
consequences is simply wrong.

As a child, I was terribly confused, because while I was being fed a
strong feminist message, I actually yearned for a traditional mother.
My father's second wife, Judy, was a loving, maternal homemaker with
five children she doted on.

There was always food in the fridge and she did all the things my
mother didn't, such as attending their school events, taking endless
photos and telling her children at every opportunity how wonderful they were.

My mother was the polar opposite. She never came to a single school
event, she didn't buy me any clothes, she didn't even help me buy my
first bra - a friend was paid to go shopping with me. If I needed
help with homework I asked my boyfriend's mother.

Moving between the two homes was terrible. At my father's home I felt
much more taken care of. But, if I told my mother that I'd had a good
time with Judy, she'd look bereft - making me feel I was choosing
this white, privileged woman above her. I was made to feel that I had
to choose one set of ideals above the other.

When I hit my 20s and first felt a longing to be a mother, I was
totally confused. I could feel my biological clock ticking, but I
felt if I listened to it, I would be betraying my mother and all she
had taught me.

I tried to push it to the back of my mind, but over the next ten
years the longing became more intense, and when I met Glen, a
teacher, at a seminar five years ago, I knew I had found the man I
wanted to have a baby with. Gentle, kind and hugely supportive, he
is, as I knew he would be, the most wonderful father.

Although I knew what my mother felt about babies, I still hoped that
when I told her I was pregnant, she would be excited for me.

'Mum, I'm pregnant'

Instead, when I called her one morning in the spring of 2004, while I
was at one of her homes housesitting, and told her my news and that
I'd never been happier, she went very quiet. All she could say was
that she was shocked. Then she asked if I could check on her garden.
I put the phone down and sobbed - she had deliberately withheld her
approval with the intention of hurting me. What loving mother would do that?

Worse was to follow. My mother took umbrage at an interview in which
I'd mentioned that my parents didn't protect or look out for me. She
sent me an e-mail, threatening to undermine my reputation as a
writer. I couldn't believe she could be so hurtful - particularly
when I was pregnant.

Devastated, I asked her to apologise and acknowledge how much she'd
hurt me over the years with neglect, withholding affection and
resenting me for things I had no control over - the fact that I am
mixed-race, that I have a wealthy, white, professional father and
that I was born at all.

But she wouldn't back down. Instead, she wrote me a letter saying
that our relationship had been inconsequential for years and that she
was no longer interested in being my mother. She even signed the
letter with her first name, rather than 'Mom'.

That was a month before Tenzin's birth in December 2004, and I have
had no contact with my mother since. She didn't even get in touch
when he was rushed into the special care baby unit after he was born
suffering breathing difficulties.

And I have since heard that my mother has cut me out of her will in
favour of one of my cousins. I feel terribly sad - my mother is
missing such a great opportunity to be close to her family. But I'm
also relieved. Unlike most mothers, mine has never taken any pride in
my achievements. She has always had a strange competitiveness that
led her to undermine me at almost every turn.

When I got into Yale - a huge achievement - she asked why on
earth I wanted to be educated at such a male bastion. Whenever I
published anything, she wanted to write her version - trying to
eclipse mine. When I wrote my memoir, Black, White And Jewish, my
mother insisted on publishing her version. She finds it impossible to
step out of the limelight, which is extremely ironic in light of her
view that all women are sisters and should support one another.

It's been almost four years since I have had any contact with my
mother, but it's for the best - not only for my self-protection but
for my son's well-being. I've done all I can to be a loyal, loving
daughter, but I can no longer have this poisonous relationship
destroy my life.

I know many women are shocked by my views. They expect the daughter
of Alice Walker to deliver a very different message. Yes, feminism
has undoubtedly given women opportunities. It's helped open the doors
for us at schools, universities and in the workplace. But what about
the problems it's caused for my contemporaries?

What about the children?

The ease with which people can get divorced these days doesn't take
into account the toll on children. That's all part of the unfinished
business of feminism.

Then there is the issue of not having children. Even now, I meet
women in their 30s who are ambivalent about having a family. They say
things like: 'I'd like a child. If it happens, it happens.' I tell
them: 'Go home and get on with it because your window of opportunity
is very small.' As I know only too well.

Then I meet women in their 40s who are devastated because they spent
two decades working on a PhD or becoming a partner in a law firm, and
they missed out on having a family. Thanks to the feminist movement,
they discounted their biological clocks. They've missed the
opportunity and they're bereft.

Feminism has betrayed an entire generation of women into
childlessness. It is devastating.

But far from taking responsibility for any of this, the leaders of
the women's movement close ranks against anyone who dares to question
them - as I have learned to my cost. I don't want to hurt my
mother, but I cannot stay silent. I believe feminism is an
experiment, and all experiments need to be assessed on their results.
Then, when you see huge mistakes have been paid, you need to make alterations.

I hope that my mother and I will be reconciled one day. Tenzin
deserves to have a grandmother. But I am just so relieved that my
viewpoint is no longer so utterly coloured by my mother's.

I am my own woman and I have discovered what really matters - a
happy family.
--

Baby Love: Choosing Motherhood After A Lifetime Of Ambivalence by
Rebecca Walker was published by Souvenir Press on May 8, £15.
--

Interview by Tessa Cunningham

.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Some US Fugitives Living in Cuba

Some US Fugitives Living in Cuba

http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/cuba/sfl-flrndcubafugs0518sbmay18,0,7181677.story

May 18, 2008

Hiding out

American fugitives in Cuba include:

The former Joanne Chesimard, a leader of the Black Liberation Army
who has a $1 million bounty on her head in the killing of a New
Jersey state trooper in 1973. Now known as Assata Shakur, she is said
to have gone into hiding.

Guillermo Morales, a Puerto Rican nationalist arrested on bomb-making
charges in 1978 after accidentally blowing off all but one of his
fingers in his Queens, N.Y., apartment. Morales escaped from custody
in New York in 1979 and traveled to Mexico, where he was allowed to go to Cuba.

Nehanda Abiodun, formerly known as Cheri Dalton, a black militant
wanted by the FBI for a string of robberies. Among the heists is the
1981 holdup of an armored car carrying $1.6 million near Nyack, N.Y.
She now promotes hip-hop culture in Havana.

.

Decades after the Grateful Dead's heyday, a new band tries to rekindle that spirit

Decades after the Grateful Dead's heyday, a new band tries to
rekindle that spirit

http://www.idahostatesman.com/music/story/389122.html

By Michael Deeds - mdeeds@idahostatesman.com
Edition Date: 05/23/08

When Donna Jean Godchaux-MacKay remembers the era she spent singing
for the Grateful Dead from 1971 to 1979, her voice fills with reverence.

"I consider myself one of the most fortunate people in the world to
have got to sing with that band," Godchaux-MacKay says. "At that time
and for that audience."

You can't recapture that unique, psychedelic era in music history.
But three decades later, Godchaux-MacKay's new group, Donna Jean and
the Tricksters, is rekindling some of the Grateful Dead's vibrant spirit.

It's a fusion of two camps with significant Dead history.
Godchaux-MacKay's singing was a staple of Dead classics such as
"Samson and Delilah" during an exceptionally creative period for the band.

The Zen Tricksters have been paying tribute to the Dead with
Garcia-influenced jams since the early 1980s.

So it made perfect sense when Godchaux-MacKay and the Zen Tricksters
joined forces in 2006 to become Donna Jean and the Tricksters. The
group also includes Jeff Mattson (guitar, vocals), Mookie Siegel
(keyboards, vocals), Tom Circosta (guitar, vocals), Klyph Black
(bass, vocals), Wendy Lanter (vocals) and Dave Diamond (drums, vocals).

"It's a whole new band," Godchaux-MacKay says. "After going on the
road and playing together for a couple of years, we have really
developed our own sound. And we're loving it."

Judging from the group's self-titled debut CD, jam-band fans will
find lots to love, too - even if Deadheads are sometimes split over
Godchaux-MacKay.

As the wife of late Dead keyboardist Keith Godchaux, who died in
1980, she occasionally got tagged with the Yoko Ono label. That's
unfair, particularly considering her resume.

Growing up in Muscle Shoals, Ala., she started session singing as a
teenager. Her harmonies and backing vocals can be heard on records
released by Elvis Presley, Aretha Franklin, Cher, even Percy Sledge's
famous "When a Man Loves a Woman."

Eventually, she moved to California and met Keith Godchaux. At a
concert, she boldly approached Garcia about hiring her husband,
Keith, to play keyboards for the Grateful Dead. She joined a little later.

"The rest is history, darling," Godchaux-MacKay says.

Donna Jean and the Tricksters' CD hints at both sides of
Godchaux-MacKay's heritage: the exploratory, jam-oriented Dead vibe,
and the Muscle Shoals sound, a "deep pocket backbeat groove" she says proudly.

At concerts, Donna Jean and the Tricksters perform choice songs from
the Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia Band, Bob Dylan, The Band and more,
including the group's own free-spirited originals.

"I am having a blast!" says Godchaux-MacKay, now 62.

It's not quite the same as seeing the Grateful Dead in, say, 1977.
But Godchaux-MacKay sounds genuinely enthused about the current jam-band scene.

"It's different on one hand, but it's the same on the other," she
says. "Because the people that come to the shows just love the music,
and they are there for the adventure, and they are there because they
want to see a band who doesn't play everything the same way two
nights in a row.

"It's that adventuresome spirit that draws these kids," she adds.
"And obviously the Grateful Dead's music is gonna stand up for many
decades to come. It just stands up! Those songs are classic, and I
believe they will become mainstream American classics in time."
--

Michael Deeds: 377-6407

.

Former Joplin band member brings personal knowledge to stage show

Former Joplin band member brings personal knowledge to stage show

http://www.pe.com/entertainment/stories/PE_Ent_Daily_D_lovejanis23.20ad487.html

May 22, 2008
By PAT O'BRIEN
The Press-Enterprise

Being music director for "Love, Janis" is kind of eerie for Sam Andrew.

"The whole thing is like 'Twilight Zone' for me," he said in a phone
interview from Northern California. "It's kind of freaky."

Andrew was one of the founding members of San Francisco psychedelic
band Big Brother and the Holding Company. The band went from local
gigs to national prominence following a riveting performance fronted
by Joplin at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival.

Joplin died in 1970 of a drug overdose at age 27, three weeks after
the death of Jimi Hendrix, who also shot to stardom after Monterey.

"Love, Janis," on stage at the Wilshire Theatre, is based on
interviews and letters she wrote home to her family, which were first
published by her younger sister, Laura, in 1992.

Andrew, who left Big Brother with Joplin to form Kozmic Blues Band in
1968, gets thrust back in time when hears those letters. He was, for
instance, the person she mentions bumping her as she was writing one of them.

"Love, Janis," was adapted and directed by Randal Myler, whose
previous work includes "It Ain't Nothin But the Blues" and "Hank
Williams: Lost Highway."

The musical features one actress speaking the words of letters and
interviews and another singing Joplin's iconic songs -- "Ball and
Chain," "Piece of My Heart," "Summertime," "Me and Bobby McGee," "Get
It While You Can."

"It's very raucous. It's a great band. I should know, I put it
together myself," Andrew said. "It's a better band than Big Brother
and the Holding Company or the Kozmic Blues Band."

The singers, Mary Bridget Davies and Andra Mitrovich, alternate
performances due to the demands of the role. Marisa Ryan portrays the
private Joplin.

Andrew said the play shows the introspective, even intellectual side
of her, as well as her "blues Mama" persona the world came to know.

"It begins at her hitchhiking out west to join Big Brother and the
Holding Company and goes to her death not so very long later," Andrew
said. "The mood is by turns bittersweet and triumphant. She dies
during 'Little Girl Blue,' but then she gets up and says, 'Let's
rock,' and goes into a sort of resurrection."

Andrew said when the actress stands up, audiences leap to their feet
and stand through the end.

Joplin would have gotten a kick out it, Andrew said. Sometimes they'd
talked about how much time they would have in the limelight.

"We thought it would last a couple of years. If she knew there would
be a play about her in 2008, she would have laughed really hard," he
said. "She was really funny, loud and picturesque. She had a lot to say."
--

'Love, Janis'

When: 8 p.m. Thursday and May 30-31; 2 p.m. May 31-June 1
Where: Wilshire Theatre, 8440 Wilshire Blvd., Beverly Hills
Tickets: $30-$100
Information: 323-655-0111, 213-365-3500, www.lovejanisthemusical.com

.

'A Freewheelin' Time' by Suze Rotolo

'A Freewheelin' Time' by Suze Rotolo

http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/08146/884140-148.stm

Life With Dylan in the Village of the 1960s

Sunday, May 25, 2008
By Sharon Eberson, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

Suze Rotolo was in the thick of things during the "freewheelin' "
1960s in Greenwich Village, where she loved and lived with Bob Dylan.
That tumultuous relationship gave her a front-row seat to the folk
revolution as well as Dylan's rebellious electric breakaway from the
crowd that had embraced him as "the Next One. The Prophet."

The author acknowledges that memory is unreliable and promises the
reader the truth rather than the facts, although she provides many of
these with corroborating newspaper clips.

If the unfurling of events seems a bit foggy at times, well, no
wonder. Rotolo was just 17 when she and Dylan became a couple, just
as the decade was getting under way.

The Village at the time was ruled by the disciples of Woody Guthrie
and the Beats, with a "we are family" attitude among the folkies of
the day. Folk singer Dave Van Ronk was adamant that Rotolo shouldn't
move in with Dylan, not yet 20 himself, until after she turned 18
(they waited until the day after her birthday).

The couple lived in a cramped upstairs flat on West Fourth Street
while Rotolo worked as a waitress or tinkered with illustrating, and
later, with making scenery for off-off Broadway productions.

Life revolved around clubs that welcomed folkies or, like the
artists' salons of Paris, apartments owned by Village elders like Van
Ronk and his wife, Terri Thal.

The bygone clubs -- Gerde's, The Bitter End, The Village Gate, The
Gaslight -- were places where Woody Allen or Bill Cosby could try a
routine one night, Phil Ochs or Tiny Tim could make an appearance the
next, then make way for Ramblin' Jack Elliott and his heir apparent, Bob Dylan.

Rotolo notes, "The learning process for artists of all stripes
usually follows the path of imitate, assimilate, then innovate."

It was Dylan's ability to do the latter that set him apart and sent
him soaring.

It wasn't all fun and folks songs. From the beginning, there were
secrets in the relationship between Suze and her Bobby. It wasn't
until the press began poking around that Dylan's real name
(Zimmerman) and Minnesota roots became well known.

Dylan is a constant presence, but the story is Rotolo's, from her
childhood as a "red-diaper baby" (her parents belonged to the
American Communist Party) to her acceptance into the Village scene.
Dylan adored her, no doubt, from the many lyrics dedicated to her and
his love letters, excerpts of which she shares in the book.

Rotolo creates a time capsule of the '60s within the boundaries of
Greenwich Village, flinching when she ventures too far from home.

Sometimes, she's just a teenager in love.

Rotolo appears on the cover of Dylan's second album, from which this
book takes its title and cover image. Her struggle to find her way
out from Dylan's shadow gives the "freewheelin' " title an ironic twist.

In August 1963, Rotolo moved out on her own. Dylan's career was
taking off and she was trying to break away from being the singer's
"chick" -- or worse, "old lady." Her sister's advice: She would be
"better off without that lyin' cheatin' manipulatin' bastard."

This is the first time readers hear of infidelities, though there are
hints earlier -- a buzz about his appearance with Joan Baez at the
Newport Music Festival, for instance.

Rotolo takes her time revealing that life with the singer was less
than ideal. Take this notebook entry from the time of the breakup:

"I believe in his genius, he is an extraordinary writer but I don't
think of him as an honorable person. He doesn't necessarily do the
right thing."

The change in tone is jarring, but her hurt is palpable, an intense
first love and loss brought back to the surface.

It wasn't a clean break; they would continue to see each other, but
his entourage was changing, and the negative reaction within the
Village folk community when he took his music electric was changing
him. "Bob was thin and tight and hostile. He had succumbed to
demons," Rotolo feared.

Andy Warhol makes a quick appearance in a scene from a party in Union
Square, outside the borders of the map of the Village that precedes
the memoir. Rotolo also takes readers along on a perilous journey to
Cuba and to her mother's house in Hoboken, where she describes
"hiding out" and listening to ... the Beatles.

The times had changed, and Rotolo had moved on.
--

Sharon Eberson can be reached at 412-263-1960 and seberson@post-gazette.com.

.

Monday, May 26, 2008

OBIT: Utah Phillips

[10 articles]

Folksinger, Storyteller, Railroad Tramp Utah Phillips Dead at 73

http://mrzine.monthlyreview.org/phillips250508.html

by Jordan Fisher Smith and Molly Fisk
25/05/08

Utah Phillips, a seminal figure in American folk music who performed
extensively and tirelessly for audiences on two continents for 38
years, died Friday of congestive heart failure in Nevada City,
California, a small town in the Sierra Nevada mountains where he
lived for the last 21 years with his wife, Joanna Robinson, a
freelance editor.

Born Bruce Duncan Phillips on May 15, 1935 in Cleveland, Ohio, he was
the son of labor organizers. Whether through this early influence or
an early life that was not always tranquil or easy, by his twenties
Phillips demonstrated a lifelong concern with the living conditions
of working people. He was a proud member of the Industrial Workers
of the World, popularly known as "the Wobblies," an organizational
artifact of early twentieth-century labor struggles that has seen
renewed interest and growth in membership in the last decade, not in
small part due to his efforts to popularize it.

Phillips served as an Army private during the Korean War, an
experience he would later refer to as the turning point of his
life. Deeply affected by the devastation and human misery he had
witnessed, upon his return to the United States he began drifting,
riding freight trains around the country. His struggle would be
familiar today, when the difficulties of returning combat veterans
are more widely understood, but in the late fifties Phillips was left
to work them out for himself. Destitute and drinking, Phillips got
off a freight train in Salt Lake City and wound up at the Joe Hill
House, a homeless shelter operated by the anarchist Ammon Hennacy, a
member of the Catholic Worker movement and associate of Dorothy Day.

Phillips credited Hennacy and other social reformers he referred to
as his "elders" with having provided a philosophical framework around
which he later constructed songs and stories he intended as a
template his audiences could employ to understand their own political
and working lives. They were often hilarious, sometimes sad, but
never shallow.

"He made me understand that music must be more than cotton candy for
the ears," said John McCutcheon, a nationally-known folksinger and
close friend.

In the creation of his performing persona and work, Phillips drew
from influences as diverse as Borscht Belt comedian Myron Cohen,
folksingers Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, and Country stars Hank
Williams and T. Texas Tyler.

A stint as an archivist for the State of Utah in the 1960s taught
Phillips the discipline of historical research; beneath the simplest
and most folksy of his songs was a rigorous attention to detail and a
strong and carefully-crafted narrative structure. He was a voracious
reader in a surprising variety of fields.

Meanwhile, Phillips was working at Hennacy's Joe Hill house. In 1968
he ran for a seat in the U.S. Senate on the Peace and Freedom Party
ticket. The race was won by a Republican candidate, and Phillips was
seen by some Democrats as having split the vote. He subsequently
lost his job with the State of Utah, a process he described as "blacklisting."

Phillips left Utah for Saratoga Springs, New York, where he was
welcomed into a lively community of folk performers centered at the
Caffé Lena, operated by Lena Spencer.

"It was the coffeehouse, the place to perform. Everybody went
there. She fed everybody," said John "Che" Greenwood, a fellow
performer and friend.

Over the span of the nearly four decades that followed, Phillips
worked in what he referred to as "the Trade," developing an audience
of hundreds of thousands and performing in large and small cities
throughout the United States, Canada, and Europe. His performing
partners included Rosalie Sorrels, Kate Wolf, John McCutcheon, and
Ani DiFranco.

"He was like an alchemist," said Sorrels, "He took the stories of
working people and railroad bums and he built them into work that was
influenced by writers like Thomas Wolfe, but then he gave it back, he
put it in language so the people whom the songs and stories were
about still had them, still owned them. He didn't believe in
stealing culture from the people it was about."

A single from Phillips's first record, "Moose Turd Pie," a rollicking
story about working on a railroad track gang, saw extensive airplay
in 1973. From then on, Phillips had work on the road. His extensive
writing and recording career included two albums with Ani DiFranco
which earned a Grammy nomination. Phillips's songs were performed
and recorded by Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings, Joan Baez, Tom
Waits, Joe Ely, and others. He was awarded a Lifetime Achievement
Award by the Folk Alliance in 1997.

Phillips, something of a perfectionist, claimed that he never lost
his stage fright before performances. He didn't want to lose it, he
said; it kept him improving.

Phillips began suffering from the effects of chronic heart disease in
2004, and as his illness kept him off the road at times, he started a
nationally syndicated folk-music radio show, "Loafer's Glory,"
produced at KVMR-FM and started a homeless shelter in his rural home
county, where down-on-their-luck men and women were sleeping under
the manzanita brush at the edge of town. Hospitality House opened in
2005 and continues to house 25 to 30 guests a night. In this way,
Phillips returned to the work of his mentor Hennacy in the last four
years of his life.

Phillips died at home, in bed, in his sleep, next to his wife. He is
survived by his son Duncan and daughter-in-law Bobette of Salt Lake
City, son Brendan of Olympia, Washington; daughter Morrigan Belle of
Washington, D.C.; stepson Nicholas Tomb of Monterrey, California;
stepson and daughter-in-law Ian Durfee and Mary Creasey of Davis,
California; brothers David Phillips of Fairfield, California, Ed
Phillips of Cleveland, Ohio, and Stuart Cohen of Los Angeles; sister
Deborah Cohen of Lisbon, Portugal; and a grandchild, Brendan. He was
preceded in death by his father Edwin Phillips and mother Kathleen,
and his stepfather, Syd Cohen.

The family requests memorial donations to Hospitality House, P.O. Box
3223, Grass Valley, California 95945 (530) 271-7144

www.hospitalityhouseshelter.org

--------

Bruce 'U. Utah' Phillips, 1935 - 2008

http://www.rabble.ca/arts_media.shtml?x=71821

by Bob Bossin
May 26, 2008

"The Golden Voice of the Great Southwest" sings no more. Bruce "U.
Utah" Phillips who, tongue firmly in cheek, billed himself that way,
died peacefully in his sleep at his home in Nevada City, CA, May 23.
He was 73.

Phillips was one of the deans of American folk music, a crucial link
to the working class movement and history of western North America,
and a cheerfully subversive social critic.

A proud, card-carrying Wobbly, Bruce made the songs and stories of
the American West his own. As indeed they were. When he returned home
from the Korean War, Phillips was broke in purse, body and spirit,
riding the rails, until he landed at Joe Hill House in Salt Lake
City, a shelter run by anarchist Ammon Hennacy of the Catholic
Workers movement. Hennacy's Marxism made sense of Phillip's
experience, and from it grew the knowledge and imagination Phillips
subsequently put on stage.

Starting in the late 1960s, "U. Utah Phillips, The Golden Voice of
the Great Southwest" sang the old, radical songs of the Little Red
Song Book, and told the old organizers' stories, working class yarns,
rants and tall tales. He performed them with the skill and panache of
Hal Holbrook doing Mark Twain - and thereby rejuvenated them. At
hundreds of folk festivals and thousands of concerts, through a dozen
recordings, he passed the lore on to two generations of new
listeners, including young musicians like Ani De Franco.

Such became Phillips' reputation that, when the U.S. government
belatedly released Joe Hill's ashes, it was to Phillips that they gave them.

Bruce was not just a true folk singer, he was also a first-rate song
writer as well. His own songs, like "Starlight on the Rails," and
"Rocks, Salt and Nails" were covered by dozens of artists, including
Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings, Joan Baez and Tom Waits.

After he was diagnosed with congestive heart disease in 1995, Bruce
performed less and less, until his health forced him to stop
performing altogether a year ago.

"Listen," Phillips wrote in 1995, when first forced to cancel his
extensive touring schedule, "for 25 years now, I have been part of a
family which has given me a living – not a killing, but a living – a
trade without bosses, in which I could own what I do, make all of the
creative decisions, be free to say and sing whatever I chose to...
Front porch, kitchen, back yard, drunk and sober, young and old,
coast-to-coast folk music, a world in which I discovered that I don't
need power, wealth, or fame. I need friends. And that's what I found
and still find."

"To hell with the mainstream," Bruce concluded. "It's polluted. What
purifies the mainstream? The little tributaries up in the wilderness
where the pure water flows. Better to be lost in the tributaries
known to a few, than mired in the mainstream, consumed with self-love
and the absurdity of greed. Please. Don't give our world up. It needs
to grow, yes – but subtly, out, through, under, quietly, like water
eroding stone, subversive, alive, happy."

Phillips is survived by his children and longtime partner, Johanna Robinson.

--------

Phillips had a big heart for the homeless

http://www.theunion.com/article/20080526/NEWS/970768021/1066/BUSINESS&parentprofile=-1

By Jeff Pelline
May 26, 2008

Though best known for his folk music and storytelling, Utah Phillips
also helped start the Hospitality House homeless shelter in Grass Valley.

He was present at the first meeting four years ago to form the
shelter and regularly would show up to visit guests and play his
guitar for them.

"He was immensely compassionate," said Cindy Maple, head of the
Hospitality House. "He seemed to understand what it meant to be lost
and searching (and) not to have solid ground under one's feet."

Hospitality House continues to house 25 to 30 guests per night at
churches throughout the area during the winter. A drop-in center
opens in the spring and summer.

"When we sat down to talk about creating a hospitality house, we
talked about works of mercy, we talked about compassion - not the
social service model of working with clients and case loads and stuff
like that - but of real hospitality," he said in an interview two years ago.

Phillips has experienced a homeless shelter firsthand.

During a difficult period in his life, he spent some time at the Joe
Hill House, a homeless shelter in Salt Lake City. It was operated by
the anarchist Ammon Hennacy, of the Catholic Worker movement.

"Phillips credited Hennacy and other social reformers he referred to
as his 'elders' with having provided a philosophical framework around
which he later constructed songs and stories he intended as a
template his audiences could employ to understand their own political
and working lives," said the obituary provided by his family.

--------

Folk singer Utah Phillips dies in California

http://www.sltrib.com/news/ci_9370911

Nate Carlisle and Lindsay Whitehurst
Article Last Updated: 05/24/2008

Folk singer and activist Bruce "Utah" Phillips, whose songs included
tales of the state's working class and tragedies, died Friday of
congestive heart failure.
Phillips, 73, died in Nevada City, Calif., where he resided.
While not among the biggest names in folk music, Phillips described
himself as the "Golden Voice of the Great Southwest" and was an
influence for artists such as Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings, Joan
Baez and Tom Waits, who have recorded his songs. An album Phillips
recorded with Ani DiFranco received a Grammy nomination.
"Many artists extract from working and poor people for
authenticity," friend and environmental writer Jordan Fisher Smith
said. "He also gave it back ... he extracted the meaning and gave it
back to the people experiencing it."
Phillips songs included "John D. Lee," a recounting of the
Mountain Meadows Massacre. Another song, "Scofield Mine Disaster"
recalled the 1900 central Utah coal mine explosion that killed 200 people.
"A miner's life is hard I know," Phillips wrote and sang. "His
world is dark and far below/While he starves and goes in rags/He's
cheaper than the coal he digs."
Phillips son, Duncan Phillips, who lives in Salt Lake City, said
his father was enthralled with Utah's working class, particularly
Mormons and their folklore.
"They were kind of put aside and chased off like a lot of other
people in the world are," Duncan Phillips said. "He tried to look at
both sides of things and understand people and bring some common ground."
Born May 15, 1935, in Cleveland to labor organizer parents,
Bruce Phillips and his family came to Utah in 1947. His parents
became distributors for Paramount movie studio and owned the Capitol
Theatre and Tower Theatre until their deaths, Duncan Phillips said.
Bruce Phillips served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War.
Disturbed by the fighting, Bruce Phillips returned to the states and
was drinking and "bumming" on freight trains when he ended up in the
Joe Hill House, a Salt Lake City homeless shelter named for a labor organizer.
He went on to work as an archivist for the state, where he
learned much of Utah's history.
Ken Sanders, owner of Ken Sanders Rare Books in Salt Lake City,
met Phillips in the 1960s.
"He was always working on the rights of others," he said. "He
spent an awful lot of his life bumming around the country, spent a
little of his life as a hobo. He was never in one city for a long time."
Bruce Phillips left Salt Lake City in 1969, believing that a
failed run for the U.S. Senate with the Peace and Freedom party left
him blacklisted.
"He tried to get work and everywhere turned him down," Duncan
Phillips said.
A short time later, he released his first album. After years of
touring, Bruce Phillips settled in Nevada City, Calif., with his
fourth wife Joanna Robinson.
He used his music and notoriety to remain an activist. In 2005,
he told The Tribune, "When I go play a town I haven't been to in a
while, I want them to send me the newspaper so I can get caught up on
the local issues. Then I go to the library and read up on the history
and economic base and economic distribution so I know the right
questions to ask."
Phillips played in Utah as recently as January 2007 at a folk
revival at Highland High School.
Phillips' other survivors include another son and a daughter,
several stepchildren, brothers and sisters and a grandchild. The
family requests memorial donations go to Hospitality House, a
homeless shelter founded by Phillips in Grass Valley, Calif.
Additional information is available at www.hospitalityhouseshelter.org.

--------

Singer Utah Phillips left a colorful legacy

http://www.sacbee.com/101/story/964804.html

If your wages were low and your hands calloused, his songs – and his
heart – were all yours.

By Stephen Magagnini - smagagnini@sacbee.com
Sunday, May 25, 2008

Folk singer, anarchist, social reformer and man of the people Bruce
"Utah" Phillips died in his Nevada City home Friday night of
congestive heart failure.

Phillips, 73, was beloved on two continents for his big heart, along
with his wit, wisdom, wild, white beard and willingness to stand tall
for his beliefs.

He ran for president but never voted. Emmylou Harris, Waylon
Jennings, Joan Baez, Tom Waits and his friend Arlo Guthrie all sing
Utah Phillips songs, but he refused to let Johnny Cash make an album
of his standards, his eldest son said, because he didn't trust the
record industry.

Phillips, a onetime hobo and railroad tramp, reached out to the
homeless in Nevada County in 2005, when he and his wife, Joanna
Robinson, created a rotating homeless shelter at area churches.

"They're housing 25 to 30 people every night," said longtime friend
Jordan Fisher Smith. "Instead of asking the government to do it, they
solicited the help of their friends and neighbors and local churches
and just created services for these people that weren't there.

"Bruce at his core was an anarchist," said Smith, who befriended him
20 years ago when he moved to Nevada City. "The name 'Utah' stuck
because he'd lived in Utah, riding freights in the West."

In "All Used Up," Phillips sings of a boss who "used up my labor, he
used up my time, he plundered my body and squandered my mind. Then he
gave me a pension, some handouts and wine,

And told me I'm all used up...
"They use up the oil, they use up the trees
They use up the air and they use up the seas
But as long as I'm breathing they won't use up me
Don't tell me I'm all used up."

The son of labor organizers, Phillips was a lifelong member of the
Industrial Workers of the World, known as the Wobblies, Smith said.

He served in the Korean War, then came home devastated by the misery
he'd seen and began drinking and drifting.

In the late '50s, broke and broken-hearted, Phillips rolled into Salt
Lake City on a freight train and ended up at the Joe Hill House, a
homeless shelter run by anarchist Ammon Hennacy.

He helped out at Joe Hill House and became a pacifist and a performer
influenced by folk legends Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, country
stars Hank Williams, T. Texas Tyler, comic Myron Cohen and novelist
Thomas Wolfe, Smith said.

Phillips ran for U.S. Senate on the Peace and Freedom Ticket in 1968
and lost, then left Utah for Saratoga Springs and became a fixture at
the Caffe Lena.

After his first record, "Moose Turd Pie," about laying track for the
Sante Fe railroad, hit the airwaves in 1973, Phillips hit the road.

He toured North America and Europe, and was the first – and last –
performer at the iconic barn and roadhouse in Davis, the Palms
Playhouse, which closed in 2002 and was reborn in Winters.

About that time, Phillips began his struggle with chronic heart
disease but never lost his wit or passion for social justice.

At the Strawberry Music Festival last spring, Phillips mesmerized the
crowd using "a guitar handed down by my grandfather – unfortunately
he was still on the ladder when the cops came."

His oldest son, Duncan Phillips of Salt Lake City, who reunited with
him 15 years ago, said, "He was truly a man of the people – he
represented the working class, the working poor, the homeless, he was
part of them.

"He spoke for them in many ways, through song and activism. He's
probably the most principled person I'd ever met – he would stick to
what he believed in no matter what, and he'd sacrifice for it."

Duncan Phillips recalled the day Johnny Cash called "and wanted to
record his songs, and my dad wouldn't let Johnny do it because he
didn't like what the record industry stood for."

Mr. Phillips' own label was called "No Guff."

He ran for president in 1976 as an anarchist with a do-nothing
platform, and told Bee reporter Blair Anthony Robertson, "I guarantee
that if I took over the White House I would not do anything. I would
scratch my butt and shoot pool."

Mr. Phillips, for all his activism, "never voted," his son said. "He
said he cast a vote every day he went out in the world and did
something. If you want to make change, go out and actually do it
yourself. He didn't need to hand over any responsibility to
politicians who aren't beholden to the working class."

Duncan Phillips said he'll never forget all the people who would come
up to his dad in the lobby before the shows "and say he'd changed their lives."

Phillips, who declined a heart transplant earlier this year, died in
bed with his wife around 11:30 p.m.

"You would never know his problems by talking to him," he son said.

"He was a very engaging, very upbeat, very happy person. He was like
that when I last talked to him."
--

About the writer:
Call The Bee's Stephen Magagnini, (916) 321-1072.

--------

Folk music legend Utah Phillips dies at 73

http://www.theunion.com/article/20080524/NEWS/459535358

By Pat Butler
May 24, 2008

Folk music legend and peace and labor activist Utah Phillips died in
his sleep Friday night in his Nevada City home. He was 73.

Phillips had been suffering from a chronic heart disease since 2004.
His remarkable career included international acclaim for the stories
and songs he wrote about social and labor issues as well as his
travels as a hobo who ran the rails as a young man.

His music career stretched over 38 years. He has lived in Nevada City
for the past 21 years . Phillips established the Peace and Justice
Center in Nevada City and helped start the Hospitality House, which
provides shelter for homeless in the area.

Phillips, whose long white hair and beard and colorful outfits made
him a standout in any crowd, emerged as folk music performer after
the release in 1973 of his first album, "Good Though!," which
included the classic song "Moose Turd Pie." The debut album focused
on the railroad and social and labor unrest.

Bruce Phillips was born in May 15, 1935, in Cleveland , Ohio . He
grew up in Utah until he ran away from home as a teenager and
starting living as a hobo who rode the rails and wrote songs about
those experiences. He would later take the name U. Utah Phillips,
which he said was a tribute to musician T. Texas Tyler.

In 1956, he joined the Army and did a tour in Korea, which would
motivate him to become a peace activist. In 1968, he ran for the U.S.
Senate for the Peace and Freedom Party. He also was a card-carrying
member of the Industrial Workers of the World.

Some of his more notable recordings include "I've Got to Know"
(1991); the four-CD "Starlight on the Rails: A Songbook" (2005); and,
in collaboration with Ani DiFranco, "The Past Didn't Go Anywhere"
(1996), and "Fellow Worker" (1999), which was nominated for a Grammy
Award. Phillips also hosted a weekly National Public Radio program,
"Loafer's Glory: The Hobo Jungle of the Mind," until 2002.

In a letter on May 14 that was published on his blog, he wrote: "My
heart, which is enlarged and very weak, can't pump enough blood to
keep my body plunging forward at its usual 100 percent.

It allows me about 25 to 30 percent, which means I don't get around
very much or very easily anymore. I'm sustained (i.e., kept alive) by
a medication called Milrinone, which is contained in a pump that I
carry around with me in a shoulder bag."

Phillips is survived by his wife, Joanna. The family asks that
memorial donations be made to the Hospitality House in Grass Valley .

--------

Utah Takes the Last Train

http://pacificfreepress.com/content/view/2655/1/

25 May 2008
by Chris Chandler

In a matter of a few minutes Anne Feeney phoned me from an airport in
Houston. Al Grierson's "Lonely Deadhead Box-Car" was playing on
Random on my iPod. After our conversation, I went to check my email.
Jim Page was singing "Anna Mae." I had an email from Jim. I have
pasted it below. As I read it Utah sang "All Used Up." As I responded
to Jim's Email Arlo Guthrie sang "Hobo's Lullaby."

"In the night of May 23, 2008, Bruce Duncan Phillips died in great
peace, asleep in his bed in Nevada City, California, with his wife
Joanna by his side."

Amazingly, at the very same instant that the scholar Bruce Phillips
finally discovered his angle of repose, U. Utah Phillips flagged a
westbound freight train. Yes, a mighty fast rattler, on a long
west-bound track. He needed no ticket, he was welcomed on board.

The immediate family and neighbors of Bruce Phillips, along with any
Wobblies who happen to be passing through, are gathering in Nevada
City to do all the things that must be done.

Please give them the quiet respect they so need right now.

But you can wave "So Long!" to Utah when that train moves west.
-

Comments

Utah

by David Rovics
May 25, 2008

It was a couple years later that I first really discovered Utah
Phillips, the songwriter. I had by this time immersed myself with
great enthusiasm in the work of many contemporary performers in what
gets called the folk music scene, and had developed a keen
appreciation for the varied and brilliant songwriting of Jim Page and
others. Then, in 1991, I came across Utah's new cassette, I've Got To
Know, and soon thereafter heard a copy of a much earlier recording,
Good Though.

Whether he's recounting stories from his own experiences or those of
others doesn't matter. There is no need to know, for in the many
hours Utah spent in his troubled youth talking with old, long-dead
veterans of the rails and the IWW campaigns, a bridge from now to
then was formed in this person, in his pen and in his deep, resonant
voice. In Good Though I heard the distant past breathing and full of
life in Utah's own compositions, just as they breathed in his
renditions of older songs.

In I've Got To Know I heard an eloquent and current voice of
opposition to the American Empire and the bombing of Iraq, rolled
together seamlessly with the voices of deserters, draft dodgers and
tax resisters of the previous century.

In reference to the power of lying propaganda, a friend of mine used
to say it takes ten minutes of truth to counteract 24 hours of lies.
But upon first hearing Utah's song, "Yellow Ribbon," it seemed to me
that perhaps that ratio didn't give the power of truth enough credit.
It seemed to me that if the modern soldiers of the empire would have
a chance to hear Utah's monologues there about his anguish after his
time in the Army in Korea, or the breathtakingly simple depiction of
life under the junta in El Salvador in his song "Rice and Beans,"
they would just have to quit the military.

Utah made it clear in word and in deed that steeping yourself in the
tradition was required of any good practitioner of the craft, and I
did my best to follow in his footsteps and do just that. I learned
lots of Utah's songs as well as the old songs he was playing. Making
a living busking in the Boston subways for years, I ran into other
folks who were doing just that, as well as writing great songs, such
as Nathan Phillips (no relation). Nathan was from West Virginia, and
did haunting versions of "The Green Rolling Hills of West Virginia,"
"Larimer Street," "All Used Up," and other songs. In different T
stops at the same time, Nathan and I could often be found both
singing the songs of Utah Phillips for the passersby.

Traveling around the US in the 1990's and since then, it seemed that
Utah's music had, on a musical level, had the same kind of impact
that Zinn's People's History or somewhat earlier works such as Jeremy
Brecher's book, Strike!, had had in written form -- bringing alive
vital history that had been all but forgotten. With Ani DiFranco's
collaboration with Utah, this became doubly true, seemingly
overnight, and this man who had had a loyal cult following before
suddenly had, if not what might be called popularity, at least a
loyal cult following that was now twice as big as it had been in the
pre-Ani era.

I had had the pleasure of hearing Utah live in concert only once in
the early 90's, doing a show with another great songwriter, Charlie
King, in the Boston area. I was looking forward to hearing him play
again around there in 1995, but what was to be a Utah Phillips
concert turned into a benefit for Utah's medical expenses, when he
had to suddenly drastically cut down on his touring, due to heart
problems. I think there were about twenty different performers doing
renditions of Utah Phillips' songs at Club Passim that night. I did
"Yellow Ribbon."

Traveling in the same circles and putting out CDs on the same record
label, it was fairly inevitable that we'd meet eventually. The first
time was several years ago, if memory serves me, behind the stage at
the annual protest against the School of the Americas in Columbus,
Georgia. I think I successfully avoided seeming too painfully
star-struck. Utah was complaining to me earnestly about how he didn't
know what to do at these protests, didn't feel like he had good
protest material. I think he did just fine, though I can't recall what he did.

Utah lived in Nevada City, and the last time I was there he came to
the community radio station while I was appearing on a show. This was
soon after Katrina, and I remember singing my song, "New Orleans,"
and Utah saying embarrassingly nice things. I was on a little tour
with Norman Solomon speaking and me singing, and we had done an event
the night before in town, which Utah was too tired to attend, if I recall.

Me, Utah, Norman, and my companion, Reiko, went over to a nice
breakfast place after the radio show, talked and ate breakfast. Utah
did most of the talking, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that
his use of mysterious hobo colloquialisms and frequent references to
obscure historical characters in twentieth-century American anarchist
history was something he did off stage as well as on.

I've passed near enough to that part of California many times since
then. Called once when I was nearby and he was out of town, doing a
show in Boston. Otherwise I just thought about calling and dropping
by, but didn't take the time. Life was happening, and taking a day or
two off in Nevada City was always something that I never quite seemed
to find the time for. Always figured next time I'll have more time,
I'll call him then. It had been thirteen years since he found out
about his heart problems, and he hadn't kicked the bucket yet... Of
course, now I wish I had taken the time when I had the chance, and
I'm sure there are many other people who feel the same way.

In any case, for those of us who knew his music, whether from
recordings or concerts, for those of us who knew Utah from his
stories on or off the stage, whether we knew him as that human bridge
to the radical labor movement of yesterday, or as the voice of the
modern-day hobos, or as that funky old guy that Ani did a couple of
CDs with, Utah Phillips will be remembered and treasured by many.

He was undeniably a sort of musical-political-historical institution
in his own day. He said he was a rumor in his own time. No question,
one man's rumor is another man's legend, but who cares, it's just
words anyway.

http://www.davidrovics.com

--------

From hobo to fame

http://www.theunion.com/article/20080526/NEWS/88594631/1066/BUSINESS&parentprofile=-1

Memorial service for folk music legend set for Sunday in Nevada City

By Jeff Pelline and Pat Butler
May 26, 2008

A memorial service is being planned for Sunday in Nevada City for
Bruce "Utah" Phillips, the folk music legend and peace and labor
activist who died Friday night in his Nevada City home.

Phillips, 73, died at 11:30 p.m. of congestive heart failure - a
condition he had suffered from for years.

"Phillips died at home, in bed, in his sleep, next to his wife,"
according to his family, which was in seclusion Sunday at his home
about a mile from downtown Nevada City.

The family is working on further details of the memorial, including
its exact location and time, for one of the area's most famous citizens.

The folk musician's remarkable career included international acclaim
for the stories and songs he wrote about social and labor issues, as
well as his career as a hobo who ran the rails as a young man. He
also once ran for the U.S. Senate.

Phillips' musical career stretched over 38 years and his songs were
performed by Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings and Joan Baez. He earned
a Grammy nomination for an album he recorded with Ani DiFranco.

He once told The Union that "folk music is the glue that holds the
community together," as people gather to share food, music and to dance.

The musician lived in Nevada City for the past 21 years and helped
start the Hospitality House homeless shelter and the Peace and Justice Center.

Up until his death, Phillips was managing to "get out a good bit," as
he wrote in a letter on a Web log less than two weeks ago. The
weekend before last, he attended one of his favorite pastimes - a
Little League game at Pioneer Park in Nevada City.

"I knew he wasn't feeling well all week," said Cindy Maple, the
executive director of Hospitality House, who sat with Phillips at the
game to watch her 12-year-old son play ball. "But he had his usual
cute sense of humor."

Maple and Phillips were close friends, having worked together to open
the Hospitality House in Grass Valley.

"My son was on the Dodgers, but anytime they were playing the
Indians, Utah was conflicted," she said. "Utah loved the Indians."

No wonder, because Phillips was born in Cleveland, Ohio, on May 15,
1935, to labor organizer parents.

He was born Bruce Duncan Phillips, but adopted the name "Utah" from
where he grew up. He later took the name U. Utah Phillips, which was
a tribute to fellow musician T. Texas Tyler.

Phillips ran away from home as a teenager and started living as a
hobo who rode the rails and wrote songs about his experiences.

In 1956, he joined the Army and did a tour in Korea, which would
motivate him to become a peace activist. In 1968, he ran for the U.S.
Senate for the Peace and Freedom Party. He also was a card-carrying
member of the Industrial Workers of America, or the "wobblies."

Moose Turd Pie

Phillips, whose long, white hair and beard and colorful outfits made
him a standout in any crowd, emerged as a folk music performer after
the release in 1973 of his first album, "Good Though!," which
included the classic song "Moose Turd Pie." The song recounts a tale
of serving moose excrements to fellow laborers, daring them to
complain about the food.

Some of his more notable recordings included "I've Got to Know"
(1991); the four-CD "Starlight on the Rails: A Songbook" (2005); and
in collaboration with DiFranco, "The Past Didn't Go Anywhere" (1996)
and "Fellow Worker" (1999), which was nominated for the Grammy.

"Utah has such a wonderfully eloquent storytelling style," DiFranco
told Mother Jones magazine in 1999, adding "Utah is such a wonderful
teacher when it comes to American history, so I've certainly learned
a lot of things from him and our friendship along the way."

Other musicians also praised Phillips.

"He made me understand that music must be more than cotton candy for
the ears," said John McCutcheon, a nationally known folk singer and
close friend.

Heart weakened

In the letter published on his blog, Phillips wrote: "My heart, which
is enlarged and very weak, can't pump enough blood to keep my body
plunging forward at its usual 100 percent.

"It allows me about 25 to 30 percent, which means I don't get around
very much or very easily anymore. I'm sustained (i.e. kept alive) by
a medication called Milrinone, which is contained in a pump that I
carry around with me in a shoulder bag."

In January, "after a day of great honesty," Phillips decided against
a heart transplant. He spent a month in a San Francisco hospital in
February before returning home.

"As long as I'm on the planet, I'm not going to turn into a
vegetable," he said upon returning home. "It's my town. Nevada City
is a primary seed-bed for community organizing."

He is survived by his son Duncan and daughter-in-law Bobette of Salt
Lake City, son Brendan of Olympia, Wash.; daughter Morrigan Belle of
Washington, D.C.; stepson Nicholas Tomb of Monterey; stepson and
daughter-in-law Ian Durfee and Mary Creasey of Davis; brothers David
Phillips of Fairfield, Ed Phillips of Cleveland and Stuart Cohen of
Los Angeles; sister Deborah Cohen of Lisbon, Portugal; and a
grandchild, Brendan.

He was preceded in death by his father Edwin Phillips and mother
Kathleen, and his stepfather, Syd Cohen.

The family requests memorial donations to Hospitality House, P.O. Box
3223, Grass Valley, Calif. 95945, (530) 271-7144 or

www.hospitalityhouseshelter.org.

LIFE OF UTAH PHILLIPS

Folk music legend who performed for 38 years. He drew his influences
from folk singers Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger and country stars
Hank Williams and T. Texas Tyler.

His songs were performed by Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings, Joen
Baez, Tom Waits, Joe Ely and others. He received a Grammy nomination
and was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Folk Alliance in 1997.

Born on May 15, 1935, in Cleveland, Ohio, and died on May 23, 2008,
in Nevada City.

He lived in Nevada City for the past 21 years with his wife, Joanna
Robinson, a freelance editor.

--------

UTAH PHILLIPS: May 15, 1935 - May 24, 2008

http://www.flamesofdiscontent.org/

By John Pietaro

Utah spoke directly to each of us in that filled
auditorium on April 24 of this year. It didn't matter
that it was his disembodied voice, speaking over a cell
phone held up to a microphone, held aloft by Pete
Seeger, one of the event's headliners. The strength of
Phillips' message message was as clear as the vitality
in his tone. I was happy to be there to hear Utah's
response to our benefit concert on his behalf, happier
still to witness the warm exchange between he and
Seeger, another elder of fighting the good fight. But
this room on that sunny spring day in Rosendale New York
was dedicated Utah Phillips; we'd all come with the
intention of helping this man who'd been there for the
greater "us" for decades. Utah told us of his life and
plans for the future. Sure, he sounded tired, but none
could accept that Utah would not get through this
challenge. He told us so. None would believe that he
would pass away just about a month later. Damn, at least
we can say that it took a lot to silence Utah. But the
echo of his work rings loudly, as sonorous as the music
onstage that day from Pete, Dar Williams, Redwood Moose,
Sarah Underhill, Norm Wennet, Bill Vanaver, my own
Flames of Discontent and others.

Utah Phillips was born Bruce Duncan Phillips in
Cleveland Ohio in 1935. Not simply because he was a
Depression baby, not only due to the powerful example of
his parents'work in the militant labor movement, but
perhaps due to a calling, Phillips decided early on that
he would dedicate his time to social justice. By the
mid-1950s, he was a rambling veteran of the Korean War,
damaged from the sites and sounds around him, a drifter
with a taste for drink. Ending up in Salt Lake City,
twenty year-old Phillips arrived at the Joe Hill House,
a shelter that was a part of the Catholic Worker
movement facilitated by one Ammon Hennacy, an anarchist
and associate of noted humanist and socialist Dorothy
Day. Hennacy had a tremendous impact on the young
Phillips, not only aiding him to get clean and focused,
but by way of his radical beliefs and tales. Phillips
absorbed these ideas and, adding in the influence of
Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Borscht Belt comedians,
raconteurs and various country musicians, Phillips
"created" U. Utah Phillips, the character whose life
he'd maintain as his own throughout the decades. Hennacy
also introduced Phillips to the Industrial Workers of
the World and Utah became a life-long dues-paying member
and activist with this global labor organization. He
would later use many of Hennacy's teachings and
statements in his oratories, at once satiric,
sentimental and revolutionary.

Though Phillips engaged in several noted career journeys
(including an unsuccessful run in `68 for US Senate on
the Peace and Freedom ticket), he will always be
remembered as a folksinger. Making full use of the
amazing heritage of song within the Wobbly repertoire,
Utah came to champion the IWW and their Little Red
Songbooks. His rounded baritone adorned more than one
collection of IWW recordings. In between writing many
powerful originals songs such as "All Used Up", Utah
brought to life the ballads of Joe Hill, Ralph Chaplin,
T-Bone Slim and the "Unknown Proletariat", who could
have been most any of us. But Utah never failed to see
the importance in the smallest of the small.

Oddly enough, Utah became something of a cult figure
with the college crowd in recent years. Two strong CDs
with Ani DiFranco brought him a bit of notoriety, but
Utah remained, well-Utah. Sometimes singing and fighting
are just that interchangeable. Each time we lift up a
guitar, put pen to paper, speak our mind or simply count
our blessings, let's pause a moment for Utah Phillips. .
--

John Pietaro is a labor organizer and cultural worker
from New York www.flamesofdiscontent.org

--------

Folk singer Utah Phillips dies at 73

http://origin.mercurynews.com/news/ci_9373739?nclick_check=1

By JORDAN ROBERTSON Associated Press Writer
05/24/2008

SAN FRANCISCO­Folk singer Bruce "U. Utah" Phillips, a freewheeling
storyteller and Grammy-nominated musician known for his extensive
touring over nearly 40 years and strong support of peace groups and
labor unions in his works, has died. He was 73.

Phillips died of congestive heart failure late Friday night at his
home in Nevada City, Calif., a small town in the Sierra Nevada
mountains located about 60 miles north of Sacramento, family
spokesman Jordan Fisher Smith told The Associated Press on Saturday.

Phillips leaves behind his wife, Joanna Robinson, and three children
of his own and two stepsons.

Phillips had been suffering from chronic heart disease since 2004,
Smith said. His health problems cut short the touring that had
characterized much of Phillips' career, though he kept in touch with
fans over the last few years of his life through a series of podcasts
and blog postings written by one of his sons, Duncan.

Phillips, the son of labor organizers, once ran for a seat on the
U.S. Senate on the Peace and Freedom Party ticket and was known as a
champion for the rights of working people and a comedian on stage.

One of Phillips' best-known songs in folk circles is "Moose Turd
Pie," a single from his first album that recounts Phillips' tale of
serving moose excrement to fellow laborers as a cook in a railroad
track gang to dare them to complain about the food. Smith said strong
radio support for the tune in the early 1970s helped Phillips book
steady shows in other cities and launch his career on the road.

That career spanned nearly four decades, and Phillips' collaboration
with Ani DiFranco on the labor-themed 1999 album "Fellow Workers"
earned them a Grammy award nomination in 2000 for best contemporary
folk album.

As Phillips' health problems worsened in recent years, he stepped
away from the touring life and focused on his health along with
starting a folk music radio show and helping establish a homeless shelter.

A funeral date hasn't been set yet, Smith said.

"He was a man who was amazingly funny," Smith said. "And what I saw
in the last two years of his life was a human being even more
beautiful than he was in performance."

.

1968 did not take place

1968 did not take place

http://www.cherwell.org/cherwell/content/view/7507/114/

Daniel Rolle
Thursday, 22 May 2008

Giving the middle finger to the Hayward Gallery's exhibition
--

I can't help but think that this whole 1968 exhibition is nothing but
a huge, marketed, branded, pre-packaged cliché. It is so very
Southbank, so very Verso, so very liberal left. If the Guardian has
reviewed it, they probably love it.

Why? Because anything exhibited at the Hayward brings with it a kind
of love-hate guilt-trip, a 'what will happen if someone finds out?'
appeal about it. It's like the Starbucks Latte. It's creamy, it's
frothy, it's warm and it soothes. Even better, it's Fairtrade.

Yet at the same time, it's a white coffee (so imperialist and
non-Left Bank) and is made by a multinational corporation who,
despite their greatest efforts to convince us otherwise, have
destroyed all hopes of local business flourishing. How to reconcile
the 'Free Palestine' regalia and the green-tailed siren? Just don't
buy a Frappucino. You're saving the ice caps, right?

The environment aside, the Hayward is cool. And that's why it's
fitting that a new exhibition of posters from the 1968 revolts in
Paris should be put on there. I couldn't think of anywhere better. In
many ways the Hayward epitomises 'New London' – of which the
Southbank is the epicentre. Here is a clash of the urban and the
conceptual; the '60s meets the 21st century.

I am talking about the difference between sixties war-crimes which
supposedly count as architecture (the BFI, the Royal Festival Hall,
etc), and the new Southbank Centre and accompanying Hayward Gallery.
The clash is strangely epitomised by that random skatepark which sits
next to Centre, just underneath the walkway.

I've always wondered how that popped up, and why there always people
there. I remember asking my dad as a child: 'Why aren't those men at
work?' I was a naïve soul.

So, why would the Hayward make a fuss about some '68 posters? Well,
it's forty years on, as if I needed to remind you after the million
and one supplements, special editions and culture spreads about '1968
and all that.'

How many old-time reactionary socialists have been dragged away from
the non-existent picket line, from the long-abandoned factories, to
comment on '68? They've been waiting for this for forty years. No
doubt Chomsky, Zizek, Eagleton et al. wrote their 'reactions' about
ten years ago, when postmodernism got a bit boring and there was
nothing conceptual left to critique.

But now that 2008 has come along, they can lift the lid of the
dustbin of history, accustom their eyes to the harsh light of the
twenty-first century and furtively make a list of all the
contradictions they can feast their eyes on in their Moleskine notebooks.

So the Hayward has got together a pretty wide collection of these
posters. And they are impressive. They are striking. In fact, I got a
real sense of being there. It must have been the Hendrix and Dylan
playing. It must have been those grainy photos – instilling within me
a feeling of fraternity with my fellow étudiants. A single sentiment
grew within me: a feeling of contrariety, of rebellion.

The slogans enveloped me: 'La Lutte Continue' (the struggle
continues) with a pumping wall of a fist resounds throughout the
exhibition; symbols representing the police state with 'Pour la
violence, la haine et la repression' (For violence, hate and
repression) scrawled in black and white lettering.

For it was this lutte contre le cancer gaulliste which drove
thousands against the police in the streets of Paris. The photos
prove it. It must have happened.

Immediately striking is the sense of immediacy which characterises
all the art on display, even forty years on. An impression of urgency
thumps out of the canvas, as if one of the huge fists had burst forth
from it and given me a good shake, before proceeding to stick its
middle finger up at me.

And this in many ways reflects the apparent spirit of the movement –
the urgency was real as the posters were rushed off presses in the
ateliers populaires and onto the walls of the Sorbonne.

The artist, in this sense, becomes a kind of guerrilla operative; the
art of flyposting no longer means putting up posters for 'Sex on the
Beat' next to cashpoints, or advertising the Trinity garden play in
the KA. Instead, it becomes a cloak and dagger movement – the
steadfast of the bicycle riding, baguette wielding anti-fascist brigade.

Nonetheless, it's important that I felt a 'real sense of being
there'. Because I don't have a clue what it was like to be there. All
I have to go on are the numerous accounts, poster exhibitions, The
Beatles' 'Revolution' and Dylan's shameless publication of his song lyrics.

And yet I was convinced, on walking out of the Hayward, that I had
'been there'. I could relate. I had felt the urgency of the cause,
and soaked up the atmosphere of '68. I was a Child of the Revolution,
in the purely T-Rexian sense.

Yet I am a member of an entirely different generation. I am by no
means a soixante-huiter. Even my parents were only 7 at the time. So
what was it that made me feel so alive?

It appears to me that the exhibition, for all its glory, for all its
good faith, is a clear example of the relationship and fine line
between revolutionary art and propaganda. The posters, with their
bold, iconic images and unequivocal messages, are hard hitting. They
are direct, like the action they propose.

And while they may have been convincing when they were stuck up on
the walls of the Sorbonne forty years ago, today they have but one
function: the perpetuation of a myth of '68, and all its associated
peripheries.

There are several reasons for this – and, at the centre, is the very
basis of the poster itself: the image, the nature of which has
changed dramatically over the last forty years. Today is the day of
the electronic image – there is no way getting around this. Online
advertising, forums, downloadable media, podcasts, RSS feeds, YouTube
politics: all are the lynchpins of the technological revolution, and
all influence and feed the 21st century opinion.

So for these posters to have any real effect, they'll have to go
online, or at least be marketed on electronic billboards. The
exhibition will have to be made into a YouTube music-video montage
('La Lutte Continue' with a mish-mash of Dylan and Hendrix). And
then, for full effect, Justice will have to do an electro remix. The
day it is played in Eclectric will be the first day of the revolution.

And why is this? Because the image has become a commodity. I can't
walk to the Taylorian without being bombarded by a thousand images:
advertising and marketing has appropriated all 'space'. Forty years
ago, in a massive reversal, this 'space' was the commodity, to be
used as a means to a revolutionary end by students and workers alike.

This is why the posters worked, this is why they stirred, this is why
they moved people to action. Not so today. With posters and images
all over town, the popular protest has changed direction: the
revolution has sold up, packed up and moved from the Faculty wall to
the Facebook wall.

So, the Hayward's collection doesn't really do a great deal, apart
from give a false picture of popular protest. It makes a myth of '68
and turns it into the herald of a golden age. Now detached from any
real significance, the image of '68 is the spectre no longer haunting
Europe. It is pure surface – just giving a quick-fix sensual effect,
before being shooed away.

I've always held that the single thing which makes or breaks an art
gallery is its gift shop. So, before consigning '68 to the dustbin of
history, let's see what's on offer. We have the usual: the memento
rubber, pencil and sharpener set – this time complete with pumping
fist; this is the stationary which will topple the order, or at least
rub it out, and rewrite its literature. We also have 'copies' of the
posters, at £50 a pop. Baudrillard, anyone?

But most entertaining are two gifts in particular. The first, a
Converse sneaker, complete with the 'La Lutte Continue' image on the
reverse side to the Converse emblem. Never before have I seen such an
incredible representation of this appropriation of space.

In a single revolutionary sweep, the left has appropriated the means
of production and redistributed its literature upon the stamping
ground of the capitalist regime! Or they've just sold out.

The second are the Peace Dolls, made from 100 per cent biodegradable
material, and a snatch at £9.99. These 'Peace Dolls' probably come
complete with a 'peace scarf', organic snacks and a free one year
trial membership to Hezbollah – get yours while stock piled nuclear arms last.

You can imagine my disappointment when I couldn't find the '68 Action
Man – complete with stones, placard, a copy of Sartre: A Guide for
the Perplexed and a jump suit, ready for quick escape when the
fascist pig policeman comes to drag him to servitude (all made from
organic produce by collectivist workers in South America, or back
issues of 'New Internationalist' and 'Red Pepper', and carbon
neutral, of course).

But enough railing for now. I suppose what really emerges from the
Hayward Exhibition is this: that '68 has become nothing more than a
myth. It has been used by the intellectual liberal left, forty years
on, for a specific end: the proliferation of discussion about the
counter culture, about the nature of revolt.

For old time trade unionists, '68 has become revolution – the real
McCoy. Any deviation from this is reactionary, in their eyes. In
actual fact, the myth they have created will haze the direction of
any real action.

So is the exhibition worth the time of day, and, if so, what's the
point? Firstly, yes, it is worth a look. For all its inauthenticity,
for all its harking to a golden age, the posters do serve an
important point: they show the importance of resistance, and the
power of the popular voice. So long as '68 is appreciated as a
historical phenomenon, and not drawn upon for future action, all will be well.

For all his irrelevance, Dylan was right in one case: the times they
are a changing. If we're going to play his records over images of
'68, we should really take heed of his message. By all means, go
along to the numerous '68 conferences. Read the special issues of New
Statesman, Prospect, and so on.

Just don't reminisce. If you do, imagine the fist popping out of the
canvas and giving you a shake. And then, before it has the chance,
stick your middle finger up at it. It's probably for the best.

.

Anti-bomb symbol was no accident

Anti-bomb symbol was no accident

http://www.canada.com/victoriatimescolonist/news/life/story.html?id=e1c61403-4716-4756-b0d8-adf69a23cc0d

British pacifist artist used signal flag art to send message around
the world Shelley Fralic

Canwest News Service
Published: Sunday, May 25, 2008

As emblems go, the peace symbol is arguably one of the modern world's
most powerful images, as monumentally ideographic now as the day it
debuted on the world stage 50 years ago.

And while many assume the ubiquitous little logo just appeared in the
1960s on the side of some hippie's rickety Day-Glo Volkswagen bus in
the Haight-Ashbury district, it's actually a British import, with a
far more complex provenance.

Though subject to debate, it is widely accepted that the peace symbol
was designed by Gerald Holtom, a British artist and Second World War
conscientious objector, who created the logo as a nuclear disarmament
statement.

Holtom used the flag semaphore (flag signalling) alphabet, taking
the- and D for nuclear disarmament and putting them together in a
circle, to represent the planet and eternity.

The simplistic peace symbol made its debut on Good Friday in 1958, on
banners and placards held high by 5,000 anti-nuclear protesters on a
historic four-day march from London's Trafalgar Square to the
Aldermaston weapons factory 80 kilometres away.

Holtom cleverly drew the emblems in white on dark backgrounds,
knowing they would show up better on television and in newspaper
photographs. He also made them waterproof and reflective, so they
could be seen at night.

The symbol caught the world's imagination, instantly becoming a
beacon in the fight for world peace.

Once across the Atlantic, it was adopted by the American civil rights
movement, then by the hippie counter-culture, and then by all manner
of special interest groups, from feminists to gay rights activists.

For half a century, it has been lauded, manipulated, attacked,
co-opted and commercialized, plastered on every surface imaginable,
including T-shirts, album covers, badges, flags, cars, posters,
buildings, children's faces and soldiers' helmets, a U.S.
commemorative stamp, as a backdrop for Greenpeace and John Lennon's
Give Peace a Chance ethos, and even on the packaging for Lucky Strike
cigarettes.

Holtom, who died in 1985 at the age of 71, deliberately never
copyrighted his famous sign -- which was initially known as the Ban
the Bomb symbol -- and once said it was meant to portray a human in
despair, arms outstretched and down.

He would later regret that decision, saying the symbol should have
been inverted, showing the human with arms up, in hope.

In his book Peace: The Biography of a Symbol, published last month by
National Geographic, author Ken Kolsbun, along with co-author Michael
Sweeney, writes of the symbol's lasting impression on our modern
culture, and its evolution as a universal mass-market brand as
relevant today, in politics and pop culture, as it ever was.

The book chronicles the symbol's history through photographs and
archival data, as well as Kolsbun's long-distance correspondence with
Holtom in the mid-'70s.

Kolsbun, who remembers being unsettled as a youngster to learn that
his country had bombed Hiroshima, would come of age in Southern
California, earning his peacenik stripes as awareness and tension
heightened around U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War.

He began to notice the peace symbol at anti-war marches in the late
1960s and, fascinated by it, started taking photographs and
collecting buttons and other memorabilia. He researched its history,
and would eventually send Holtom a 200-page manuscript to vet.

Today, Kolsbun, 73 and on the phone from northern California,
delights in the details of the symbol's origins.

He says Holtom, then in his mid-40s, simply knocked on the London
door of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in 1958 and convinced
the organization that it needed to use a single recognizable symbol
instead of so many words on its signs.

He came up with the idea, drew it on a piece of paper and pinned it
to his lapel, knowing he had hit the mark. Forgetting about it, he
headed off to the post office where a young woman asked him what it was.

Kolsbun recreates the encounter, using the exact words from Holtom's
personal papers:

"Oh, that is the new peace symbol," I told her.

" 'Are there any more of them?' she said. 'No, this is the only one,'
I said, 'but I expect there will be quite a lot before long.'"

The symbol has not been without its controversy and detractors, who
say it signifies communism, that it's anti-Christ, that it's a Hopi
unification symbol, that it resembles the runic letter for death and
that it's nothing more than a silly chicken scratch.

In 1970, the hawkish John Birch Society ran a story in its in-house
magazine saying the symbol was the sign of the devil.

In 1973, the South African apartheid government tried to ban its use,
and as recently as 2006, a Denver family was censured by its
neighbourhood association for hanging a Christmas wreath in the shape
of the symbol.

But the simple little peace sign has prevailed, still going strong on
its 50th birthday.

"It's a mascot for many movements," says Kolsbun, who sees its
longevity in environment issues such as global warning. "It's just a
fascinating symbol with a lot of power."

Including staying power. In the months before the start of the Iraq
war, Kolsbun joined a San Francisco peace march and was pleased to
see Holtom's legacy everywhere he looked.

"There were several hundred thousand people there, and there were
peace symbols all over the place."

.

Talk stirs debate about feminism

Talk stirs debate about feminism

http://www.midweeknews.com/articles/2008/05/15/local/de%20kalb/dekalb04.txt

May 15, 2008
By Diane Strand

It can be challenging to find young women today who consider
themselves feminists.

Benita Roth, associate professor of sociology and women's studies at
the University of Binghamton in upstate New York, reported one major
author says feminism is dead while another says it's alive, but has
ruined the country.

Roth spoke recently at Northern Illinois University on the Feminist
Presence in American Politics, as part of its Women's History Month
celebration. She argued that feminism as a long-term, "necessary part
of the American political scene."

Roth referred to Maureen Dowd's book, "Are Men Necessary?" which
argues there's still a way to go in the earnings arena, but "feminism
is dead as a lifestyle," Roth said.

Dowd sees feminism in two major waves. The first ended when the 19th
Amendment to the Constitution allowed women the right to vote. The
second wave arrived in the mid-1970s with the formation of the
Chicago Women's Liberation Union.

Conservative Kate O'Bierne believes feminism is still alive, but
blames the movement for making the world worse in terms of family
life, education, sports, the military and politics, Roth said.

After campaigning for decades, women finally secured the vote in
1920. But they still had to fight for the right to own property, and
that battle took years, in state after state after state, Roth said.

They also had to fight for the right to sign contracts.

For the right to serve on juries.

For the right to attend colleges and universities. They didn't win
the right to attend some colleges and universities until the 1970s.

Because full civil rights didn't go along with suffrage, women had to
fight to retain their own rights and their own wages after marriage.
They also fought for the right to birth control, privacy and
reproductive rights and that fight is still ongoing.

Also ongoing are fights for pay equity and an elevator pass through
the glass ceiling in business, for higher-ranking positions in
government, the military, medicine and higher education.

"It is the feminists of today who are raising questions (about the
welfare of) families," Roth said. Though the Family and Medical Leave
Act was passed during the Clinton administration, Roth said, "Who can
afford to be out of work without pay for 90 days? I won't talk to you
about (women's rights and family services in) Norway, because I don't
want you to cry."

Rights for African American and Hispanic women have often lagged
behind the mainstream by years or decades. Feminism continues the
fight against sexual harassment, domestic violence and child abuse.
Orders of protection continue to fail to protect victims. The
feminist slogan of the 1970s, "2 percent is okay for milk, but not
for the U.S. Senate," is still relevant even though the percentage
has increased.

"Veterinary medicine is becoming more of a woman's field-and it's
compensation will drop," Roth predicted.

Though many Third World countries have now been headed by women, the
United States has yet to elect its first woman president.

"We need to reshape our institutions" and develop coalitions now that
there are increased global connections, Roth argued. "We have to work
for change from the inside and the outside."

Feminists work with others to fight worldwide hunger and poverty (70
percent of the world's poor are women), against female genital
mutilation and for representation of women in cultures where they now
have none. With the aging of the American population, grandparents'
rights, equality in medical care and elimination of elder abuse are
relatively new battles for feminism. And many women are involved in
them-though many don't call themselves "feminists."

A member of the audience at NIU asked Roth about the future of
"Women's Studies" in academia. She replied, "There is a small group
of people who think we should be mainstreamed in all of the academic
disciplines."

Roth is the author of "Separate Roads to Feminism", published in 2006.

.

The year of rebellion: If... not when

The year of rebellion: If... not when

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/film/article4008346.ece

Forty years ago, against a backdrop of riots and rebellion across
Europe, Lindsay Anderson released his violent film If... about
schoolboys who kill their teachers. Our writer revisits his school,
where the film was shot, and recalls its profound effect on himself,
his friends and even his headmaster

Simon Worrall
May 27, 2008

In the Summer of Love, 1968, the film-maker Lindsay Anderson came to
my school to shoot what would become one of the most celebrated, and
iconoclastic, films of that turbulent era. It was called If... and
told the story of an armed revolt at a public school, led by a surly,
charismatic schoolboy named Mick Travis, who was played by Sixties'
bad boy, Malcolm McDowell, later the star of A Clockwork Orange.

In the notorious climax, Travis leads a group of boys on to the roof
of the library during Visitation Day. Swigging vodka, they machinegun
and mortar the parents and teachers to the sound of the Missa Luba, a
haunting Congolese Mass that Anderson chose for the film's
soundtrack. As the headmaster rushes across the lawn to plead with
the boys, Travis's girlfriend, played by Christine Noonan, takes out
a revolver and shoots him through the forehead.

The original script, by David Sherwin, was called The Crusaders.
Anderson scouted locations in the summer of 1967. He visited Dulwich
College and Charterhouse, but both refused him permission to film.

Eventually, he persuaded his alma mater, Cheltenham College. That
school was used for the chapel and the playing field scenes. The
heart of the film, like the gym where Travis is sadistically beaten
by a group of prefects, or the wood-panelled dining-hall, was filmed
at Aldenham School, in Hertfordshire, during the summer holidays of
my lower sixth-form year.

"Of course, when we were making it, we had no idea what it was
about," recalls Steve "Plugger" Goodwin, who worked on the film as an
extra. "It wasn't until we went to a press screening in London that
we realised. At the end there was total silence. Then everyone
applauded. We were all thinking: 'Wow! That's different.'"

If captured the Zeitgeist. Anderson exaggerated the cruelties of
boarding-school life, recreating a world that more closely resembled
his own school days at Cheltenham in the Forties (which he enjoyed).
Ours was a so-called minor public school, Eton-lite; its brutalities
less theatrical than If... suggested. "Scumming," where younger boys
do chores for the older boys had been stopped. And the infamous scene
in the gym could not have happened at our school. By 1968, boy-on-boy
corporal punishment had been banned. Caning by the head or
housemasters was increasingly rare.

Yet it still happened. On one occasion, a group of friends and I
absconded during an opera outing to Sadler's Wells, hopped on a bus
to North London and watched the second half of a match between
Arsenal and Tottenham. The next day I had to bend over the
housemaster's desk and receive four, short sharp blows. Like Travis,
I made it a point of honour not to flinch.

We were also subjected to a constant stream of what would today be
called physical abuse. Masters tweaked our ears and slapped us across
the head and threw board rubbers at us. I was once ejected from a
maths lesson for reading D.H.Lawrence under my desk with a boot up
the rear so hard it felt like I had been kicked by a carthorse.

Perhaps because he was gay, Anderson intentionally softened the
latent - and often overt - homosexuality that was part of our lives
(one former pupil told me "it wasn't homosexuality, it was just lack
of girls").

In one scene, which would not have been out of place in a commercial
for Fairy Liquid (Anderson shot many advertising films, notably for
Kellogg's), a scrumptious-looking boy named Philips slowly lowers a
sweater over his head while ogling Wallace, one of the three rebels
at the heart of the film, who turns circles on a gym bar dressed in a
pair of tight-fitting, white trousers.

Reality was less romantic, and even more cinematic. On a dark,
January night, soon after I arrived at the school, our housemaster
called us together and informed us that a master had hanged himself
in the woods. He did not tell us why. But the next day, rumours flew
round the school that he had been accused by a boy - some say
maliciously - of molesting him. It was said that the crows had pecked
out the master's eyes.

What the film did capture with extraordinary accuracy was the
oppressive, hierarchical world in which we lived. Every aspect of
ours lives, from which door we could use to how many buttons we could
have unbuttoned on our jackets, was governed by an arcane code of
petty rules and regulations. It was a cruel, Darwinian society where
the vulnerable suffered the most. On my first night I was put in a
two-bed dormitory with a pale, delicate boy called Williams. I can
still hear him sobbing all night.

It was a hermetically sealed society, almost cut off from the outside
world. There were no televisions, no phones, scant newspapers. Yet
echoes of the events shaking the world still reached us, like
rattling palm fronds in a hurricane.

In May 1968, students in Paris tore up the cobblestones. In Grosvenor
Square, there were anti-Vietnam war riots. Values and social
structures that had held fast for generations - deference to
authority, class hierarchies, religious observance and military duty
- were being swept away by rebellion.

"There was all this stuff going on," recalls Simon Farr, who missed
the filming because he was hitch-hiking to Istanbul.

After art college and a spell in the East London Marxist Leninist
Association, Farr moved to Aldeburgh, Suffolk, where he now works as
a political cartoonist and illustrator. "Music, art, drugs, clothes,
everything was in ferment. And we were just gagging to get at all
that stuff that was happening! It was like a party going on in the
next room, and we couldn't go it."

If...came out just before Christmas, 1968. One foggy Saturday
afternoon I set off on a bicycle with my smoking companion, Martin
"Puggy" Pike, to cycle to Watford, the nearest town with a cinema. As
we pedalled back, I imagined that I was Mick Travis and that my
clunky, iron bicycle was the gleaming BSA motorbike that he and his
sidekick, Johnny, steal and then ride across a field, with Christine
Noonan standing on the pillion seat, arms outstretched like Christ,
black hair flying in the wind.

The film's effect on the school was incendiary. Mick Travis joined
Che Guevara and John Lennon in our pantheon of heroes.

We imitated his lines - "Whatever you're doing now, don't!" - and
re-enacted scenes, especially the one where he and Johnny spar on a
crowded high street with imaginary flick-knives. One boy, Peter
"Tuke" Taylor, decorated his study exactly like Travis. As juniors
filed past to chapel, Tuke "would sit with the window open, firing
darts at the pin-board from an air pistol, with Sanctus, the title
track of Missa Luba, belting out from his record player." The film
was the ultimate schoolboy fantasy," he recalls. "And we cranked up
whatever we were doing as a result. It was a general feeling of:
let's rip the place apart. Basically, it was fun being rebellious."

In an article written many years later, the headmaster, Paul Griffin,
a strict disciplinarian and Christian in the Pauline mould, described
the blowback from the "brilliant and destructive film" that he had
allowed to be made at the school. "Our boys, seeing themselves in
what seemed to them romantic circumstances, enthusiastically
transformed themselves into images of the heroes of the film.

"It would be stupid to pretend that no other factors entered in but
If...was a powerful focus." Life began to imitate art in even more
alarming ways.

"There was this boy in the shooting team, who had special access to
the armoury," recalls Taylor. "We tried to get him to help us get
into it. It was just a fantasy. I don't think we would actually have
shot the headmaster or anything like that. It was for kicks."

My attitude towards the school can be characterised as permanent
trench warfare. I was a rebel and all my heroes - Kerouac, Shelley,
Mick Jagger - were rebels. Rebels were cool. School prefects weren't.
Ultimately, it was about autonomy. The school wanted me to be
something I didn't want to be: deferential, devout, conservative. I
hated going to chapel, I hated being told to sleep. I resented having
my hair massacred by Mr Boggins, a Dickensian character who every few
weeks would shear our heads like sheep.All through the winter of
1968, the mood of rebellion grew. A group of sixth-formers refused to
be prefects and preached subversion. A mass walkout was staged at a
debating society event. Drugs and counter-culture publications such
as the International Times flowed into the school. "I don't think the
school authorities understood what was happening," recalls Simon
Farr. "I used to have cannabis sent through the post; and I remember
going to the Albert Hall to see The Incredible String Band dressed in
my aunt's Indian dressing gown and a lot of beads. We were aspirant hippies."

Nick Pitt recalls: "By the end, we had virtually taken control of the
school." He was expelled in 1969 and later went on to serve a brief
prison sentence after being convicted for assaulting a police officer
at the Red Lion Square demonstration, where Blair Peach was killed.
Today, he is a sports writer. "I kept a car in the village, I used to
smoke and go to the pub. We didn't need to machine gun people. There
had already been a rebellion in the school."

To stop things spiralling, the headmaster instituted a cull of what
he regarded as the troublemakers. I was the first. Not for plotting
to blow up the school; but for getting into Cambridge a year early. I
had been a slacker, then suddenly, in 1968, a light went on in my
head and I fell in love with the rebels of English literature.

Disraeli Gears and Ode to the West Wind; Blake's The Little Chimney
Sweep and Tommy by The Who, swirled around inside me. My English
teacher, Richard Jones, spotted the potential and coached me through
the autumn of 1968. I didn't want to go to Cambridge (and eventually
didn't). I wanted to get out of the school. And when Corpus Christi
College awarded me a place, Aldenham's hold was removed. I cut
classes. I stopped going to chapel. I wore a pair of non-regulation,
red-and-black shoes. I skulked around like Mick Travis. I was cocky,
arrogant and bolshy. My housemaster, David Wallace-Hadrill, a humane,
Socialist-minded man I liked, said I was "a dangerous boy". "You just
haven't made it, have you, Worrall?" the headmaster said when he told
me that I was being expelled.

"And you haven't f***ing helped," I snarled.

His wife, Felicity, was in the kitchen, washing up. As I strode past
the window, she raised a rubber glove in salute. I jabbed my middle
finger in the air. Two hours later, my father came to collect me. We
drove in silence. I braced myself for the dressing down I was sure I
was about to get. But after five minutes, he turned to me in the
darkened interior of the car and, with words that became the
touchstone of his love for me, said: "I don't know what happened, Si,
but I just want you to know that your mother and I are 100 per cent
behind you."

Four decades later, I wince with retrospective shame at my crude
gesture as Felicity Griffin, white-haired now but still full of
energy, serves me tea and biscuits in the pristine living room of the
Suffolk cottage, where she and my former headmaster now live.

I have come to interrogate the past. One thing has always intrigued
me: why the headmaster allowed If... to be filmed in the first place.
"Everyone thought that Lindsay Anderson was the cat's pyjamas," he
recalls of the director's first visit to the school. "But I didn't
want Aldenham to come into disrepute. Anderson had been at
Cheltenham. He said to me: 'I was at a public school, I am not going
to knock the public schools, am I?' But being a suspicious character,
I asked him if there was anything more he could do to convince me. So
he said: 'I'll send you the script.' It was a very short script, only
about ten or 12 pages. And, of course, there was nothing offensive in
it. Where there was a violent or sexy scene it simply said: 'He
fantasises,' or 'He daydreams.' So I said: 'All right, go ahead.'" He
pulls a face. "I was a useful idiot, I suppose."

Seeing my old headmaster arouses complex emotions. Part of me wants
still to hate this conservatively dressed man. At school, he was a
martinet, a coldly illiberal man, whom we rebels feared and hated. I
can still hear his tight, high-pitched voice as he came up beside me
and, tugging at my hair so hard that tears started in my eyes,
squeaked: "Haircut, Worrall." The long, thin face, the hawk-like nose
and piercing, black eyes are exactly as I remember. So, too, are the
polished brogues, severe haircut and tightly buttoned jacket. But he
is 86 now, the same age as my father when he died.

I have grown older, too; and have a teenage son myself. To my
surprise, I find myself feeling strangely affectionate towards Paul
Griffin, and sorry that he was stitched up by Anderson. This confuses
me. It's so much easier to cling to black-and-white, adolescent emotions.

"Felicity and I went to see the film and laughed ourselves silly," he
recalls. "It was a marvellous film. Very funny; quite cogent." The
laughter drains from his face. "But the result for the school was
disastrous. After 1968 everything changed. There was suddenly this
terrible hatred." He insists that at no point, as rumour had it, he
feared an If-type rebellion was about to break out. "Lord, no! That's
ridiculous," he says. "I thought that there would be an awful lot of
trouble. But I don't think anyone was planning to shoot me."

He is less adamant about another rumour: that as a result of the pain
and embarrassment of having let Anderson in, he had a nervous
breakdown. When I ask him, he lets Felicity answer.

"Paul had faced considerable danger in Cyprus [Griffin had been a
headmaster during the Cyprus crisis]," she recalls. "And then
everything that happened at Aldenham...I think he was basically
tired. He was looking for a way out."

He chimes in: "I had had enough. I was 52. I just thought: 'I am
done.'" As I am about to leave, I remind him that he expelled me from
the school.

"I'm terribly sorry," he says, chirpily. "What did I expel you for?
...Are you sure? Well, I suppose you must have been bad." He beams at
me. I beam back.

A quote on the original poster for If... called it "a hand grenade of
a film". In one of its most famous scenes, Travis turns to his two
acolytes and says: "Revolution and violence are the only pure acts."

For one of my fellow schoolboys those words became more than a
rhetorical gesture. He was a tall, slightly awkward boy from a
wealthy family who, like many political radicals of that time, had a
deeply fractured relationship with his father. While still at school,
he joined The Socialist Workers' Party of Great Britain, an idealist
Marxist-Leninist group, and spent hours in his study, poring over its
publication, The Socialist Standard (I remember being deeply
impressed that he owned a copy of Venceremos, Che Guevara's letters).
At university he became a leader of a group of left-wing militants
organising strikes and sit-ins. Eventually, he drifted into the arms
of The Angry Brigade, Britain's equivalent of Germany's
Baader-Meinhof gang or Italy's Red Brigades. Between 1970 and 1972,
The Angries, as they were called, waged a bombing campaign on banks,
businesses and the homes of Tory MPs, including that of Sir Keith
Joseph, one of the architects of Thatcherism.

At his request, I cannot name him and he declined to be interviewed.
But over several phone calls, he talked about what he now calls
"rash, pseudo-political activity" and its painful consequences. After
serving time in prison, he emerged to find himself disowned by his
family and shut out of the job market.

"At the age of 20, I took a decision that ruined my life," he says.
"I don't regret some of the feelings and attitudes I had. But I
regret believing that violence could be used to change people's
minds. I feel that what I did was not right. Or that it was fair to
my relatives." He insists that If... had nothing to do with his
decision to join the Angry Brigade ("I thought it was rubbish at the
time"). Nor does he blame the school that he ended up what he calls a
"cross, arrogant young man".

"I remember that there was a French teacher who used to bring in the
French newspapers," he recalls. "We read all about May 1968, mostly
at the level of comprehension, but it was fascinating. Of course,
like every rebellious, young man I wished I was there."

Looking back, he also feels fortunate that the punishment he received
- six months in prison - was not more draconian. "Today you would get
seven to 12 years."

As I drive through the gates of Aldenham after nearly 40 years, I am
struck by how everything has changed; and everything is curiously the
same. It is now a liberal, co-ed, mostly day school with few of the
petty rules and regulations that dogged our lives. Pupils say "hi" to
teachers, laptops are ubiquitous, caning a distant memory. The gym
where Travis is beaten and where I did my A Levels is now a music
school. The day before I arrived pupils had played Nintendo Wii in
the chapel as part of a fundraiser.

Yet, as I watched a line of boys come clattering down the stone
steps, under the eye of Dorothy McGinty, the Scottish deputy head, a
whiff of that distant era came back. Anderson used the staircase for
If...'s opening scene, in which a column of boys jostle their way up,
carrying trunks and tuck boxes. The colour of the paint has changed.
But the cold, worn steps and steel railings have the same penitentiary feeling.

Today, If... is used in psychology classes to teach the upper-sixth
about the relationship between hierarchical structures of authority
and violence (as well as the dangers of revolution).

"The idea that boys would be able to punish other boys as they do in
the film is completely abhorrent," says McGinty. "We have very strict
rules about child protection and the rights of the child." So what do
today's pupils think of the film? I meet a group of three boys and
two girls from McGinty's psychology class. "What shocked me most was
that students got to give punishments out to other boys: proper
punishments," says Ross Rubin, a 17-year-old "flexiboarder" (a
designation that makes me hoot with laughter). "The end of the film
when they shoot everyone was just ridiculous. It was so exaggerated."
"I thought Travis, the main character, was arrogant," says Jessica
Cox, 18. "He might be making a statement. But I thought he was just
breaking rules for the sake of it."

Abigail Shamah chimes in: "They brought it on themselves. "They were
the ones that had an attitude problem." Can they imagine a rebellion
breaking out today? "I don't think that rebellion is a big issue in
this school now," says Ross.

"There's not a lot to rebel against. Having our top button undone or
not tucking our shirt in," agrees Alex Fine, a 17-year-old with
unruly black hair.

So there's nothing that makes you angry? World hunger? Global
warming? There is an embarrassed silence. Then a self-confident
18-year-old, James Charnley, who, like many sixth formers, drives to
school (in a Beamer, no less), turns to me and says, without a hint
of irony: "Parking."

.

'60s activist Michael Rossman dies in Berkeley

'60s activist Michael Rossman dies in Berkeley

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/05/17/BASB10O523.DTL

Michael Taylor, Chronicle Staff Writer
Saturday, May 17, 2008

Michael Rossman, a key planner of UC Berkeley's historic Free Speech
Movement in 1964 and a renaissance man with interests ranging from
science to collecting political posters to playing the flute, died
Monday at his home in Berkeley.

Mr. Rossman, 68, died from the effects of leukemia.

"Michael was protean," said Lynne Hollander, one of the movement's
leaders and the widow of its best known figure, Mario Savio, who died
in 1996. "He had so many interests, and he was brilliant and alive
and so engaged in life. He was a massive science person on one hand,
he was into politics on the other. Then he was into music and art. He
had friends in all those communities."

He was born in Denver, and his family moved to the Marin County town
of Fairfax when he was 3. He got his first taste of being out on his
own at an early age - his parents allowed him to roam Mount Tamalpais
by himself when he was young, and it contributed to his ideas of
personal freedom.

Mr. Rossman spent a year at the University of Chicago, then returned
to California to study at UC Berkeley. He met his future wife, Karen
McLellan, on the Cal campus in 1963 and, as she said Friday, "we got
married in 1969 in a three-day hippie wedding near Mariposa." They
didn't get legally married until a few months ago.

In the nascent days of the Free Speech Movement, Hollander said, it
was Mr. Rossman who said, "early on, that one thing that was needed
was a counter thought to the idea that UC had always been this
tremendously liberal, free speech-oriented institution. He felt this
was a myth and needed to be shown it was a myth."

On an October day in 1964, students gathering in Sproul Plaza created
a demonstration whose highlight came when authorities put student
Jack Weinberg into a UC Berkeley police car. Students surrounded the
car and some sat on top of it.

"After that," Hollander said, "Michael came up with the idea that
there should be a report done on how the university had dealt with
political activity over the years." The report was produced, "and
it's that report that got him known," Hollander said. Mr. Rossman was
chosen to be on the executive and steering committees of the
movement, along with such protest luminaries as Savio, Weinberg,
Suzanne Goldberg, Bettina Aptheker and others.

In December 1964, the UC Berkeley faculty voted to support the Free
Speech Movement demands that the university not be allowed to
regulate speech. The heyday of the Free Speech Movement essentially
lasted only a few months, but it is generally regarded as the
progenitor of anti-war and civil rights protests and student
movements in general that swept American campuses over the next decades.

"Those of us who worked together in that movement stayed very
connected to each other - we've been lifelong friends," Aptheker, now
a professor at UC Santa Cruz, said Friday. She said Mr. Rossman was
later "central in creating the FSM archive (online at www.fsm-a.org),
and I get e-mails from high school and university students all over
the country who have tapped into that archive and want to talk to me."

After leaving Cal, Mr. Rossman spent the bulk of his adult years
teaching science, first at the Berkeley Montessori school, then at
Ecole Bilingue in Emeryville, his wife said, retiring five years ago.
He also helped run Camp Chrysalis, a summer program that took
children to state parks around Northern California, for 25 years.

Mr. Rossman is survived by his wife, Karen McLellan, of Berkeley;
brother, Jared Rossman of Redway (Humboldt County); sister, Devora
Rossman of Mendocino; sons, Lorca Rossman of Olema(Marin County) and
Jaime Kaszynski of Olympia, Wash.; and a granddaughter.

The family suggests donations to the nearest blood bank. During
medical treatment in the past six months of his life, McLellan said,
Mr. Rossman "used an enormous amount of the area's blood supply."

A memorial service is pending.
--

E-mail Michael Taylor at mtaylor@sfchronicle.com.

.

'Seeing Music': Freight & Salvage at 40

'Seeing Music': Freight & Salvage at 40

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/05/21/NS3910P1SA.DTL

Mary Eisenhart
Thursday, May 22, 2008

It's not every music venue that would celebrate its 40th anniversary
with an art exhibition, but Berkeley's Freight & Salvage Coffee House
has always occupied an alternate reality. Consider one of the older
works in the exhibition: a '60s-era poster created by Rick Shubb and
Earl Crabb and printed at the Berkeley Free Press, where, says Crabb,
artist and printer (and future Berkeley fixture) David Lance Goines
was working as a pressman at the time. Dubbed "Humbead's Revised Map
of the World With List of Population," it features the Freight smack
dab in the center of the known world, which encompasses Berkeley, San
Francisco, Cambridge, Mass., Los Angeles and New York City. "Rest of
the World" is an easily overlooked tiny island, while Pigpen of the
Grateful Dead partially emerges from the sea with a crown and trident.

"Berkeley's an insular community," says Goines, who designed the
commemorative poster for the 40th anniversary. "We don't need to go
anywhere else. Why would anybody go anywhere else when it's so damn good here?"

For Goines, who grew up in a large family that entertained itself by
singing and playing cowboy songs, Scots-Irish ballads and the entire
American songbook, the scene that spawned the Freight was a place he
felt right at home. "During the Free Speech Movement everybody sang
all the time," he recalls. "When we'd come back on the bus from some
outing, we'd sing. We'd sing all kinds of songs - spirituals, songs
from 'The Sound of Music' - singing was part of my life."

Although the Freight has never been long on chartbusters, it has
nurtured an extended family of local artists and visiting performers
in the folk/old-timey/bluegrass/Americana music scene. That vibe is
ubiquitous in "Seeing Music," along with the quirkiness that's been
part of its DNA from the get-go.

Photographer Anne Hamersky has chronicled the scene at the Freight
for years. Her husband is guitarist Scott Nygard, a Freight regular.
Several of her photographs are included in the exhibition. "Being
married to a musician, you see the reality of a life in music, the
beauty, the sacrifices, all of it," she says. "Musicians embody music
through their daily existence. They are seeing music in their heads
as much as I hear a photograph in my brain."

One especially evocative photo finds a pensive David Bromberg picking
guitar on the battered couch in the Freight's graffiti-embellished
green room. "A lot of great musicians have sat on those couches,
tuned their guitars, changed their strings, written their set lists
or eaten Jamaican takeaway food from the place on the corner,"
Hamersky says. "There are a lot of memories in the Freight's green
room, and I try to capture that, the sense of family and immediacy
and intimacy."

On view 24 hours a day at the Addison Street Windows Gallery, 2018
Addison St., Berkeley. Through July 9. (510) 848-2112.

www.freightandsalvage.org.

.

Subversive Rock Humor: Dead But Not Buried

Subversive Rock Humor:
Dead But Not Buried or, When the '90s Took a '60s Turn

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/columns/article/58638/dead-but-not-buried-or-when-the-90s-took-a-60s-turn/

23 May 2008
by Iain Ellis

The heart attack death of the Grateful Dead's Jerry Garcia in 1995,
two years after Frank Zappa succumbed to prostate cancer, signified
for the some the closing of the 1960s rock chapter. However, it soon
became apparent that despite their deaths, the legacies of these two
trailblazers would continue in the hands of legions of '90s bands
marked by their influence. Indeed, through a subcultural army of
young people disaffected by modern trends in culture and music, the
'90s would contort into a fantasy '60s, such that an alternative (and
separate) reality was envisioned through a haze of neo-hippy
idealism, positive humor, and (relatedly) copious amounts of
mind-and-life-altering drugs. Authors Jason Cohen and Michael Krugman
sarcastically suggested in their (middle) finger-on-the-pulse,
epoch-defining book Generation Ecch (1994) that the '90s "fetish" for
all things '60s signified nostalgia for those "giddy" times of
"campus unrest, drug abuse, [and] armed conflict in the streets and
in the rice paddies".

Just as the 1990s neo-hippy subculture was retro-escapist, so were
the myriad "jam" bands that rose up from the underground during the
decade. After years of reigning as America's most popular touring
band, the Grateful Dead­in its demise­left a vast army of Deadheads
with no place to go. The most immediate heir-apparent was Phish, who
co-opted then converted the Deadheads into "Phishheads". Blues
Traveler, Widespread Panic, the Dave Matthews Band, and Big Head Todd
and the Monsters were among the many other contenders to the Dead's
throne. The common denominator of the new wave of post-Dead combos
was that they were all guitar-based jam acts that drew inspiration
from the folk, country, and psychedelic roots of the original San
Francisco hippy bands. Furthermore, they all projected a sense of
humor rooted in the positive vibes and eccentric whimsy that the
Grateful Dead and the Charlatans had once illustratively embodied.
Hippy humor was the in-crowd relief humor of the subculture itself;
it made little sense to the outside world, which was just as well
because it never sought to. Hippy humor was carnival humor, a coded,
celebratory expression filtered through the subculture's drug of
choice, marijuana, and through their social psychology: the desire to
renounce the pessimism and cynicism of their times, and to retreat
into the blissful womb of nature. These regressive instincts found
their correlative humor in a childlike whimsy and the anarchic state
of the id.

Formed in 1983, the Vermont-born Phish came to flourish as the
primary figurehead of '90s hippy-dom. As theatrical minstrels like
the Grateful Dead had been doing for years, Phish ignored the modern
communication outlets of radio and MTV, instead taking its music
directly to the people. Indeed, reflecting upon the sole occasion
when the band had dipped its feet into the world of video
marketing­producing a clip for "Down With Disease" (1994)­frontman
Trey Anastasio described the venture as "a momentary lapse of
reason". Ironically, though, the more Phish avoided the television
cameras, the more those cameras came seeking the band; and the more
it eschewed the commercial practices that would bring it success, the
more successful it became. And like a modern pied piper, the more it
played, the larger the Phish "phamily" grew.

Phish's expressions of subversive humor­like its jam band peers­were
rooted/routed through subcultural symbiosis. Both the band and its
fans sought not to assault the mainstream, but to utterly ignore it,
venturing not to correct mainstream practices but to circumvent them
by offering an alternative consciousness. In the "Phishheads" lived a
loyal subculture attuned with a cult-like regimen to the alternative
signals of the band's whimsical antics. Anastasio saw this intimate
interconnectedness between the band and its fans as an on-going
"conversation".

Not surprisingly, Phish's subcultural humor mostly revolved around
its stage shows, where audience participation was standard practice.
The band deflated rock pretensions by closing the gap between itself
and the audience, rejecting "star power" and narcissistic costumes in
favor of an everyman image and modest demeanor. That said, drummer
Jon Fishman was not averse to attiring for the purposes of positive
and/or self-deprecating humor. On the occasions he chose not to go
naked or don a diaper and bonnet, Fishman wowed the crowd with a
striking purple muumuu or fetching housedress. To complete the image,
the eccentric sticks-man would then blow a pseudo-trombone solo
through an Electrolux vacuum cleaner as the band performed its
version of The Jungle Book's "I Wanna Be Like You".

Other stage gestures included guitarists Trey Anastasio and bassist
Mike Gordon jumping on trampolines while trading guitar licks or
wearing slippery socks to facilitate group dance maneuvers­each
symbolic gestures of self-deprecating rock whimsy. One common band
practice was to quote (with a so-called "tease") a line from The
Simpsons' theme song, to which the union of Phishheads would shout
"D'oh!" in imitation of Homer. The band even established on-going
chess matches between the band and the audience, the latter making
their moves during the intermission at live shows. Phish always took
full advantage of the potential of carnival humor within its festival
environs, giant hot dog rides and water-spewing mechanical elephants
offering counter-imagery and implicit escape outlets from the
angst-ridden atmosphere inhabiting and inhibiting much X'er rock of the era.

Phish's practical humor was subversive not by virtue of the acts
themselves but because of what they signified the band and its
followers were and were not. By unifying band and audience, a
subcultural identity was solidified. And within its cult of
childhood, mutual trust was established, as were common value
systems. Phishheads respected how the band operated as an outsider.
While contemporary rock trended towards videos, studio trickery, and
image-manipulation, Phish represented the authenticity once sought by
'60s rockers in stellar musicianship, value-for-money shows, and live
performances. And as the mainstream dismissed or ignored such
retro-philosophies, the jam band troubadours and their carnie
drop-outs merely retreated to gatherings like H.O.R.D.E. (in the
'90s) and, more recently, the Bonnaroo Music and Arts and Wakarusa Festivals.

Some projected that the jam band explosion that followed the death of
Jerry Garcia would gradually fade. Yet, quite the opposite has been
the case. We are currently living through what some call the fourth
generation of jam bands, and the subculture remains strong. The
festival circuit is now larger than ever, and the eclecticism of
talent is broader than ever. Contemporary bands like the Disco
Biscuits grew up under the influence of Phish rather than the
Grateful Dead, and innovators like Band of Horses and My Morning
Jacket suggest that while the jam aesthetic continues, the form is
far from static. As the carnival continues, one can conclude that as
long as there are young people disgruntled with modern culture,
alienated by modern music, and depressed by modern cynicism, the
Grateful Dead will be alive in the communitarian values and uplifting
humor of those gratefully perpetuating their legacy.

If the Grateful Dead symbolized the neo-hippy whimsy of the 1990s
counter-culture, Frank Zappa marked a more warped and frenetic
manifestation of a contemporary '60s sensibility. The Zappa school of
humor was more directly inherited by the independent or alternative
rock culture of the '90s. Less light, positive, and childlike than
the neo-hippies, post-Zappa humorists exhibited their mentor's more
irreverent, anarchic, and incongruous instincts. And if marijuana was
the symbolic drug of neo-hippy whimsy, nitrous oxide represented the
frenetic madness of the post-Zappa set.

Primus and Mr. Bungle were indie humorists in the Zappa tradition.
They shared traits with the post-Dead bands­hybrid styles, impressive
musicianship, the jam-workout impulse­but their musical sources and
lyrical sensibilities were not necessarily retro-active. They often
opted for the grotesque over the whimsical, the irreverent over the
referential, and abstract sarcasm over uplifting good humor. Like
Zappa, his successors had unlimited imaginative scope, often creating
incongruous musical comedy from forcing multiple genres into ironic
juxtaposition with one another. Rather than the comforts of innocent
relief, such sonic mayhem envisioned the sounds of madness, neurosis,
and warped wit. Theirs were the dark forces of the carnival.

Primus drew from the spirit rather than the sound of Zappa. Its
bass-propelled funk-metal twitched and tweaked like rhythmic
disorders, as Les Claypool used his goofy voice and abstract lyrical
one-liners to undercut everything with an insane humor. Like Zappa,
Claypool broached political topics with abstract commentary, creating
fictional characters as his vehicle. "Those Damned Blue-Collar
Tweakers" (1991) spoke to working-class meth-dependence, while the
Grammy-nominated "Wynona's Big Brown Beaver" (1995) still has fans
speculating as to the song's meaning. The bizarre accompanying video,
which features the band members in plastic, cartoon cowboy outfits,
certainly provides few clues. Claypool is kitted out in pig suit and
tuxedo for the "Mr. Krinkle" (1993) video, encouraging interpretative
speculation and defying common sense.

Zappa's polemical zaniness is evident in Primus' more coherent songs,
too. "Too Many Puppies" (1990) bemoans the needless sacrifice of
soldiers, "Year of the Parrot" (1995) mocks the pervasive plagiarism
of contemporary bands, and "Pudding Time" (1990) offers a critique of
"consumer" materialism. Each uses quirky images that speak to
Claypool's imaginative eccentricity. Primus also promoted an
endearing strain of self-deprecating humor that contrasted with the
egocentrism of many of its peers. From its catchphrase "Primus
Sucks!" (which it encouraged its fans to chant), to their They Can't
All Be Zingers: The Best of Primus (2006) album title and "The Beat a
Dead Horse Tour" of the same year, the band displayed an unaffected
modesty that gave it a greater air of authenticity.

New York hip-hop met jazz fusion in Soul Coughing, one of the more
idiosyncratic bands of the decade. They brought smug satire and a
smart-ass attitude to their avant-garde music, reminding '90s
audiences of Zappa's enduring relevance. Like Zappa, singer-poet M.
Doughty used a deadpan delivery to make often scolding comments, each
set to a backdrop of neo-beatnik "slacker jazz". Their Ruby Vroom
(1994) debut album is full of stream-of-consciousness poetics,
unlikely style fusions, and laid-back irony. "Casiotone Nation" uses
Zappa's satirical zap in surveying '90s materialism, while "Bus to
Beelzebub" draws from his more abstract leanings with lines like,
"Your words burn the air like the names of candy bars."

Irreverent humor and an ironic fascination with doo-wop were but two
of the features that Mr. Bungle shared with its spiritual mentor,
Frank Zappa. Both acts drew from imaginations that could not be
contained, and both applied virtuoso musicianship to a song-craft
that made stylistic juxtaposition ironic and evocative. Adopting its
moniker from an old children's cartoon character, Mr. Bungle had the
anarchic spirit of children and the sharp vision of avant-gardist
adults. Like the neo-hippy jam bands, Mr. Bungle created alternative
fantasy worlds through improvisational adventures. Unlike those
bands, the cinematic sound-scapes that emanated from its instruments
cast visions of Fellini freaks and David Lynch psychotics. Its
metal-rooted carnie evocations were beautifully grotesque, suggesting
a modern-day musical rendition of Antonin Artaud's "Theatre of Cruelty".

There is dizzying, dark humor to a Mr. Bungle song, whereby
instruments, sounds, styles, and time changes can all be transformed
within the span of a bar; charging metal might turn to bossa nova, a
Middle-Eastern jam could morph into a lounge retreat, or Mike
Patton's harrowing scream could switch to a gentle lullaby in a
second. The band's zany schizophrenia, where light and dark humor
interplayed, was further underscored in its stage shows, where
bassist Trevor Dunn would head-bang frantically while sporting a
dress and pigtailed hair, or the band would wear grotesque masks and
S&M outfits, taking conventional horror humor into disturbingly unusual areas.

Ultimately, the '90s retro-acts sought to subvert the prevailing
trends towards crass commercialism, individual greed, and phony
superficiality. In nostalgic retreat, they used humor as a coping
mechanism, as relief from the "accelerated culture", and as
inspiration to create an alternative subcultural unity and new
musical adventures. Some, like the post-Dead jam bands, withdrew into
the id of childlike innocence, expressing a positive, unifying humor.
Others, like the post-Zappa indie bands, welcomed the neuroses of
their age as they affixed it to the more outlandish eccentricities of
'60s humor. Whether innocent children or irreverent eccentrics, these
"separatist" bands turned the '90s on its head, creating a neo-'60s
imagination­if not reality­in the process.
--

The above essay is an excerpt from Rebels Wit Attitude, a forthcoming
book about subversive rock humorists to be published in November 2008
by PopMatters and Soft Skull Press.

.

Al Shanker and the Strike of 1968

Al Shanker and the Strike of 1968

http://www.forward.com/articles/13438/

By Daniel Treiman
Fri. May 23, 2008

Forty years ago this month, the new community-controlled school board
in the largely black Ocean Hill-Brownsville section of Brooklyn
summarily dismissed 18 white teachers and administrators. The school
board's action led to a series of citywide teacher strikes that
roiled a city already on edge and strained traditional alliances ­
pitting liberals against labor and blacks against Jews.

At the center of the storm was Albert Shanker, leader of New York
City's United Federation of Teachers. Over the previous decade, the
junior high school teacher-turned-labor leader had played a key role
in organizing New York City's fractious teachers into a cohesive
force and winning them the right to bargain collectively, finally
taking the UFT's reins in 1964.

A social democrat and staunch supporter of the civil rights movement,
Shanker took a tough line in demanding the reinstatement of the Ocean
Hill-Brownsville educators. He led New York City teachers out on
strike not once, not twice, but three times in the fall of 1968,
shutting down the public schools for a total of 36 days. Shanker
faced down threats, intimidation and occasional antisemitic rhetoric
directed at him and his heavily Jewish union by supporters of the
Ocean Hill-Brownsville board ­ as well as an often unsympathetic
response from local officials and much of the city's liberal
intelligentsia. In the end, he emerged from the strike a figure of
national prominence.

Over the next three decades, Shanker would become a giant of
organized labor and one of the most important figures in American
education. In 1974, he was elected president of the American
Federation of Teachers. From this perch, he helped forge the nation's
teachers into a political powerhouse, vigorously fought conservative
efforts to privatize public education through vouchers, and emerged
as one of the country's most influential voices on education policy,
marshalling his members behind forward-looking school reforms.

Even as Shanker stood astride two pillars of American liberalism ­
the labor movement and public schools ­ the 1968 Ocean
Hill-Brownsville battle presaged other fights for the union leader.
In the years that followed, Shanker stood out as an outspoken critic
of emerging left-wing (and, eventually, liberal) orthodoxies on
foreign policy, affirmative action, bilingual education and
multiculturalism ­ earning him the lasting enmity of many on the left.

In an admiring new biography, "Tough Liberal: Albert Shanker and the
Battles Over Schools, Unions, Race, and Democracy" (Columbia
University Press, 2007), education scholar Richard Kahlenberg tries
to write the late labor leader back into the history of American
liberalism. Kahlenberg makes the case that whether Shanker was
fighting the right on behalf of trade unions and public schools or
tangling with the left over foreign policy and affirmative action,
ultimately his positions were rooted in a consistent liberal
commitment to the principle of democracy. Kahlenberg, a senior fellow
at the Century Foundation, spoke with the Forward about the 1968
school strike and why Albert Shanker's brand of "tough liberalism"
remains relevant today.

What was the lasting legacy of the Ocean Hill-Brownsville strike?

One of the legacies was an acceptance of the idea of color-conscious
hiring and firing. What happened in Ocean Hill-Brownsville, what
precipitated the strikes, was really quite extraordinary. You had the
community control board in the African-American ghetto of Ocean
Hill-Brownsville firing a number of white teachers without cause.
Moreover, the local superintendent, Rhody McCoy, had as an end goal
an all-black teaching force. This was a huge departure from the
classical liberal position, which was that hiring and firing ought to
be based on merit and be colorblind. But what happened in Ocean
Hill-Brownsville is that large numbers of liberals ­ white liberals,
including many members of the upper-middle class ­ went along and
supported this new notion of color-conscious firing and hiring. And
so, in a sense, you had the acceptance of racial preferences, which
we continue to live with today.

What did the strike mean in the near-term as far as how it affected
the politics of the time and the years that immediately followed?

The one immediate impact was a fraying of the relationship between
the black community and the Jewish community in New York, and to a
certain extent nationally. So the two stalwart allies in the fight
for civil rights and a fair society were split apart on this
question, which was very important politically. In some ways, you
could say that Ocean Hill-Brownsville helped spawn neoconservatism in
New York City and nationally. I hasten to add, Albert Shanker
wouldn't be included in that group. What made him interesting is that
he agreed with many neoconservatives on opposition to racial quotas,
the need to have a strong defense, but he himself never fully joined
the neoconservative camp on economic issues, on issues of labor, and
maintained his allegiance to the Democratic Party.

What was the impact of the strike specifically on Shanker and on his
future trajectory?

I'd say it was mixed. On the one hand, it established Al Shanker as a
powerful political figure in New York City who could, with his
members, paralyze the city school system. It became clear that he had
the ability to help convince teachers that they should stay out on
strike for very long periods of time. This was something that no
mayor wanted to confront, and so immediately after the school strike,
Mayor Lindsay did agree to a pretty hefty pay increase for teachers.
So it increased Al Shanker's power. It increased his stature
nationally, because this was something that was widely reported upon.

I'd say the impact was mixed on him, though, because many people
incorrectly concluded that Al Shanker was somehow anti-black because
many of the community-control supporters were African American. So
many people simplistically saw this as white vs. black, whereas Al
Shanker always saw it as an issue of justice for workers of whatever
color, that it was important to hold true to the principle that you
couldn't simply be fired for no good reason.

Why did you decide to write about Shanker?

I first met him in the mid-1990s, and I was writing a book about
affirmative action, arguing that we should base preferences on class
rather than race. He was completely sympathetic to the idea ­ and,
moreover, was really the only prominent figure on the left, broadly
speaking, who was engaged with this notion that Democrats should be
ultimately concerned about class, and that in terms of our social
policies there were a lot of divisions created by racial preferences
and racial quotas. I had this strange experience where all these
conservatives liked what I was saying ­ I consider myself a liberal
Democrat ­ and so Shanker was unique in that sense. So I became
interested in finding out more about him at that point.

Then I started writing about education, and he hovers over all the
great education debates that we're having today, and was such an
innovative thinker. Then finally, I wanted to know more about the
teacher union movement, because to my mind teacher unions stand at
the intersection of the two great movements for more equality and
social mobility in this country: public education on the one hand and
trade unions on the other. The AFT, which Shanker led, is the only
institution that's right there at that intersection ­ because the
much larger union, the NEA, is not part of the AFL-CIO, and always
considered itself kind of above that, whereas Shanker thought it was
crucial for teachers to be part of the labor movement to promote
greater equality. For all those reasons coming together, I was
interested in Al Shanker's life, and was kind of astounded that no
one else had done this already, given all that he had done in his life.

The sympathetic reception your book has received from some
conservative publications doesn't necessarily fit neatly with your
own political agenda. It sort of, in some ways, seems to lend
credence to the critique of Shanker that was made in The Nation's
review of your book, which is that Shanker served a useful purpose
for the rise of the right. Any thoughts on that?

There were many people who essentially saw him as a neoconservative,
because of his opposition to quotas. He had some concerns about
bilingual education and extreme forms of multiculturalism, and
because he was a tough anti-communist. But he wasn't a
neoconservative. They thought he was a neoconservative, and then in
1980, when all of his neoconservative friends went for Ronald Reagan,
Al Shanker endorsed Ted Kennedy, because he was so committed to
social-mobility programs. For him it was all very personal. Trade
unions had helped his family earn a more decent living. His mother
was a member of the ILGWU. Public schools had been the way out of a
tough neighborhood for him. And, I would argue, it's the folks who
betrayed liberalism on issues like racial quotas and national defense
that have sunk liberalism for the last 30 years, not Al Shanker.

You call Shanker "arguably the single individual most responsible for
preserving public education in the United States during the last
quarter of the twentieth century." That's really high praise. What do
you mean by that?

I think there are two reasons that we continue to have public schools
which educate 90% of American schoolchildren. That's extraordinary in
an economy where everything else is free markets and privatization,
that we have a system of compulsory public education that applies to
the vast majority of kids. Shanker had two things that he contributed
to that: First, he was one of the founding fathers of modern teacher
unions, and there's no institution today politically that has the
sophistication and the manpower to stop private-school initiatives
when they're on the referendum or in the legislature as the trade
union movement.

But then the second piece is that as an education reformer, he was
able to respond to the legitimate criticisms of public education. I
think if trade unions had just relied on political muscle without
showing any reasonableness on public-education reform issues, we'd
see a lot more private-school voucher initiatives out there
succeeding. So he was able to reform public education in order to
save it on the one hand, and he was able to help create the
institution that has the political muscle to preserve public education.

On the right, the popular argument is that teachers' unions are the
problem with America's public education system. They argue that
teachers are just another group looking out for their own interests.
So conservatives would say that this "founding father of modern
teacher unions," as you call him, didn't do us a favor.

You have to look at what life was like for teachers before Al Shanker
and some others created the modern teacher union movement. The reason
I say "modern" is that teacher unions existed before Al Shanker; it's
just that they weren't really unions; they didn't bargain
collectively. I would say look at why these powerful unions were
created in the first place: When Al Shanker started teaching, New
York City teachers were paid less than those who washed cars for a
living. There was a lot of turnover. There wasn't much dignity for
teachers. He had one assistant principal who would spy on him with
binoculars across a courtyard, so there were reasons that teacher
unions came into power to protect the interests of teachers.

But then Al Shanker later in his life tried to more closely align the
interests of kids and teachers and argue to teachers: We can't oppose
some of these innovative reforms, because if we do we will end up
with a privatized system. So, in fact, what's good for kids should be
at the center of what teacher unions pursue. And I think in most
cases that's true.

There's this line from the right that says: We'd rather have people
who are looking out for the interest of kids rather than teachers.
And I always ask: Well, who are those people? I'm not sure who it is
out there that will have the interests of kids foremost in their
minds to the exclusion of everything else. I think that's a fantasy
world. Then you have to ask whose interests are most closely aligned.
I think the interests of teachers are normally aligned pretty closely
with kids ­ not always, but normally.

You argue that Shanker's "tough liberalism" provides a recipe for
building a left-liberal political majority. But if Shanker's
political orientation is so great and potentially attractive, why is
it so marginal today?

There are various interest groups that have a big play in American
politics ­ as they should ­ and so it's not just a matter of finding
a political theme that has resonance and then getting people to vote
for you. Within the Democratic Party there's a strong peace movement
that can sometimes be soft on dictators on the left, and there are
lots of groups ­ as there should be ­ to defend a certain agenda on
racial issues having to do with affirmative action. That is an area
where Bill Clinton saw the poll numbers and said, okay let's shift to
preferences based on economic status not race, and immediately Jesse
Jackson threatened to run for president in 1996. They made a
political decision. So there are certain forces.

The other big one is our campaign-finance system. The "tough
liberalism" that I'm describing is really the antithesis of what most
campaign contributors on the Democratic side embrace. A lot of
wealthy people who contribute to campaigns are not generally
economically populist the way Shanker was. At the same time, they've
kind of made their peace on issues like racial preferences or are
maybe more socially liberal and are likely to be more liberal on
foreign-policy issues, which is why they're attracted to the
Democratic Party. I would say that the biggest obstacle is finding a
way to make "tough liberalism" work given our current campaign-finance system.

You sometimes refer in your book to Shanker's political orientation
using a newer term, "radical centrism." What does that mean?

There are two political centers in this country. There are
economically conservative, socially liberal, upper-status individuals
who are referred to as kind of the "moderate middle." When the media
talks about moderates, that's usually what they mean. They're
pro-choice on abortion, not defense hawks, and not wanting to shake
things up in the economy too much. But then there's this second
center, or swing group. They used to be called the Reagan Democrats.
They are downscale, white, working-class voters who are the mirror
opposite. They're a little more conservative on cultural issues, and
think that racial preferences and issues like that are unfair, but
are more supportive of efforts to promote economic equality. Shanker
really appealed to that type of centrist voter. I think the political
lesson of the last several decades is that when these swing voters ­
the white working-class voters ­ vote their race, Republicans win.
And when they vote their class, Democrats win. The problem is that
Democrats have been having a very hard time appealing to those voters.

What role did Shanker's Jewish identity play in the development of
his worldview?

Al Shanker was not an observant Jew. He was in his childhood, and
then essentially became nonreligious. But his Judaism was very
important to him at the same time. In part, it was the horrific
experiences of antisemitism that he faced as a child that I think
made him such a strong advocate of nondiscrimination throughout his
life. Having tasted really terrible antisemitism as a child, he had
sympathy for people who were discriminated against and became a
staunch advocate of civil rights for all people. But the civil rights
movement obviously was of particular importance to African Americans,
so that informed his support for Martin Luther King, marching in
Selma, his anti-segregation stances ­ and also his later antipathy
towards racial preferences, because he thought that was unfair.

I would say his support for democracy naturally led him to be a
strong supporter of Israel, and he also felt some identification,
obviously, with those who had suffered in the Holocaust. It's
interesting in his early years as a socialist he was an anti-Zionist,
because he just saw issues in terms of class and was not supportive
of nationalism. In fact, when he was [a student] at Stuyvesant [High
School in New York], which was heavily Jewish at that point, he was a
strong supporter of the Arabs. But then later in life, I think that
obviously he became a strong supporter of Israel. And I think just
the general desire for making life more fair for people could be
connected to his Judaism as well.

Do you think that his experience with childhood antisemitism
influenced the way in which he responded to the Ocean
Hill-Brownsville conflict?

I think so ­ and this is getting into a little bit of dangerous
territory. I didn't find strong evidence of this, but there was some
interesting reaction and split within the Jewish community over Ocean
Hill-Brownsville. It tended to be upper-middle-class Jews who were
much more supportive of the Black Power movement than
lower-middle-class Jews in the outer boroughs who saw Shanker as a
hero for standing up to the Black Power movement. But I think the
fact that he knew what antisemitism was all about as a child ­ and
there was one point at which he was strung up in a tree, just
horrible incidents ­ so he wasn't going to just kind of dismiss it,
the way some more privileged Jews had. There was a sense among some
upper-middle-class liberals ­ Jewish and non-Jewish ­ that, well, we
can overlook black antisemitism, because look what they've gone
through. I think that was an insulting way to look at that issue,
that discrimination had to be taken seriously no matter what the
source was, and that Al Shanker was right on this.

It seems like he may have had strong ideals, but, in part because he
had such a hardscrabble childhood in Queens, he wasn't going to let
ideology override reality. You wrote about his dark view of human
nature and how that may have influenced his views on, say, discipline
and on the need for orderly schools.

Yes. The issue of discipline was one that he'd faced throughout his
life. He was beat up a lot at school. He knew what it was like to be
beat up. He knew that no learning was going on. But he did have this
realistic view of human nature that I think was part of the "tough"
part of "tough liberalism." He fought communists within the teachers
union and knew the tactics that they would use. So he did not have a
romantic view of communists. At the same time, he didn't have a
romantic view of employers, either. He knew that garment workers had
died in a fire because the employer was trying to get every penny he
could and therefore locked the doors from the outside, worrying about
theft from the store. You had to be tough with employers as well as
with communists.

One could, in some ways, read your book as an instance of how a very
particular strain of New York Jewish socialism, through a very gifted
exponent in Shanker, managed to essentially transform education in
America. How would you respond to that?

Yes. And it wasn't just Al Shanker. He had a cadre of people at the
AFT who came out of the social-democratic movement ­ some of whom
were Jewish, some of whom weren't, but many of whom were Jewish.
Together they had this vision, which put democracy at the center and
had a lasting impact on what public education looks like today. So I
think that's not too much of a stretch.

.

'Breach of Peace: Portraits of the 1961 Freedom Riders'

'Breach of Peace: Portraits of the 1961 Freedom Riders'

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121147753768014697.html?mod=googlenews_wsj

By Eric Etheridge
May 23, 2008

Hank Thomas

Born: August 29, 1941, in Jacksonville, FL. Grew up primarily in St.
Augustine, FL.

Then: Sophomore, Howard University, Washington, DC. Active in the
student movement there. One of the original thirteen Freedom Riders
who left Washington, DC, on May 4, 1961, and on the bus firebombed in
Anniston, AL, on May 14.

Since then: Became a field secretary for CORE in 1962, working in
Birmingham and Huntsville, AL. Inducted into the Army in 1963 and
chose to serve as a medic. Did a tour of duty in Vietnam 1965-66.

Moved to Atlanta after Vietnam and got in the franchise business,
starting with a laundromat, followed by a Dairy Queen. Today he and
his wife own two McDonald's and four Marriott hotels; they live in
Stone Mountain, GA.

Quote: We'd heard about Parchman. We'd heard about the number of
blacks who went to Parchman who never returned. We also knew that
Parchman was way out in the country some place.

Some of the guards there would tell us, "Y'all get up there at
Parchman, they're gonna straighten you all out. And there ain't no
Robert Kennedy or John Kennedy gonna do anything about it." And
people began to think that.

But me and lots of the other folks didn't buy it. When we get there,
we're still going to do things our way. But the dehumanizing process
started as soon as we got there. We were told to strip naked and then
walked down this long corridor. For some of us who were born and bred
in the South and used to go skinny-dipping, it was no big deal. But
I'll never forget Jim Farmer, a very dignified man. And here he is
walking down this long corridor naked. That is dehumanizing. And that
was the whole purpose.
--

Carol Silver

Born: October 1, 1938, in Boston, MA, and grew up there and in Revere
and Worcester, MA.

Then: Living in New York and working at the United Nations. Graduated
form the University of Chicago in 1960.

Since then: Attended law school at the University of Chicago.
Organized a chapter of the Law Students Civil Rights Research
Council, which supported civil rights lawyers working in the South
with summer interns and research. After graduating law school in
1964, interned for a year with Floyd McKissick, a prominent black
attorney in North Carolina.

From 1965 to 1970, worked in federal programs in various cities in
California providing legal services for the poor, returning each
summer to Mississippi and Louisiana to work with the Lawyers
Constitutional Defense Committee.

Elected to three terms on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors,
serving from 1977 to 1989. Since then she has practiced law in San
Francisco. In 2002 she started the Afghan Friends Network, to aid in
Afghan redevelopment.

Quote: The ride between Jackson and Parchman took about four hours,
and was more frightening than any previous part of the jail
experience. There were twenty-three girls, white and black, crowded
into an army-transport type truck, which was completely lacking in
springs. Many of us had black-and-blue marks when we arrived, because
the drivers delighted in stopping and staring suddenly, throwing us
against each other and the sharp corners of the seats.

But the most terrifying part of the ride was the three times when the
drive suddenly jolted off to the side of the highway and stopped. We
imagined every horror, including an ambush by the KKK. I suppose they
were just waiting for our escort of state police and FBI to catch up,
or something equally innocent, but until we were moving again, none
of us breathed an easy breath.
--

Michael Audain

Born: July 31, 1937 in Bournemouth, England. Grew up in Victoria,
British Columbia. A fifth-generation British Columbian, his
great-grandfather, James Dunsmuir, was a prominent industrialist and
politician in the province.

Then: Had finished his third year at the University of British
Columbia, in Vancouver. One of the few Freedom Riders arrested in
Jackson who came alone, without working through organizers.

Since then: Helped found the British Columbia Civil Liberties
Association in 1962. Graduated University of British Columbia in
1963, then did graduate studies there. Active in the
nuclear-disarmament movement. Studied at the London School of
Economics 1966-68, then moved to Toronto. Active in the anti-Vietnam
War movement in London and Toronto.

In 1980, started Polygon Homes, a residential real estate development
company, in Vancouver, which he still runs today. Active as a
philanthropist in the arts. A member of the British Columbia Arts
Council and a trustee of the National Gallery of Canada.

Quote: The Jackson police didn't have to arrest me, but since they
did, fine. I was so delighted to meet the other Freedom Riders in
jail. In many ways, the experience changed my life.

When I came back to Canada, I helped start the BC Civil Liberties
Association. I got involved in the peace movement. I was president of
the Nuclear Disarmament Club at UBC and organized peace marches and
sit-ins for peace.

Later, I was involved with Vietnam War resistance in eastern Canada
and in England. In May 1968 I was sent as a delegate from the London
School of Economics to the general strike in Paris. I was at
Woodstock – I was living in a commune in Toronto at the time.

I was involved in a lot of stuff, but it all stemmed from the Freedom
Riders. I'd never really been politically involved before.
--

Charles Purnell

Born: January 19, 1941, in Rolling Fork, MS. Grew up primarily there
and in several other small towns in the delta and North Mississippi,
including Cleveland, Coldwater and Holly Bluff; his father was an
African Methodist Episcopal preacher who liked to change churches
every two years.

Then: Student, Campbell Junior College, in Jackson.

Since then: Enlisted in the Army and served two years, including a
12-month tour in South Korea, 1964-65. Graduated from Tougaloo College.

He has been the pastor of the Bethel AME church in Savannah, GA,
since 1990. Before that he led other AME churches in Savannah,
Columbus, and Atlanta.

Quote: I was in high school Cleveland, Mississippi, when we got word
about the murder of Emmett Till. [Cleveland is about thirty-five
miles from Money, where Till was abducted and later murdered.]

I had heard growing up that you weren't supposed to look at a white
woman eye-to-eye, nor a white person. You were expected to look down,
and I don't recall ever doing that. What I developed very early in
life, I was just as important as they were, and I had no need to
look. If my attention was not called, I had no need to look in that
direction. I only asked for what I needed in stores or whatever, and
purchased that, and went forth. I never spent any time on street
corners, as it was a custom of young persons who were not disciplined
by their parents. My daddy was a very strict disciplinarian and a
preacher, so we did not get an opportunity to even be enticed.

Dad often spoke from the pulpit about the dignity of black people. He
had a work ethic that he felt that we should embrace. And he always
said that nobody was going to come in his home, as long as he had
breath, to do any harm. He perhaps inherited this last from my
granddaddy, who died before I was born.

He, too, was a farmer and was an expert Winchester shooter, so he
developed a reputation as being a crazy black person. Apparently
there was a little bit of anger when he was stirred up. My father was
also easily stirred up. As long as Daddy got along with white folk,
he was okay. He would always correct them for referring to them as
"boy" or "uncle." I remember on several occasion in my presence he did that.
--

Larry Bell

Born: March 5, 1942, in Monroe, GA. Grew up there and in Los Angeles,
where his family moved in 1950.

Then: Freshman, Los Angeles City College.

Since then: Returned to Los Angeles, working as a janitor during the
day and attending City College at night. In 1966 was one of the first
blacks to go to work for United Airlines in California. When he
retired in 2000, he was a flight-attendant supervisor and also
trained newly hired flight attendants. Still lives in Los Angeles.

Quote: The clothing that they gave us in Parchman was a t-shirt that
was military green and some green boxer shorts. No shoes, no. And as
we began to protest, they took them from us and left us with nothing.
Then they took the mattress, so now we had to lie on a metal slab
with them little round holes­and boy, you talk about some hard
sleeping at night? When you're sleeping on the thing, there's that
indentation where your skin goes through that little round hole, and
there you are, half of you is like being suffocated and the other
half is being cut out, you couldn't sleep any way you tried. So we
sat up and we debated all night, and we got more boisterous in our songs.
--

Matthew Walker, Jr.

Born: June 1, 1941, in Nashville and grew up there. His father was a
surgeon and chairman of the surgery department at Meharry Medical
College, and a member of the Nashville Christian Leadership Council.

Then: Student at Fisk University and an active member of the
Nashville Student Movement.

Since then: Returned to Fisk University for an additional year, then
joined the army in 1962 and served three years. Attended Columbia
University in New York City from 1965-68, and was involved in the
1968 uprising there. Dropped out and started organizing. Among his
early efforts were rent strikes in Harlem.

In 1970 went to work as an organizer for the Commission for Racial
Justice, an organization supported by the Church of Christ. Worked
for the Commission in several locations, including Philadelphia,
Washington, DC, and North Carolina. From 1982-90, organized state
workers in Louisiana and hospitality workers in New Orleans for the
AFL-CIO. Returned to Nashville in the late nineties. Still active in
local politics, focusing on environmental issues and the public schools.

Quote: When we got to Mississippi, National Guardsmen boarded the bus
with fixed bayonets on their rifles. They stood the length of the bus
in the aisle. I said to one of them, "Man, that's a mighty fancy
rifle you've got there."

His response was, "I ain't got one word to say to you." [Laughs.]

"Yeah," I said to myself, "These are our protectors."
--

Jean Thompson

Born: January 13, 1942, in Lake Providence, LA. Grew up there and in
New Orleans.

Then: Active in New Orleans CORE, along with her sisters, Alice and
Shirley. Shirley was arrested at the Trailways station on June 6th.

Since then: After bailing out of jail in Jackson, she returned to New
Orleans to train Freedom Riders about to go into Jackson. Continued
to do sit-ins and picketing for several years. She also did civil
rights work elsewhere in the South, including Canton, MS, after
Medgar Evars was murdered, and in North Carolina.

Moved to New York City in the mid-sixties, where she worked with
local CORE chapters. In the late sixties she was involved in civil
rights, anti-war and feminist efforts in Berkeley and San Francisco.

She has lived in Amherst, MA, since the early seventies.

Quote: My parents always talked about injustice of segregation, but
they were optimistic, they didn't feel like it was last forever. They
raised us to be ready. I remember my dad saying the day will come,
and when the day comes, you should be ready.

My father was in Colorado, looking for work, when I was arrested in
Jackson, and he found out that I was a Freedom Rider. When I got back
home he called and said, "What are you doing this for?" I had to
remind him that this is what you told us to do. So, he didn't say anything.

Then I said, "And by the way, Shirley's gonna leave tomorrow [to go
to Mississippi as a Freedom Rider]."

He said, "Let me talk to your mother."
--

Excerpted from "Breach of Peace: Portraits of the 1961 Freedom
Riders" by Eric Etheridge.

.

Woodstock Site: Museum Offers the Sixties Experience, Man

Woodstock Site: Museum Offers the Sixties Experience, Man

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/LAC.20080524.BITWOODSTOCK24/TPStory/TPTravel/Music/

May 24, 2008

The Museum at Bethel Woods is opening June 2 at the site of the 1969
Woodstock concert, located about 90 minutes north of New York City,
and will offer exhibits, personal stories, multimedia experiences and
programs about the music, fashion and political protests of the 1960s.

The original three-day festival, pictured, epitomized the era's
counterculture and drew hundreds of thousands to hear Jimi Hendrix,
Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell and many other performers.

The museum is part of the Bethel Woods Center for the Arts, an
outdoor performing arts complex. Performers scheduled for this summer
include Cyndi Lauper, the B-52s, Ringo Starr, the New York
Philharmonic, Donna Summer, The Klezmatics and the Boston Pops.

For more information or for tickets to the museum or shows, visit

http://www.bethelwoodscenter.org or call Ticketmaster at 845-454-3388.

.

"PatriotS Act...PEACE PRESS" Takes Show On The Road

"PatriotS Act...PEACE PRESS" Takes Show On The Road

http://media.www.lavalleystar.com/media/storage/paper295/news/2008/05/21/ValleyLife/patriots.Act.peace.Press.Takes.Show.On.The.Road-3374107.shtml

Josh Spence
Issue date: 5/21/08

Valley College's Media Arts Department's award winning documentary
"PatriotS Act.PEACE PRESS: the People's Printing Collective" has been
made an official selection of the first annual International Film
Festival England.

After participating in numerous film festivals and winning 16
recognitions in its 2006- 2007 film festival run throughout the
United States and Canada, this selection will be the first for the
documentary overseas.

A selection is made when the submitted film qualifies to be presented
in the festival.

The documentary explores the history of the Peace Press, a unique Los
Angeles institution from 1967-87 that made its start printing
materials protesting the Vietnam War. It printed anything and
everything that was "alternative press" and worked with such icons as
the Black Panther Party, United Farm Workers, American Indian
Movement and Timothy Leary.

The festival is organized by the Academy of Media, Recording,
Interactive, Television & Stage Arts and is being played at the Dylan
Thomas Centre in the heart of London.

Valley film Professor Joseph Daccurso is happy with the selection,
not only because of the recognition for the film, but for the
students involved.

"This further adds to the credibility and validity of our industry
and portfolio- giving us further cache as professional filmmakers."

While AMRITSA praised the film for taking a fresh take on global
issues while maintaining an American perspective, Daccurso believes
the film works on multiple levels.

"One, students apply their work to their real world. Two, is the
artistic endeavor of it," Daccurso said. "This documentary was not
submitted as a student piece, which would've won more awards and
three, the message of the film, which is homage to the baby boomers
and the students attending Valley College through the 60s, 70s, and 80s."

Daccurso further adds, " The subject is still fresh. A lot of the
tools have changed, but not the approach of telling a story and these
stories are still relevant today."

The First Annual International Film Festival England will premiere June 9.

.

The lawyer who likes to play devil's advocate

The lawyer who likes to play devil's advocate

http://www.independent.ie/entertainment/film-cinema/the-lawyer-who-likes-to-play-devils-advocate-1385784.html

By Paul Whitington
Saturday May 24 2008

The term morally ambiguous might have been invented for Jacques
Verges. Since qualifying as a lawyer in the early 1950s, the
French-Vietnamese barrister has represented such charming clients as
Klaus Barbie, Slobodan Milosevic, Carlos the Jackal, part of the
Baader-Meinhof gang and various Algerian and African terrorists. Some
claim he has gone further than merely representing them, and has
acted as an agent for Carlos in particular; others paint him as an
international man of mystery who's spied for various governments.

He is an enigma, a professed communist who likes fine food and
first-class travel, a crusader for prisoners' rights who gets all
teary about torture and capital punishment but seems indifferent to
the carnage caused by his clients. Barbet Schroeder has just made a
documentary about Verges' extraordinary life. At two-and-a-quarter
hours, Terror's Advocate is one of the longer documentaries you'll
experience, and viewers at the IFI Temple Bar will be praying they
get a comfortable seat. But however much detail Schroeder's film goes
into, the sphinx-like Verges and his extraordinary story ensures it's
never less than fascinating.

One of the reasons Verges's story is so fascinating is because it's
inextricably linked with the rise of the kind of freelance
international terrorism that's become so irksome of late. And just to
give you some idea of the kind of trickster you're dealing with,
Schroeder's film opens in Cambodia, as Verges shares a laugh and a
joke with his old friends in the Khmer Rouge. Verges got to know Pol
Pot in the late 1940s when the two were studying in Paris, and is
less than forceful in his condemnation of the KR's disastrous rule
and mass slaughter, which he seems to dispute.

As the film makes plain, Verges's view of Cambodia and every other
international conflict is informed by a deep-seated anti-colonialism
that leads him to view indigenous armed groups, no matter how
dubious, as freedom fighters. Born in Thailand in 1925, Verges was
the son of a French diplomat father and a Vietnamese mother, and was
mainly raised in the French colonial island of Reunion.
Paradoxically, he grew up with a deep love of the French culture and
language, and a hatred of colonialism in all its guises.

As someone who travelled to England to join up with de Gaulle's Free
French army during the Second World War, Verges was entitled to feel
aggrieved at how shamefully France treated the loyal colonials who'd
taken their side during that conflict. And nowhere was this post-war
colonial repression more flagrant than in Algeria. Following a brutal
police and army crackdown on pro-independence demonstrations in
Algiers in 1945, a cycle of violence led to the 'ratissage', an
invasion of supposed dissident areas that led to the deaths of
thousands of Muslims. Thereafter, public attitudes hardened, and
support for hardline groups like the FLN grew.

When the FLN's terror campaign in Algiers got going in the mid-1950s,
Verges became a vocal supporter, comparing their tactics to those of
the French Resistance during war. And he began defending FLN members
when they got arrested. The most prominent of these was Djamila
Bouhired, who was accused of having planted a bomb in a crowded Algiers bar.

The French-backed authorities were executing convicted FLN members by
guillotine, and the evidence was stacked against Bouhired, but Verges
managed to get her cleared. Fascinated by this woman of action who'd
become a national hero, Verges subsequently married her.

In the 1960s, Verges became obsessed with the state of Israel, which
he decided was little more than an exercise in neo-colonialism. And
when the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine embarked on a
series of airline hijackings, he began defending them in court. This
brought him into contact with some extremely unsavoury characters,
including Wadi Haddad, the Palestinian radical who is sometimes seen
as the father of modern terrorism.

Then, in 1970, Verges disappeared. He had by then fathered several
children with Djamila Bouhired, but for the next eight years neither
she nor any of his friends in Algiers had any word of him, and his
wife was quoted as saying that if she did see him again she'd cut off
his extremities. Where he was exactly during those years no one quite knows.

Most of his friends reckoned he was in Cambodia with the Khmer Rouge,
but Pol Pot and others later denied this. Significantly, there were
sightings of him in Paris and various Arab countries in the company
of Palestinian militants. And money never seems to have been a
problem for him during this time.

When he resurfaced in Paris in 1978, he immediately resumed his
controversial legal practice, defending the Lebanese assassin Georges
Ibrahim Abdallah and other career terrorists.

Perhaps his most controversial moment, though, came in 1984, when he
agreed to defend Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyons. Barbie, a sadist
and enthusiastic torturer, is thought to have been directly
responsible for around 4,000 deaths, but that did not deter Verges,
who seems to love a desperate cause. Cleverly, but perhaps cynically,
he used the show trial in Lyon as a platform from which to highlight
war crimes in Algeria, but became a hate figure in France as a result.

His shadowy association with Carlos the Jackal was soured when he
defended his girlfriend Magdalena Kopp after an attempted bomb attack
in Paris in the 1990s. Confronted with another dashing woman of
action, Verges apparently fell in love. But when Kopp was released
from a French prison she sought out Carlos and had a child with him,
knowing this was the only way in which she'd ever (as the mother of
his child) be safe.

In Schroeder's film, Jacques Verges emerges as a witty, cultured,
clever but deeply vain and self-regarding man. His ability to argue
the impossible and defend the indefensible is phenomenal, but
ultimately the person his silver tongue has most bewitched is perhaps
himself. As Terror's Advocate unfolds, his urbane asides become
increasingly arid, all the more so because he clearly imagines we're
laughing along with him.
--

pwhitington@independent.ie

.

Kent State shootings left impact on future coaches

Kent State shootings left impact on future coaches Pinkel, Saban

http://www.kansascity.com/sports/story/604252.html

May. 03, 2008
By BILL REITER
The Kansas City Star

The memories will come back to them today.

The news flashes. The sirens. The chaos and confusion. The dead.

"It's something that'll be with you forever," said Missouri football
coach Gary Pinkel. "There's not a May 4 that hasn't gone by where I
don't think about it. I vividly go through everything in my mind.
It'll forever have an effect on me."

It's been 38 years since National Guardsmen opened fire on unarmed
Americans at Kent State University. Most of the country has moved on
­ they've put this one in the history books, chalked it up to part of
a Vietnam Era that ended when Marines lifted Americans off the roof
of the embassy in Saigon. This is our country's past.

Just not for those who lived it. Today, for two of the most
successful football coaches in America, May 4 is the anniversary of
when they changed.

Every year, the memories come back to Pinkel, who was a senior in
high school 15 minutes away and went on to Kent State a few months
later. They return for Nick Saban, now Alabama's football coach, then
a defensive back for the Golden Flashes.

"I always think about it," Saban said. "Allison Krause" ­ one of four
students who died that day ­ "who I had English class with, I didn't
know her well but she was in class with me."

Saban trailed off.

"When things strike home like that," he said after a pause, "it gives
you a different perspective on those things."

For the young men on that football team in the years that followed,
today is a reminder of many things. How quickly life can go wrong.
How important their choices are. How precious their lives are. And
how a day that began so ordinary ended up shaping their futures.
•••

Trouble was brewing all week.

On April 30, President Richard Nixon announced the expansion of the
Vietnam War into Cambodia. On Friday, May 1, protestors at Kent State
buried a copy of the Constitution during a noon rally ­ an act meant
to symbolize what they viewed as Nixon's actual destruction of the
U.S. Constitution.

Saban followed the news, most of it taking place far away in places
like Saigon and Washington, D.C., as his freshman year in college
wound down. Pinkel was even further removed from events, enjoying
high school and thinking of summer vacation.

"That night in downtown Kent, there was lots of trouble," said Tom
Hensley, a professor emeritus of political science at Kent State who
was a young professor there at the time. "It was viewed as a riot.
There were confrontations between local officers and students and
non-students."

None of this was particularly new. Protests, anger, rage ­ the
politics of the 1960s and '70s played out on campuses across the country.

But that trouble led to the calling out of the National Guard.

"That day, as this happened, the ROTC building was being burned,"
Hensley said. "About 1,000 members of the National Guard occupied campus."

There were more conflicts on Sunday, May 3. Student and non-student
protestors had called for another rally, this one on Monday, May 4.
The university and the National Guard demanded the rally not occur.
The protestors refused to back down.

Young people were angry. The Guard was angry. The campus was torn.
Saban, a defensive back for the football team, was instructed to stay
away from the gathering. Pinkel was mostly oblivious.

The stage was set.
•••

Pinkel walked out of the Dairy Queen, climbed into his 1967 powder
blue Volkswagen and headed back toward Kenmore High School in Akron.
His girlfriend sat next to him. They ate lunch as he drove.

Then, the radio: There'd been a shooting in Kent. Students had died.
Others had been injured.

"You're absolutely shocked," Pinkel said. "It was just ugly."

This was where Pinkel planned to attend school in the fall, where
he'd play tight end for the football team. He was just a small-town
kid who followed the news from a distance, if at all. He wasn't used
to events like this one barreling into his life.

Pinkel and his girlfriend pulled into the high school and headed into
journalism class.

"We went in there and the teacher said, 'National Guard 4, Students
0,' " Pinkel said.

"The teacher in town, I'll never forget him because he said, 'The
aftermath of this will last 20 years.' I'm 17 years old and I'm
looking at him like, are you kidding me, 20 years? He was right."

Not far away, Nick Saban had just finished eating lunch at a dorm on campus.

"There was this noon meeting, which we weren't allowed to go to," he
said. "I had to make a big choice."

Well, he'd made it. First lunch with a teammate, then a walk up the
hill to see what was going on. He might have been there himself had
he not decided to eat first.

"We walked toward the meeting and found out people had gotten shot
and we scurried our way up there," Saban said.

The place looked like a military zone. Helicopters fluttered in the
air. People screamed. Ambulances streaked by. Saban was dumbfounded.

This is what had happened, what the world would learn later, the
event that would stay with Pinkel and Saban from then on: The
students, maybe 3,000 of them ­ about 500 of whom were active
protestors ­ had gathered and the guardsmen ordered them to disperse.
They refused.

"So the Guard ­ 100 of them ­ fired tear gas into the crowd and
marched on them," Hensley said.

The guardsmen went across the commons area, and up a huge hill,
following the students as they retreated. They reached the top of the
hill and followed the students back down. Then, on a football field
the team had used the year before for practice, the guardsmen found
themselves trapped.

They retreated back up the hill. Some guardsmen stopped, turned and fired.

Thirteen seconds of firing. Sixty-seven bullets. Four dead students.
Nine injured.

The school closed. Saban returned home. Pinkel's mother advised him,
"Let's wait and see how things go."

"Obligation wise," Pinkel said, "I had to go."

The following fall, Pinkel and Saban arrived on campus.

"What happened was, everything in the years after May 4, really to
'75, was about May 4," said Jerry Lewis, a witness to the shooting
and professor emeritus of sports sociology at the school.

"This happened to the sports team. I heard a football coach say in
'72 or '73, I wish we could forget that May 4 business. Kent State
became a symbol of the war and the controversy. You just couldn't
escape the May 4 culture.

"It just was pervasive. Everything was around May 4."
•••

A cloud hung over the school.

Bad news in Vietnam? Reference Kent State. Trouble stirring on
campuses across America? Reference Kent State.
--

To reach Bill Reiter, e-mail him at breiter@kcstar.com

Dylan commits songicide in Halifax

Dylan commits songicide in Halifax

http://thechronicleherald.ca/Columnists/9006883.html

By JIM MEEK
Fri. May 23, 2008

IF BOB DYLAN'S band was playing in your garage, you'd rent it a barn
in the country.

I mean, the guy's performance in Halifax on Wednesday night was plain horrible.

It was a wall of inchoate sound, a melange of mumbled lyrics, an
attack on melody.

Not that the musicians were bad. There was talent on the stage ­ you
could tell during the solos.

Too bad Bob didn't introduce the boys to each other before the concert.

Dylan has a well-deserved reputation for ignoring his audience.

None of the banal niceties for him ­ like acknowledging he was
playing in a town or a nation except the one he occupies inside his head.

Halifax, you say?

Might as well have been Belfast or Belgrade.

Frankly, I can live with that.

Adolescence has its charms, and Dylan has managed to sustain his for
50 years or so. (He turns 67 Saturday.)

But I did expect Dylan to display a passing attachment to his own
music and incomparable lyrics.

Here was the man who had written two dozen of the best songs in pop history.

On Wednesday, he performed a few of them ­ notably It Ain't Me Babe
and Positively 4th Street ­ after putting the tunes through some kind
of industrial-strength blender.

Musical rearrangements?

Heck, no ­ we're talking songicide. They should add this offence to
the Criminal Code.

Mind you, mine may be a minority opinion. Around the newsroom, most
concert-goers gave a thumbs-up.

"Didn't expect much, anyway," one colleague said.

"I already knew he mumbled his lyrics," another said.

As defences go, these were pretty lame.

And the best his fans could really say about Bob is that he's getting
by and getting away with it.

Me, I figure when you've reached the "getting away with it" stage of
a career, it's time to move on.

And for my money, the guy busking in the Metro Centre lineup on
Carmichael Street sounded more like Dylan than Dylan did.

And I only dropped a few quarters in the busker's guitar case. Bob
tickets started at around 50 bucks.

Speaking of guitars, I remember when Bob used to play one.

He'd go to a mike, strap on a six-string, put his harmonica in
harness, and play the old songs in the old ways.

Call me uncool. Call me retro. Call me reactionary.

But that's what I wanted from Dylan.

The guy's a nostalgia act, whether he likes it or not.

Granted, the man kicked off the night well with Rainy Day Women, and
the other bookend song ­ All Along the Watchtower ­ got people on their feet.

But for the most part, the concert went from worse to merely bad.

A post-concert voice message on a newsroom phone summed it all up nicely.

"Bob Dylan came to town," a man told entertainment editor Greg Guy.
"But he didn't show up on stage."

Here's the other maddening thing.

Why were all those polite Dylan fans on their feet at the end of the
concert, demanding more of the same?

Cripes, I was among them myself.

Guess that means I have to concede ­ 31 years after moving here ­
that I have become a Haligonian.

That is, I give the singer a standing O ­ and the chef my compliments
­ even if the performance sucks and the seafood is a week old.

I swear I've seen people sleep through an entire symphony in this
town, and still rise to their feet with the adoring throngs when it's over.

In Halifax, we sink sycophancy to new lows. Polonius would be a piker here.

As for Bob, he didn't earn our goodwill.

And if you saw Dylan after listening to Leonard Cohen last week,
Bob's performance made you weep.

There was Leonard at 74, playing five nights at the Dalhousie Arts Centre.

All Cohen did every night was make tender, witty, unforgettable love
to every song he sang and every word he declaimed.

And after listening to Bob, I have only two words to say about Leonard Cohen.

Hallelujah.

Hallelujah.
--

(jmeek@herald.ca)

.

At 87, Daniel Berrigan is still raising hell

At 87, Daniel Berrigan is still raising hell

http://religionblog.dallasnews.com/archives/2008/05/at-87-daniel-berrigan-is-still.html

May 25, 2008
by Bruce Tomaso

People of a certain age (balding hippies, mostly) will recall the
Berrigan Brothers, a pair of peacenik priests who kept getting
themselves arrested in the '60s and '70s.

Philip Berrigan died in 2002. (He left the priesthood in 1973 and married.)

Daniel Berrigan (right) just turned 87. Still a priest, he teaches at
Fordham University, a Jesuit school in New York, where he is poet-in-residence.

He has a new book, "The Kings and Their Gods: The Pathology of
Power." In it, he examines the texts of First and Second Kings and
finds in those ancient accounts of power and war disturbing lessons
for the United States today.

According to the publisher, "The wars of these kings ... are our wars
now, and we are fashioning our own gods to approve our misdeeds.
These two books of Scripture come to vivid -- and sometimes
terrifying -- life when we recognize these undeniable similarities."

.

What a woman wants

What a woman wants

http://www.atimes.com/atimes/Global_Economy/JE23Dj05.html

By Julian Delasantellis
May 23, 2008

"What do women want?" Austrian psychiatrist Sigmund Freud asked, as
if the population being inquired about was an enigma shrouded in a
conundrum, when an answer was there just by asking one. These days,
American politics is obsessed by a similar question, "What does the
white, less-educated, lower income, middle class want?"

In 1975, a friend of mine going to college in Boston, Massachusetts,
tried to find out. At the time, the notoriously gentrified Boston was
presenting a new and unexpected image of itself to the world thanks
to resistance, frequently violent, to a federal judge's order to
racially desegregate the city's schools.

Instead of sophisticated, cultured Brahmins sipping tea on Beacon
Hill, reading poems by Longfellow and discussing the progress of
their sons at Harvard, TV news broadcasts featured almost nightly
graphic footage of the protests, in reality near riots, that followed
the judge's order. The mechanics of the desegregation process was
that white kids would be taken by bus from their segregated white
neighborhoods to schools in segregated black neighborhoods, and vice
versa. The events taught the world that much of Boston was demarcated
into sharp sectarian divisions as mordacious as any strife-torn city
in Northern Ireland.

The loci of the white resistance was found in South Boston, an almost
exclusively white, Irish Catholic, and very poor, neighborhood - but
one where residents were proud of their (albeit underperforming)
schools. If you ever see documentary footage of yellow school buses
rolling into a white neighborhood, phalanxes of jackbooted State
Police officers separating them from hordes of protesters screaming
obscenities and throwing rocks, you're most likely looking at events
in South Boston.

My friend was earning his college tuition by working as a deliveryman
for two brothers, Holocaust survivors, whose business provided
supplies to nursing and convalescent homes. One of his stops was a
retirement home in South Boston.

Behind the front desk at this establishment was a blond, cute,
curvaceous young receptionist, with deep blue eyes and a flashing
smile. My friend, who had to sign in at her desk to gain admittance,
was always too tongue-tied to strike up a conversation until one
night he noticed that playing on the girl's AM radio was the song
Black and White, by the rock group Three Dog Night.

The song, meant as a paean to school desegregation, had these lyrics:

The ink is black, the page is white
Together we learn to read and write
A child is black, a child is white
The whole world looks upon the sight
A beautiful sight.

And now a child can understand
That this is the law of all the land
All the land.

The world is black, the world is white
It turns by day, and then by night
A child is black, a child is white
Together they grow to see the light
To see the light.

My friend crossed the Rubicon; he went for the gusto. "So," he smiled
at the girl. "I guess this song isn't that popular around here these days."

The girl flashed her pretty eyes, answered back.

"Eat [expletive for excrement]," she suggested to my friend. "You
[extremely derogatory obscenity referring to African-Americans,
generally referred to as the 'n word'] loving [derogatory insult to
persons of the Jewish faith rhyming with bike] [present participle of
the obscene verb referring to one who has conjugal relations with a
maternal parent] [obscenity for the exit terminus of the human
alimentary canal]."

Well, Barack Obama isn't having a lot of luck connecting with this
population, either.

American politics, particularly American presidential politics,
wasn't always as complicated as it is now. For about 75 years
following Republican William McKinley's 1896 election victory over
populist firebrand Democrat William Jennings Bryan, American politics
settled into a fairly comfortable and predictable pattern - business
and the economic elite voting for the Republicans, more middle and
lower income, "popular" interests going for the Democrats.

It was McKinley's political guru, Mark Hanna, the Karl Rove of his
day, who engineered this significant political "realignment". He was
the one who made the now obvious political tautology that if you
represented the interests of the economic elite, the elite would
reciprocate with loads of campaign contributions, and, as California
political boss Jesse Unruh once said, "money is the mother's milk of
politics".

Once the Republicans got by their anti-corporate, trust-busting
president Theodore Roosevelt from 1900 to 1908, this pattern held
until very recently. Americans were happy and content with the
prosperity delivered to them by the free market in the Roaring
Twenties, so in that decade they elected as president three
Republicans in a row - Warren Harding in 1920, Calvin Coolidge in
1924, and Herbert Hoover in 1928.

However, following the stock market crash of 1929 and the subsequent
Great Depression, the seeming salvation of the country from both the
economic calamity and the threats of the fascist Axis ushered in one
of the longest periods of one-party dominance of the presidency in
American history. The Democrats won seven of the nine presidential
elections between 1932 and 1964. The only victories the Republicans
could manage during this period were in 1952 and 1956, when they had
as their standard bearer the non-ideological, essentially centrist
American hero-conqueror of Europe, Dwight D Eisenhower.

The 1964 presidential election, held less than a year after the
assassination of president John F Kennedy, was particularly brutal
for the Republicans. Running Arizona conservative Senator Barry
Goldwater against now president Lyndon Johnson, the Republicans were
thoroughly thumped; Johnson won 61% of the popular vote. The only
states that Goldwater won were his home state of Arizona, and, it was
thought interesting at the time, the previously hard-core Democratic
Deep South states of South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi
and Louisiana.

In the immediate aftermath of the 1964 election, the prospects of
conservatism in general, and the Republican Party specifically,
seemed bleak. Their defeat was so thorough and substantial that it
was thought that it would be many years before they would once more
be a force in the political system. A new "liberal consensus" would
rule the day, leading to a beneficent dominion of government-employed
technocrats using the latest advances in quantitative social science
to solve society's problems.

As for the conservatives, it was now thought that their ideology was
past its time and that, in the 1954 words of Columbia University
sociologist historian Richard Hofstadler that essentially accused the
entire conservative movement of sociopathy, "Their political
reactions express rather a profound if largely unconscious hatred of
our society and its ways - a hatred which one would hesitate to
impute to them if one did not have suggestive clinical evidence."

High-water mark
But rather than being the first crest of a crashing liberal wave,
1964 would, in reality, be liberalism's high-water mark - a mark that
the movement would not even come close to in the following 40 plus years.

The counter-attack was launched from the redoubt of those five Deep
South states carried by Goldwater in 1964. Most political observers
attributed this phenomenon to Johnson's advocacy of political and
civil rights for African-Americans; Johnson himself admitted that his
signing of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, and the attendant rebellion
against the Democratic Party that would soon arise among white
Southerners, meant that the South would be lost to the Democrats for
the next 20 years. Currently, that prediction is off by 24 years, and
still counting.

The America that chose a new president in 1968 was a far different
place than in 1964. The anti-Vietnam war and civil rights protests of
the intervening four years had generated the worst civil unrest in
the country since the Civil War, and, as the cities of the North
burned in the aftermath of the assassination of the Reverend Dr
Martin Luther King, it was seen that racism was not just a disease of
the backward, non-progressive South.

For the conservatives in the Republican Party, America's electoral
doormat for over the past three decades, this was the way out of the
darkness. Advised by 28-year-old television wunderkind Roger Ailes
(more lately the creator and still head of Fox News), candidate
Richard Nixon hit on a strategy to finally reach down and peel off
some of the middle- and working-class whites that had been at the
core of the Democratic party consensus since Franklin Roosevelt.

As chronicled by journalist Joe McGinnis in his groundbreaking 1969
book, The Selling of The President 1968, Ailes steered Nixon towards
the relatively new political tool of the television advertisement to
bypass the considered-to-be hostile printed press, to re-introduce to
the American public a "new Nixon", supposedly more trustworthy and
honest than the shifty eyes and questionable morals of the old Nixon
of the 1950s.

In a series of one-minute (far longer than the 15- or 20-second spots
now aimed at today's short attention span younger voters), television
advertisements, Nixon appealed to an American middle class that had
seemingly grown frightened and apprehensive about the rapid pace of
social change cascading about before their eyes.

One spot had still photos of the riotous 1968 Chicago Democratic
Convention that had nominated his opponent, vice president Hubert
Humphrey, interspersed with a frightening collage of burning
buildings, presumably from the civil rights and antiwar riots, and
the war in Vietnam. Another spot, "Youth" , mixed stills of
degenerate, ill-kempt hippies (who by then were being painted by
social critics as nothing but spoiled upper middle-class cowards and
crybabies) in what the spot called the "fringes", with scenes of
good, wholesome American youth, doing good, wholesome American youth
activities such as studying science (none of that degenerate social
science stuff with these good kids!) working, playing baseball,
standing under American flags - all clean cut, short haired, and
dressed as if they were happy to wear what their parents had just
purchased for them at Sears.

One of the most ominous shots, "The First Civil Right", crystallized
what would be the Republican's main campaign plank for the next 40
years. With ominous, jarring music, and while showing dark pictures
of bloodied protesters facing off against determined riot cops, Nixon
told America that, if elected, social change would stop.

"It is time for an honest look at the problem of order in the United
States. Dissent is a necessary ingredient of change, but in a system
of government that provides for peaceful change, there is no cause
that justifies resort to violence. Let us recognize that the first
right of every American is to be free from domestic violence. So I
pledge to you, we shall have order in the United States."

Running against Humphrey on the left, and anti-civil rights activist
George Wallace on the right, Nixon won the election by the relatively
small margin of 500,000 votes, but that margin hid some remarkable
partisan turnarounds from 1964.

Nixon won Ohio by 91,000 votes, Goldwater had lost it by over a
million. Nixon won New Jersey by 60,000 votes; Goldwater had lost it
by over 900,000. Johnson had won Florida by 40,000 votes; Nixon won
the Sunshine State by 210,000. Perhaps most telling of how elections
would be decided here on in, Nixon won Virginia, lost by Goldwater by
almost 80,000 votes, by 150,000 votes.

The Deep South states won by Goldwater (except South Carolina) in
1964, along with Arkansas, voted for Wallace, and his vice
presidential nominee US Air Force General Curtis LeMay, who attracted
support from those sick of both the antiwar protests and the war
itself through his 1965 suggestion of, should communist aggression in
Vietnam not stop, "we're going to bomb them back into the Stone Age".

Here is seen the birth of the slayer of the progressive movement in
the United States-the "values voter".

Why Nixon?
Democrats and liberals were perplexed by the victory of their
long-hated nemesis, the once aggressive red-baiter Nixon. Why had the
working class, represented by the industrial states Nixon won back
from them in 1964, turned against them and against their own economic
interests? Didn't these voters know that it was the Democrats,
through such initiatives as support for unions, the minimum wage,
public education, Social Security and the new medical insurance
program for the elderly Medicare, that were their only true friends?
What secret had Nixon, Ailes, and the high-priced pollsters they had
recruited from commercial marketing firms, discovered?

In 1978, Universal Studios released director Michael Cimino's
groundbreaking film, The Deer Hunter, to significant public acclaim -
it was awarded Best Picture, along with four other Oscars for that year.

In brief, the movie tells the story of a small, gritty Western
Pennsylvania steel town, the kind that reliably voted Democrat up
until 1968, populated by super-patriotic Russian immigrants, that
sends its sons off to the Vietnam War. One comes back a paraplegic,
another, "Nick", played by Oscar-winner Christopher Walken, due to
the psychic scars suffered in the war, never comes home at all.

After Nick's funeral, town members gather at a bar to watch scenes of
the frenzied American withdrawal from South Vietnam in the spring of
1975. They are silenced; it seems that they have finally realized
that Nick's, and their town's, sacrifices were all in vain. Suddenly,
"Linda" (Meryl Streep), Nick's widow, begins to quietly sing God
Bless America. The others around the table softly followed suit as
the movie ends.

Liberals loved the movie for its graphic depiction of the brutality
of the Vietnam War, but many were puzzled by the ending. Why the
patriotism, just what were the townspeople celebrating? After all,
they had just given one of their boys, Nick, to the government, which
had squandered his life away. The town was far from prosperous; life,
along with the backbreaking work in the steel mills, was tough and
arduous. Working there, and living in the town in general, aged all
those within it well beyond their years.

Wouldn't the townspeople be better off canvassing and voting for
their local Democratic party liberal candidate for Congress, with his
platform of, among other things, improved enforcement of health and
safety regulations for the plant, easier access to public education
so their kids might have a better future than their parents, most
importantly, no more wasteful wars like Vietnam that their sons would
be sent away to die in?

Instead of God Bless America , why weren't the townspeople singing
Happy Days are Here Again, Franklin D Roosevelt's 1932 campaign theme
song, played faithfully at most Democratic party rallies since?

But what the Democrats and the liberals couldn't get, the Republicans
and the conservatives picked up instantly. With perception and
marketing skills honed by their long years as corporate advertising
executives, they saw that the townspeople in the little towns of The
Deer Hunter, and in thousands of others that had been sheared away
from the Roosevelt coalition, were singing to America because that
was all they had, and, like a frantic suitor, they were desperate to
prove their loyalty to it.

Their lives didn't revolve around fancy houses, exotic trips to
far-off lands, or bulging stock portfolios. What they could say that
they had, what they guarded with jealousy, was their perception as
first in line as America's lover. They could prove it, too; like the
Old Testament story of God asking Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, look
how many of their sons they had willingly sacrificed at their Master's call.

It was the genius of the Republican polling and image spinmeisters
that turned this ill-formed and relatively inchoate patriotism into
powerful "wedge" issues they could use against the Democrats. From
about this period on, whenever the Democrats advanced a reform issue
that might improve the lives of average Americans, such as health
care, income support for the poor, an increased minimum wages, and
many others, the Republicans told this population that, if the
Democrats really loved America as much as they said they did, why
would they be trying so hard to change it?

Perhaps the key point of this strategy, the factor that truly led to
its success with the white working class, was that, indeed, it only
worked with middle- and lower-income whites, not African Americans.
That population continued to vote as reliably Democrat as any other
component of the Roosevelt coalition of the 1930s - yet which
African-Americans were not part of as racial oppression and
intimidation had essentially kept African-Americans out of the ballot
booth until the late 1960s.

But the reliable patronage of the Democrats by African Americans was
a key part of the appeal of the Republicans to middle- and
lower-class whites. The "blacks" (in private conversations, they were
called much worse) may be benefiting from all these welfare, racial
preference in hiring, and income-support programs, but we white
people don't need them; "We'll pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps."

The Democrats could never really understand this; in essence, lower-
and middle-class white voters were punishing them for advocacy of
programs to help them.

Along with hostility by traditionally minded lower- and middle-class
whites to the agents of social upheaval and dislocation of the 1960s,
the spoiled, rich college kid "hippies", a name was soon developed
for this class of voter who cast ballots against their own economic
interests, who voted to give upper income capitalists and business
owners benefits they themselves could never use - they were the
"values voters".

The exploitation of the grudges and prejudices of the "values voter"
completely annihilated the old Roosevelt coalition, and it led to the
last 40 years being a period as dominated by Republicans as the
middle of the 20th century was by the Democrats. The Republican Party
has won seven of the 10 presidential elections since 1964, and every
time, this appeal to "values" over economic interest has been a key
part of their campaign strategy.

During this time, the rise of fundamentalist Protestantism acted as
another incentive for lower middle-class whites to turn away from the
Democrats. Contrasting diametrically with the left wing "liberation
theology" of the 1960s, these congregations were both super patriotic
and ultra traditional; of what use was the Democrats' appeal to a
better life in this world, when just by sitting in the pews and
tithing (that is, donating to the church) eternal bliss in the
afterlife was assured?

In 2004, in the midst of the unpopular Iraq War, and in an economy
then still growing very slowly (the dramatic effects of the housing
bubble blowoff would only be seen in the following two years), and
after nominating a genuine war hero in the person of Senator John
Kerry, the Democratic Party still got rejected and drubbed by these
white, "values voters".

The transition from the pattern set by McKinley and Hanna was
complete. George W Bush's Republicans, the party clearly working to
serve the interests of big business and big money, had now become the
party that was winning elections solely with the votes of
lower-income whites; in that election the Republicans won 18 of the
19 lowest income states in the nation. The average income of the 19
states won by the Democrats was US$49,770; for the Republicans, $41,598.

The American left-wing intelligentsia searched desperately for
answers. One came from social historian Thomas Frank, in his book,
What's the Matter with Kansas - How the Conservatives Won the Heart
of America.

In a New York Times 2004 essay, Frank explained the trick:
For more than three decades, the Republican Party has relied on the
''culture war'' to rescue their chances every four years, from
Richard Nixon's campaign against the liberal news media to George H W
Bush's campaign against the liberal flag-burners. In this culture
war, the real divide is between ''regular people'' and an endlessly
scheming ''liberal elite.'' This strategy allows them to depict
themselves as friends of the common people even as they gut workplace
safety rules and lay plans to turn Social Security over to Wall
Street. Most important, it has allowed Republicans to speak the
language of populism ... Our age-old folkways, in other words, are
today under siege from a cabal of know-it-all elites. The common
people are being trampled by the intellectuals. This is precisely the
same formula that was used, to great effect, in the nasty spat over
evolution that Kansans endured in 1999, in which the elitists said to
be forcing their views on the unassuming world were biology
professors and those scheming paleontologists.

It is interesting that in Kansas it was the fight against the
teaching of evolution that drove the common people to the
Republicans. In 1925, in the famous Tennessee "Scopes Monkey Trial",
high-school teacher John Scopes was put on trial for teaching
evolution. The prosecutor in the trial was the famed populist William
Jennings Bryan, defeated by McKinley in the 1896 presidential
elections. The shift of populism from an ideology that had found a
home in the American Left, to one claimed by the Right, is the
essence of the motivation of the values voter, the foot soldier in
the trenches of America's now-raging "Culture War".

George W's revolution

Early 2005 was as dark a time for the Democratic Party and the left
in America as the time following the Goldwater defeat was for
conservatives 40 years earlier. With his election victory George W
Bush made clear his intention to continue and intensify the
free-market, big business revolution; the first step in that cause
would be the privatization of Franklin Roosevelt's most durable gem
from the New Deal - the Social Security program of old-age income support.

But like a sorcerer's apprentice who can start his magic but does not
know how to stop it, the right wing's appeal to the values voter had
a very curious side effect. In winning the poor, they lost the rich.
This became obvious in the Democrats' retaking of Congress in 2006.
If you find a very pricey, tony address in America these days,
there's a good chance it's represented by a Democrat.

In the 10 wealthiest states in America, Democrats outnumber
Republicans in the House of Representatives' delegations of these
states by 69 to 39, as opposed to a 30-22 advantage by the
Republicans in the 10 poorest states.

Manhattan zip code 10012, which reported an average income of just
under $2.4 million on its 294 tax returns, is represented by
Democrats Jerrold Nadler and Nydia Velazquez. Even Beverly Hills,
California, with its famous 90210 postal code, is represented by
Henry Waxman and Howard Berman, both Democrats.

The Democrat support by the rich and upper middle class is the mirror
image of the Republican support by the white poor. While the poor
seek to cling to tradition in the face of a changing and uncertain
future, those better off reject it; they are open to all the
limitless possibilities that their imagination can think of and their
abundant wallets can finance.

They want to be able to buy a book and choose from something other
than the wide selection of bibles at a Christian book store, go to
the theatre to see something other than Passion Play, hear a concert
other than a Messiah, go out to dinner and dine on something other
than franks n' beans in the church basement. They want to know that
they'll face no social, or even legal, sanction, sleeping in instead
of going to church on Sunday mornings. Perhaps most of all, if a
loved one faces the end of life, they want the decisions for his care
to be made by the family, not by a posse of Bible-thumping preachers
riding shotgun with the National Republican Party, as happened in
2005 with the Terry Schiavo case in Florida.

In this year's American presidential primaries, it is Senator Barack
Obama that is garnering most of the support from this new class. It
was this group that was the core of his remarkable string of
victories from the Iowa caucus to just after the Super Tuesday
primaries on February 4, and polls show that, in a matchup with
Republican nominee John McCain, he would overwhelmingly carry the
votes of college-educated, high-income professionals. In this week's
Oregon presidential primary, Obama beat Hillary Clinton among those
earning $100,000-$150,000 by 67 to 32. In Kentucky, a state with one
of the highest proportions of non-college graduates in the country,
Clinton got the "values voters" and reversed these numbers.

Just as Obama was about to decisively clinch the Democratic Party
nomination for president, a very unexpected phenomenon showed itself.
Clinton began to display a remarkable strength among the lower-income
values voters. It was particularly symbolic that the core of her
support seemed to be centered in a roughly 200-kilometer arc around
Western Pennsylvania, the very are that symbolized white lower income
angst in The Deer Hunter.

In rapid succession, Clinton won Democratic primaries in
Pennsylvania, Indiana, landslide wins in both West Virginia and
Kentucky. A core weakness of her campaign has been her inability to
postulate a clear, convincing rationale for her quest for the
presidency (other than the obvious and unspoken one that her entire
campaign is nothing more than a desperate attempt to validate an
identity as something other than the betrayed wife of a philandering
husband). Her recent support is providing her one. To quote the song
by John Lennon, Hillary is the self-appointed, new, "working class hero".

As Obama has not, as of this writing, been able finally to garner
enough pledged delegates to guarantee the nomination, Clinton is
presenting the Democratic Party with a very challenging argument.

In essence, she is saying that her support in these states proves
that she can go back, and, in effect, round up the stragglers; she
can regain the support of the lower-income white voters the party
lost in 1968, and has had great difficulty in luring back ever since.
As such, she is arguing that the party should - actually, it must -
ignore the results of the 47 states that have completed their nominee
selection process, one that has put Obama on the cusp of victory, and
choose - more accurately, anoint - her as the Democratic Party's nominee.

In presidential elections, American states are now divided into three
distinct categories. "Red" states are the ones, like Texas, South
Carolina and most of the Great Plains, that will almost certainly
vote Republican. "Blue" states, like New York, Massachusetts and
California, can be relied on to deliver their votes for the
Democrats. In between are the states where the race will actually be
decided, the so called "purple" states.

On the surface of it, Clinton has shown impressive strength in some
purple states, beating Obama in, besides the above, New Jersey,
Arkansas and New Mexico. If, as the nominee, she could deliver these
states, as well as the entire Western Pennsylvania arc, a Democratic
landslide could be in the offing.

But if she becomes the nominee, can she do that? Clinton supporters
argue that, in the states where she has won, exit polls have shown
that her supporters will vote for McCain if Obama is the nominee;
what they don't say is that those same exit polls also show that a
lot of Hillary's own voters plan to vote for McCain even if she is on
the ticket. Also, this argument ignores Obama's wins in his own
purple states: Nevada, Colorado, Washington, Oregon, Wisconsin,
Minnesota, Maine, Virginia - all with white, working classes of their
own that Obama did win.

Also left unspoken in the Clinton argument is the question of what
will happen to the African-American vote if this population comes to
believe that the first African-American to fairly earn a major
party's nomination was denied his prize by the insidious machinations
of hidden party insiders.

If Clinton is "given" a nomination she did not earn, would not the
party be risking the millions of votes of its most loyal constituency
to try to catch the questionable fancy of a group it lost a long time
ago? The same argument can be made with the party's new upper-income
and young supporters. They came to the Democrats disillusioned with
the politics of the past; will they stick around to support a
candidate from the last century, fighting over and over again that
era's interminable culture wars?

I think again of my friend's pass at the pretty white girl from South
Boston. Such vehement, vitriolic hatred, and now, Senator Clinton
thinks she can overcome it through just the power of the pantsuit?
It's not like the Democrats haven't been trying. The party's platform
is almost unrecognizable from a quarter of a century ago; gone is
advocacy of gun control, abolition of capital punishment, welfare
payments to the poor, a non-interventionist foreign policy, and many
other liberal traditions. Still, the values voters intended to be
attracted by these policy shifts return to the party's fold all too
reluctantly, if at all.

At its core, perhaps it is just pure racism and ignorance that keeps
the "values voter" from voting his or her economic self-interest.

But, as evolution proves, any group that refuses to look after its
interests is doomed to extinction. In not getting the education to
compete in a globalized workforce, by desperately trying to cling on
to manual employment that can be done at one-fifth of the wage in
China or India, the white working class is becoming ever smaller with
each election cycle.

Far more important is the nation's burgeoning Hispanic population.
Obama has problems with them as well, but fortunately for the
Democrats, the hard-right, talk-radio base of the Republican Party,
in recently demonizing the Hispanic population to an extent not seen
since Nazi Julius Streicher did in his Der Sturmer newspaper with
Germany's Jews, has probably assured that Hispanics will continue to
vote Democrat, at least for this election.

On April 6, Obama generated controversy, and trouble for his
campaign, with these remarks to a gathering of wealthy campaign
contributors outside San Francisco. In them, he proved that he
certainly understood the values voter, even if he couldn't yet win their vote.

You go into some of these small towns in Pennsylvania, and like a lot
of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25
years and nothing's replaced them. And they fell through the Clinton
administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive
administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna
regenerate and they have not. So it's not surprising then that they
get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who
aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment
as a way to explain their frustrations.

"The truth shall set you free," US president James Garfield said,
"but, first, it will make you miserable." Obama spoke this truth, and
when these supposed private remarks were released, it did make him
miserable - the remarks were exploited by Clinton.

Clinton would have been outraged by what the girl in South Boston
said to my friend in 1975. These days, it sometimes seems that she's
bucking for that girl's job as well as the presidency .
--

Julian Delasantellis is a management consultant, private investor and
educator in international business in the US state of Washington. He
can be reached at juliandelasantellis@yahoo.com.

.

1968: I was there

1968: I was there

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/may/21/1968theyearofrevolt.antiwar

Last month we published this photograph of the March 1968 anti-war
demonstration in Grosvenor Square and asked readers if they could
identify themselves in the picture. Jon Henley recounts the stories
of the four people who did, while others recall their part in the
protests that rocked the world

Jon Henley
The Guardian,
Wednesday May 21 2008

On March 17 1968, there was a big anti-Vietnam war rally in Trafalgar
Square in London. Afterwards, 8,000 mainly youthful protesters
marched on Grosvenor Square, where Vanessa Redgrave delivered a
letter of protest to the American embassy. The crowd, though, refused
to disperse, and a fierce battle ensued between demonstrators and
riot police. Protesters hurled mud, stones, firecrackers and smoke
bombs; mounted police responded with charges. The violence of the
struggle, in the cosseted heart of Mayfair, shocked everyone. By the
end of the afternoon, more than 200 people had been arrested.

It is, perhaps, not particularly surprising that some of you should
have been there, or at the similar protests that took place that year
from Paris to Prague, Chicago to Mexico City. What is remarkable,
though, is that no fewer than four G2 readers should recognise
themselves in the grainy black-and-white photograph of the Grosvenor
Square riot that we published last month. In fact, 58 readers from
round the world responded to our request for memories of May '68. And
on the whole it seems the passions that burned so fiercely 40 years
ago have by no means been extinguished.

"I am right in the centre, with the spectacled face," says João
Monjardino, who was barred from a medical career in his native
Portugal because of his opposition to the Salazar regime and settled
in London in 1961 to do cancer research. "I remember the day well. I
remember the strength of feeling of the demonstrators, and the
strength of action - brutality would be a better word - of the
police." Does he still count himself as a militant? "I am as strong
an opponent of the war in Iraq today as I was of the Vietnam war
then," he writes. "At least at the time Britain was shamed only by
its association with the US, but had the wisdom not to send troops to
assist them. Not this time, regrettably."

There is some confusion as to who, exactly, is the young man with a
beard, floppy hair and spectacles to the left of the flag, with both
Donald Fraser and John Mosley believing they recognise their younger
selves. Fraser, then a postgraduate student from New Zealand and now
a retired lecturer in English at Strathclyde University, is convinced
it is him. He recalls "somehow being fairly near the front, where I
was surprised to find a number of people in the crowd urging us to
rush forward and storm the embassy steps. The rumour was that US
Marines armed with machine guns were behind the doors and would fire
live ammunition, so I was pretty reluctant!

I also remember feeling sorry for the police horses, as there was
talk of throwing ball-bearings under their hooves."

Fraser may have been a rather reluctant rioter, but he firmly
believes the events of May 1968 and after "helped force the US out of
Vietnam. They really did mean something, I'm convinced of that. I'm
not one of those who jeers at the 60s. I'm not a heavy-duty activist
and I wasn't one then; I couldn't bring myself to chant 'Ho, Ho, Ho
Chi Minh' or 'Victory to the Vietcong'. But 1968 was a hugely
significant moment. Even in this class-ridden country, life -
socially, culturally, politically - just opened out."

Mosley also thinks he might be the man with the specs and centre
parting. "Behind me, almost full face to the camera, is Phil Evans.
Why he is standing so much higher than me must be due to the crush of
the crowd bending me down, while he is pushing himself up. We were
both members of the International Socialist Trotskyite group in
Leeds. Phil was an arts student and I was on the shop floor in an
engineering factory, one of the few 'workers' in the Leeds group."

Gordon Coxon is quite sure who he is. "The slightly spooked-looking
dude in the flat cap towards the left of your pic is, I'm astonished
to conclude, 17-year-old me," he writes. "And the hand clasping the
crook of my left arm would belong to my then girlfriend, Hattie." For
Coxon, who was still at school at the time, "This must have been the
first big demo I'd been on. I recall marching down Oxford Street,
putting anti-war stickers on to cars and shop windows. It had
certainly kicked off by the time we got to the square. It was quite
scary being caught up in the crush. I actually fainted."

May '68 "had a big impact on the outlook of many of my generation,
and on the political culture we inhabited," he feels. But then, he
wonders, "What do I know? I ploughed my way through my Marcuse along
with the best of them, [but] pretty soon after I was living in a
commune in south London, consuming large quantities of pot and
playing drums in a rock band. Then came the hallucinogens - and the
world really changed."

Many did not spot themselves in the photograph, but recall the day no
less vividly. "I was in there somewhere," writes Bronwen Davies. "I
was 17 years old, still at school, and outraged by British support
for US foreign policy. I was young enough to be very shocked that the
police were being violent towards the demonstrators, and remember
crying and trying to pull a policeman off someone who was being held
on the ground. The event made a very deep impression on me. Today, my
politics haven't changed much. I am still an internationalist and
socialist, but also a fervent feminist, a concept with which I was
not familiar in 1968. I remain committed to the struggle for social
justice. But it's a long time since I've been on a street demonstration."

From Durham, Mike Davis, then a student at Hornsey College of Art,
writes that he "attended the demo even though I didn't much like
crowds, and I didn't think invading the US Embassy was likely to be
very productive. After the event, Sue, one of my fellow students,
said that Mick Jagger had lifted her out of the way of a police
horse. 'Mick rescued me,' she sighed. The 1960s started for me in
1964, when I left school, and they ended in 1968. A year which saw
the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, followed
by the election of Richard Nixon, certainly felt like the end of something."

Richard Folley, now 61, was living in Mevagissey, Cornwall, having
just started his first job as a chemist after university. "I was keen
to add my voice to the anti-Vietnam war demonstration," he writes,
"and heard of a minibus from St Austell to London being organised by
the Cornish anarchists. The bus turned out to be an old windowless
van in which we travelled overnight; the smell was awful as someone
had been sick. It seemed like the whole world was [at the demo]. I
was some way back, but I saw the violence developing and decided to
get out. Today, my politics have changed little. I still attend
demonstrations when I think it appropriate."

Jim Tomlinson, now the Bonar professor of modern history at Dundee
University, "was arrested at the demonstration as a 16-year-old
grammar school boy". Much of what was said and done in 1968, he now
accepts, "was naive and unsophisticated. But on the issue of the war,
I still believe we were right." Annabelle Harle, who "could be any
one of numerous McGowan-haired young women in Grosvenor Square", was
a 17-year-old protest veteran by May 1968, "but that was the first
time I came up close to police horses, and I still find them
intimidating and an unwise choice for crowd control. I have remained
an activist, and my political views have not changed. My grandmother
fought to have the vote, and I'm glad that my family instilled in me
a respect for the democratic process and a willingness to stand up
and be counted."

Finally, Geoff Wolfe reckons that he could "write a few thousand
words about that day, 1968 and its effect on my life and politics".
He was probably "within 20 or 30 feet" of the scene, with a
girlfriend "who had not been on a demonstration before and was upset
by the horses." Chris Morris photographed the Grosvenor Square riot
for an Italian news magazine. So did 1968 achieve anything? It was a
year, concludes Morris, that "showed what was possible. Forty years
on, I still feel outraged by governments duping voters and ignoring
their feelings. Far from becoming more conservative with age, I feel
more leftwing the more I'm patronised." For Wolfe, "capitalism is
good at absorbing protest. Most of the protesters went on, like me,
to have good white-collar jobs." It is easy to be nostalgic, he
reckons, but "every generation must find its own 1968."
--

Reader's memories of protests around the world


Paris, May 14: Sorbonne University is occupied by students

Reader Dick Pitt was there:

"I was 22, newly married and lived in the Latin Quarter of Paris. I
feared the spread of nuclear weapons. I hated a vicious American war
on an impoverished country, a war that the British Labour government
slavishly supported. When the tear gas drove us out of the metro on
Monday May 6, we were faced with a choice. On the one side were Darth
Vader look-alikes and on the other were young people dressed like me.
It was not a difficult decision to make. I was a pacifist up to the
time the police used CS gas on us.

"We won back the Sorbonne; we took over the Odéon; workers occupied
hundreds of workplaces; millions went on strike; for a brief time we
banished the police from the Latin Quarter - we were all incredibly
exhilarated. Everything seemed possible. Many of the slogans still
conjure up powerful emotions. One I read recently was: 'On Wednesday
the undertakers
went on strike. Today is not a good time to die.'

"Inevitably the mood changed, and many have made their peace with the
powers-that-be. However, we had seen that a powerful, arrogant, rich
and confident elite can be made powerless by the actions of ordinary people."
--

Prague Spring: Czechoslovakia in turmoil, January-August

Reader David Fry, who posed for a photo on a captured tank, was there:

"I was 19 at the time and went on a student 'work camp' as I had done
every summer since the age of 14; basically, it was a cheap way of
visiting other countries, mainly in eastern Europe. I had a great
time working on a building site in a small village outside Prague
with a group of other young people of all nationalities. On about my
third night in Prague, I was woken up in my youth hostel not by music
but by machine-gun fire and explosions - the Russians had announced
their arrival. Initially it was a sense of shock and disbelief. We
went out and wandered the streets and it was for real - tanks and
army vehicles were everywhere. They had just suddenly appeared.

"By the next day, the mood had turned into protest. We went out on
the streets with the Czechs, made banners, flags and badges.
Underground newspapers and leaflets were printed and thrown out from
the back of trucks. To begin with, we surrounded the tanks to talk to
the Soviet troops who were sitting on top of their vehicles. However,
it wasn't long before leaflet-giving turned into stone throwing.

"Once the protests got more violent the Russians stayed inside their
tanks. So began a daily routine; out on the streets protesting,
throwing whatever came to hand, running, hiding and taking cover; and
in the evenings retreating to the bars and cafes, where excited talks
and discussions were all going on.

I remember one time being pinned down for about half an hour behind a
balustrade wall in front of the national museum at the top of
Wenceslas Square while a tank in the street below riddled the front
of the museum with machine- gun fire, smashing every window and
knocking chunks out of the masonry.

In another incident on the streets, some guys got a pole from a
street sign and rammed it through the fuel drum on the back of a tank
and then set it alight. The tank caught fire and the crew angrily
jumped out and legged it.

When the fire had gone out we all sat on the tank, posing for photos.
We had captured a tank and felt very proud of ourselves."
--

Mexico City, September: an anti-government march by students

Reader Diana McMeeking was there:

"In mid-September 1968 I had just arrived in Mexico to begin work as
a research assistant. Over the weekend of September 13 to 15 I
travelled by bus from Pachuca to Mexico City to meet two other
members of the research team who filled me in on the protests which
had been taking place in the preceding weeks. As they showed me the
city, the presence of tanks on the street was a portent of what was
to happen subsequently.

"On Friday September 13 there were more student protests during which
more than 80 people were arrested.

The following morning we arrived at the student car park adjacent to
the Anthropological Museum to find that the police (or the military)
had smashed the windscreens and slashed the tyres of more than 200
cars. In a letter I sent back to England, I wrote: 'When we arrived
at the car park on Saturday morning we couldn't believe our eyes -
there was glass everywhere. Of course the students can do nothing
about it, but at the moment student feelings in the city are pretty
hot and it wouldn't surprise me if in a few months conditions don't
improve, there will be another revolution - and I'm not joking about this.'

"Less than a month later the student protests were quelled in a
devastating manner with the massacre of at least 300 at Tlatelolco on
October 2."
--

Chicago, August 24: protesters congregate in Lincoln Park on the eve
of a week of street fighting with police

Reader Mark Roth was there:

"I was 19, having grown up in Philadelphia, and at every
demonstration on the east coast between New York and Washington DC.
In the summer, my first wife and I, instead of a honeymoon, went to
the Chicago riots. In fact, the group that did most to bring
demonstrators to Chicago was the Radical Organizing Committee (ROC),
and their headquarters was in an apartment a few blocks from us, so
we helped out there for a few days. Then it was up to NYC, where the
buses were leaving from, and I wound up as a bus marshal.

"There were a lot of us, and even the gangs were with us. The ROC
wasn't heard from much after that, but I heard that as late as the
end of the year, you were asking for the cops to beat on you if you
wore an ROC button or armband. In Chicago, we were distinguishing
between the regular cops, and the riot pigs in their baby blues.
Those were the ones that the federal commission found had been
incited to riot by then-Mayor Daley and the chief of police, who more
than once gave them pretty much a St Crispin's Day speech to go out and get us"
--

Were you there? Share your memories with others at guardian.co.uk/1968

.

Hippies once defended neighborhood police stations

Hippies once defended neighborhood police stations

http://www.sfbg.com/blogs/politics/2008/05/hippies_once_defended_neighbor.html

by G.W. Schulz
May 19, 2008

The recent proposal to close half of the city's police stations isn't
the first time such a thing has been recommended here. A group of
consultants from the East Coast released a report, or "police
effectiveness review," May 14 that suggested cutting the list of 10
police districts in the city down to five and placing specialized
units, like gang and drug task forces, in the stations closed by the
district realignment.

It also said that the northeast and middle sections of the city have
high concentrations of crime and need a greater police presence. The
Central and Southern stations need to be rebuilt immediately and the
remaining eight stations aren't being used effectively, according to
the report. Plus, the workload isn't fairly distributed. You can
imagine that there's probably a difference between chasing murderers
in the Mission and stalking illegally parked import cars in the Marina.

But Guardian editor Tim Redmond reminded me recently that a similar
proposal to close down several neighborhood police stations was made
back in the early '70s, so I called Rene Cazenave of the local
Council of Community Housing Organizations who Tim said might
remember some of the finer points. Sure enough, despite Casenave
insisting that his memory was hazy, he did remember quite a lot.

Hippies in the Haight-Ashbury District – who by then weren't
necessarily hippies as much as they were Abbie Hoffman-style radicals
– had fought to block a plan by then-Mayor Dianne Feinstein to close
several stations in town. Feinstein claimed it would save money and
allow the city to centralize many police functions downtown where
specialized units would be dispatched from when necessary.

But for the radicals (and even some conservatives and moderates
living in the Haight) who opposed it, the thinking went like this:
The police officers working at Park Station, which covers the
Haight-Ashbury area, knew the neighborhood better than anyone else.
They had formed relationships with many of the people who lived
there, and they knew who the real criminals were. They got along with
a lot of the lefties, but the specialized units like the narcs of the
city's drug task force mostly preferred to bust heads in the
neighborhood and had no intimate relationship with the people they
were harassing and arresting.

So the residents launched a "Save our Police" movement that helped
stop Feinstein from creating a law-enforcement infrastructure that
many people believed would do more to serve political retribution
against lefties emanating from City Hall than focus on what made the
neighborhood safer, like foot and horse patrols and genuine bonds
with the locals – the early '70s version of community policing. Gosh.
Does that fight sound familiar?

"It was that kind of weird amalgam that Haight-Ashbury stood for in
those days, but it was the same argument that would have worked in a
neighborhood like Glen Park," Cazenave said. He said the radicals
even organized in the '70s to oust heroin dealers who were
increasingly destroying the neighborhood. Pot was another, much less
troublesome matter, of course.

As for the most recent police effectiveness review, it also said,
interestingly, that for a city on the edge of Silicone Valley, our
police department does a poor job maintaining statistics and the
technology we have for records management and dispatch is antiquated.
The SFPD can't even keep track of the cops themselves, according to the report:

"The SFPD was unable to provide accurate staffing numbers and could
not provide a breakdown of functional job tasks associated with the
categories of employees. Without this basic breakdown it is
impossible to determine the specific number of department members
assigned to sector cars, foot patrols, undercover assignments and
various other tasks."

If you've ever spent any time at the Hall of Justice, where Southern
Station is located, you know it's a disorganized relic that would fit
better as a prop in a Dirty Harry flick than a place that actually
processes people accused of crimes. There's also a lot of grumbling
among cops themselves about the report having come from mere
consultants. According to one commenter writing online May 13 at the
SF Bay Area Cops Forum:

"Out-of-state consulting firms have no clue as to what is happening
in the areas they are being asked to consult on. Some are just ways
to get some money and put out some BS white paper for some idiot
manager to show off. Most of the consultants were most likely number
crunchers and not law enforcement. If the city actually believes this
white paper then this city is truely [sic] lost."

San Francisco police officer Andrew Cohen, who was targeted for
discipline in 2005 by Chief Heather Fong and the mayor after making a
video that satirized trans and homeless people and African Americans,
sneered on his blog, Insidethesfpd, that the city spent nearly
$500,000 to hire a "relatively inexperienced company from
Massachusetts." Cohen says the department convened a meeting with
department brass after the report was released but the staffers
attending weren't offered a chance to respond to its conclusions.

On the idea of reducing police stations in the city, Cohen wrote:
"Let me say, that more likely than not, this ain't ever gonna happen.
Not now; not ever. As a matter of fact, there is a better chance of
an additional district station opening before a single one will be
closed.... The chief could've – should've – asked some of the more
intelligent cops within our department to analyze some of the stats,
strategies and configurations, and they could probably have done a
better job, quicker, and for one-fifth the cost."

The consultants did survey SFPD staffers to see how they felt about
the conditions of police facilities around the city. More than 30
percent amazingly complained that security itself was "insufficient"
at the stations, and 60 to 70 percent declared that Web and email
access were no good.

May we add one more? Accessing public records at the hall is an utter
nightmare and it's truly difficult to imagine it ever getting any better.

.

The Most Savage Shock Jock of Them All

The Most Savage Shock Jock of Them All

http://www.alternet.org/mediaculture/86237/

By Rory O'Connor and Aaron Cutler
May 23, 2008.

An excerpt from AlterNet's newest book, Shock Jocks: Hate Speech & Talk Radio.
--

Who is Michael Savage? On its surface the question seems obvious:
he's a 66-year-old nationally syndicated conservative talk radio host
whose program, The Savage Nation, airs five days a week from its home
base of KNEW in San Francisco. He's the founder of the Paul Revere
Society, which, according to its mission statement, aims to "take
back our borders, our language, and our traditional culture from the
liberal left corroding our great nation." He's a former MSNBC cable
television talk host who was fired after four months on the job after
he told a phone caller, "You should only get AIDS and die, you pig."
He's also the third most popular radio talk show host in America,
whose weekly audience of more than eight million listeners is
surpassed only by Limbaugh and Hannity.

Dig deeper, however, and the question of who Savage is, and how truly
savage he is, becomes far more complicated. "Savage" isn't his real
name; it seems to speak to his heightened sense of masculinity, his
aggression, and his antipathy toward minorities. Born Michael Alan
Weiner, "Savage" is the child of Russian-Jewish immigrants. He earned
two master's degrees and a Ph.D. in nutritional ethnomedicine from
that liberal bastion the University of California, Berkeley. He's
written two dozen books, five as Michael Savage and an additional 19
under his given name, on medicine, the subjects of which range from
maintaining a healthy diet to breaking a cocaine habit. But by any
name, he professes to know what's good for you.

Before the vitriolic monologist emerged, there was another, kinder
and gentler Michael. This one roamed Greenwich Village and the Bay
Area in the early 1970s, kept a weathered copy of On the Road in his
back pocket, and lay on the beach with the renowned beat poets Allen
Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti whenever he wasn't working on
stand-up comedy routines. He guarded Timothy Leary's LSD supply, and
he even once posed naked in a photograph with Ginsberg, a well-known
and very public homosexual, which he distributed among friends in an
attempt to prove himself part of the counterculture. At some point,
however, more than 25 years ago, something took a sinister turn and,
like Prince Hal rejecting Falstaff, Savage suddenly disavowed his
former friends. In a 2006 interview for SF Weekly, Savage explained,
"I was once a child; I am now a man." In the same interview, he said
of Ginsberg, "I looked at him almost like a rabbinic figure. Little
did I know that he was the fucking devil." For Savage, rejecting his
old friends was simply a part of growing up.

The moralist, the healer, and the hedonist -- there's a tension
between his three identities, which interact like a trio of siblings
elbowing each other for seconds at the dinner table. As one listens
to his conservative radio talk personality, one is moved to question
whether it's his true self, not because Savage isn't consistent in
his views, but because the views are so grotesque it's difficult to
believe that anyone-let alone a former beatnik-could espouse them
with a straight face. While it's more than passing strange for a
homophobic, conservative radio host to work out of San Francisco,
Savage continues to broadcast nationally from his base in the city he
likes to call "San Fran Sicko."

Savage is so extreme that even many of his fellow right-wing talk
radio personalities don't like him. Bill O'Reilly calls him a "smear
merchant," while Neal Boortz refers to Savage as "the Antichrist."
Although Talkers Magazine recently bestowed its annual Freedom of
Speech award upon Savage, publisher Michael Harrison says he thinks
the man is "an asshole." Liberal advocacy organizations such as GLAAD
and ACLU have censured him. Liberal media watchdog groups have
compiled long lists of the especially inflammatory remarks Savage has
made-many of which must be heard or seen in print to be believed.
Collectively they justify the cautionary statement that is read by an
announcer before each edition of The Savage Nation.

Why do so many different people dislike Savage and his Nation?
Perhaps it's because Savage dislikes so many different people. In his
book The Savage Nation: Saving America from the Liberal Assault on
Our Borders, Language and Culture, he writes, "I was raised on
neglect, anger, and hate. I was raised the old-fashioned way."
Despite claiming to have originated the term "compassionate
conservative" (and threatening to sue George W. Bush for
appropriating it), Savage is usually far more passionate than
compassionate. On the issue of illegal immigration, he said:

"We, the people, are being displaced by the people of Mexico. This is
an invasion by any other name. Everybody with a brain understands
that. Everybody who understands reality understands we are being
pushed out of our own country."

On CNN news anchors:

"Wolf Blitzer, a Jew who was born in Israel, [is] probably the most
despicable man in the media next to Larry King, who takes a close
runner-up by the hair of a nose. The two of them together look like
the type that would have pushed Jewish children into the oven to stay
alive one more day to entertain the Nazis."

On homosexuality:

"The radical homosexual agenda will not stop until religion is
outlawed in this country. Make no mistake about it. They're all not
nice decorators

They threaten your very survival

Gay marriage is just the tip of the iceberg. They want full and total
subjugation of this society to their agenda."

And in conclusion:

"Why should we have constant sympathy for people who are freaks in
every society? I'm sick and tired of the whole country begging,
bending over backwards for the junkie, the freak, the pervert, the
illegal immigrant. All of them are better than everybody else. Sick."

Listening to a host for whom even George W. Bush is too liberal
(Savage particularly lambastes the president on immigration issues)
can be an intense experience. Yet millions of people do it. As New
Yorker editor Ben Greenman says, "People who listen to Savage say
that he's a little extreme but that some of the things he says are
also true. I think his show does encourage you to think for yourself,
because he's so weirdly contradictory."

Savage's three-hour program often consists of apoplectic
rants-usually against a particular group or groups of people
allegedly doing damage to America-that end with an animalistic,
Network-like cry of "I can't take this anymore!" During calmer times,
Savage ends his monologues with a huffy "That's just the way I see
it." Sometimes Savage exhibits a rare and startling tenderness, for
instance in his fond recollections of the lm director Elia Kazan
(famous not only for On the Waterfront but also for naming names to
the House Un-American Activities Committee).

And every so often Savage changes the subject, mentioning a great
barber he's been to recently or a good movie he's just seen. There is
something almost hypnotic about the up-and-down anger on the program;
even though Savage's views are not always internally coherent, he is
supremely confident and comfortable in expressing them. His ability
to steer the course without having to resort to logic to support his
points is a trait more often seen in politicians than commentators.
Indeed, Savage briefly (if laughably) mulled a run for the 2008
presidency on the grounds that since neither the Democrats nor the
Republicans were to be trusted, a nonpolitician like him might be
exactly what the country needed.

Savage's main sources of anger these days are illegal immigrants,
Islamic terrorists (a near-redundancy for him), and homosexuals.
Unlike his parents, who legally emigrated to the United States,
arriving in Ellis Island, illegal immigrants assault fundamental
American values-or so Savage claims. They not only compromise the
security of the border and bring drugs, crime, and disease with them,
but they threaten the American way of life-or at least the white male
way of life. In reference to Arabs, Savage has said that the "racist,
fascist bigots" should be converted to Christianity because
"Christianity has been one of the great salvations on planet Earth.
It's the only thing that can probably turn them into human beings."

The shift in Savage's attitudes toward homosexuality may be the most
revealing of his complex persona. When he was younger, his father
mocked Savage's sexuality. "Michael would have on tight black jeans
and a boat-necked sweater, and his dad would say, 'I don't like the
way you're dressed. You look like a fag,'" childhood friend Alan
Zaitz has said. In his first and only novel, Vital Signs, the
protagonist (a fortyish Jew named Samuel Trueblood who shares many of
Savage's biographical details) says, "I choose to override my desires
for men when they swell in me, waiting out the passions like a storm,
below decks." There are Savage's years with Ginsberg and
Ferlinghetti, including a note to Ginsberg that read, "Watched a
tourist from New Zealand taking pictures of Fijian people in the
marketplace [and] thought of inserting my camera's lens in your
A-hole to photograph the walls of your rectum." These days, his
attitude is outright hostility, with, for instance, his continual
assertion of a "homosexual mafia" trying to control the state of
world affairs. Savage has also said that gay parenting is "child
abuse" and that the sight of a gay couple "makes me want to puke."

In an interview with the right-wing Web site NewsMax.com, Savage
said, "I guess people love my show because of my hard edge combined
with humor and education. Those who listen to me say they hear a bit
of Plato, Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, Moses, Jesus, and
Frankenstein." Frankenstein aside, that's not bad company, and
hyperbole notwithstanding, there are still many members of the
conservative faith who swear by him. He has been married to the same
woman for 40 years and has two children, a daughter, who is a
teacher, and a son, who is the creator of the RockStar Energy Drink.
His wild popularity allows him to make increasingly outrageous
statements: Victims of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami deserved the
devastation because they were harboring terrorists; Democratic
presidential candidate Senator Barack Obama was trained in a
madrassa. One consistent quality of Savage's vitriol is that he
spares no one he feels is contributing to the problem. The Republican
Party and the Catholic Church, both of which wanted to help illegal
aliens, were equally subject to his wrath.

Over and over again, one wonders where Savage's interest lies, why he
is so angry and why he seems to take it all so personally. "It really
is a mystery. I have no idea what happened to Michael Weiner," says
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, whom Savage has gleefully denounced after his
Bay Area days as the owner of "that once-famous communist bookstore,"
City Lights. "We were his friends, and as far as I know, we never did
anything to him."

.

Gore Vidal: Literary feuds, his 'vicious' mother and rumours ...

Gore Vidal:
Literary feuds, his 'vicious' mother and rumours of a secret love child

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/features/gore-vidal-literary-feuds-his-vicious-mother-and-rumours-of-a-secret-love-child-832525.html

He slept with Kerouac, hung out with Jackie O and feuded with Mailer.
He's the last surviving giant of American literature's golden age. So
why is Gore Vidal still so sensitive about his reputation?

Interview by Robert Chalmers
Sunday, 25 May 2008

Seventeen years have passed, I remind Gore Vidal, since he told a
reporter: "This is the last interview I shall ever give. I am in the
departure lounge of life." "So where are you now? Tray table in the
upright position, footrest stowed, taxiing towards the runway?"

The writer gives me a mutinous look. "How do you know that I didn't
leave? Actually, I'm more fearful of airplanes than I am of my own
mechanism, because I know how to run it.

I've had diabetes for 20 years. I have a titanium knee. Which is
quite strong. But don't ask for it in the middle of the night."

With Kurt Vonnegut, Joseph Heller and Norman Mailer gone, Gore Vidal,
82, is the last truly legendary figure from a golden age of American
literature. "Serene" is his favourite word, though this is an
adjective he employs rather than evokes: headlines he has inspired
include "Into The Lion's Den" and "Cross Him If You Dare". That said,
he looks tranquil enough this afternoon, an elderly ginger cat dozing
on his knee, and a half-finished tumbler of whisky by his side. The
expression he wears in photographs from his prime – a curious mixture
of disdain and sensuality – has not altogether faded.

Vidal moved here, to this mansion in the Hollywood Hills, in 2003,
because of its proximity to the Cedars-Sinai hospital. Howard Austen,
his companion of 53 years, died of cancer in the same year. The two
men had spent the previous 25 years in Ravello, near Naples, at
Vidal's spectacular villa, La Rondinaia (The Swallow's Nest.)

"It's been sold," Vidal tells me. "To an hotelier. A money-man. From
what I hear, he is not prospering."

He used to delight in exhausting interviewers, unused to the
debilitating sunshine of the Amalfi coast, with the arduous climb to
his idyllic property. Here in his living-room, Vidal's limited
mobility, along with the subdued lighting, the walls hung with
stately oil paintings, and a carefully arranged display of lilies,
lend a certain melancholy to proceedings. But neither age nor
bereavement have dimmed his waspish intelligence; he still exudes the
sense that he will not suffer fools – or, in a certain mood, anybody
else – gladly.

Like Oscar Wilde, he is celebrated for his epigrams, most famously:
"Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies." Asked
whether his first romantic encounter was homosexual or heterosexual,
Vidal replied that he had been "too polite to ask". His conversation
is precise and mannered to a point that you suspect this is a man who
may still crook a finger when he drinks champagne. He speaks with an
archaic, aesthetic tone that can be contagious: there's hardly an
interview in his cuttings file where he doesn't elicit the word "exquisite".

To encounter Vidal is to meet a man who, through his friendship with
André Gide, is only one handshake removed from Wilde. His two
extraordinary volumes of memoirs – Palimpsest (1995) and its sequel
Point To Point Navigation, published in 2006 – recall friendships
with Eleanor Roosevelt, Princess Margaret and Leonard Bernstein. He
was close to John Kennedy and closer still to Jackie, a relative by
marriage. "It is always a delicate matter," he once wrote, "when a
friend or acquaintance becomes president." ("Oh we know, we know,"
sigh his millions of readers.)

A confidant of Tennessee Williams, he also frequented Christopher
Isherwood, EM Forster, Albert Camus, Sartre, Anaïs Nin and William
Faulkner. Vidal, who once wrote the line "Allen Ginsberg kissed my
hand as Jean Genet looked on," was briefly the lover of Jack Kerouac.
With this in mind, when you read him asserting, in Palimpsest, that
"I have never much enjoyed the company of writers," it does seem
necessary to add: "who are less famous than I am."

He was never a man plagued by self-doubt. A writer of supreme
invention and poetic sensibility, his 24 novels include classics such
as his transsexual satire Myra Breckenridge, and the innovative and
surreal comedy Duluth. He wrote the screenplay for the film
adaptation of Tennessee Williams's play Suddenly Last Summer,
starring Elizabeth Taylor; other scripts include Ben Hur and his
underrated adaptation of Daphne Du Maurier's novel, The Scapegoat.

As an actor, Gore Vidal appears in numerous movies, including
Fellini's Roma, in which he plays himself, and Tim Robbins's Bob
Roberts. A prodigious satirist and gifted speechwriter, he was
narrowly defeated as a Democratic candidate for Congress in 1960, and
refused to accept a safe seat four years later "because I realised my
true motive was vanity". It would come as little surprise to hear
that he was offered, but declined, the captaincy of Matt Busby's
first great Manchester United side.

There's an episode of The Simpsons in which Lisa holds up a book
entitled Tome, with Vidal's name on the spine. "These are my only
friends," she complains. "Grown-up nerds like Gore Vidal. And even
he's kissed more boys than I ever will."

"Girls, Lisa, girls," her mother says, and it's probable that a
majority of viewers were, like Marge, unaware both of the writer's
name, and romantic reputation.

Prime among life's potential irritations for Vidal is the knowledge
that, because his unique gift has been applied to so broad a range of
disciplines, his name is less familiar than those of more minor, but
ruthlessly focused, talents such as Truman Capote or Norman Mailer.

"Mailer once said that 'Vidal lacks the wound.' What do you think he
was referring to: the fact that your grandfather was a senator? Your
privileged upbringing?"

"Privileged? You mean more privileged than a fat boy from South
Africa," Vidal snaps [Mailer's father was born in Cape Town] "with a
doting mother?"

He refers to Tennessee Williams as "The Bird", on the grounds that he
was an artist who soared above the heads of lesser writers, and I
have no doubt that Vidal considers that he, too, is on the radar of
air-traffic control. The theme of flight is one that recurs in his
writing and conversation. His father Gene was the first instructor in
aeronautics at the highly prestigious US Military Academy at West
Point, New York. As a 10-year-old, Gore appeared in a Pathé newsreel,
landing a light aircraft. How did that feel? "Great. I was the most
famous kid in the United States. That was 1936." He points to a
dresser covered with small framed photographs. "There's a picture of
my father."

"He looks like a film star."

"He was like a film star. He was the most famous college athlete in
the history of the United States. A quarterback at West Point. He won
a silver medal in the Olympic Games of 1924. In the 43 years that I
knew him, we never quarrelled once, and we never agreed on anything."

His father's picture is towards the back of the display. Most
prominently positioned is an image of a young woman with tousled
hair, a mischievous grin, and great vitality: a tomboy with Katharine
Hepburn cheekbones.

"Amelia Earhart," Vidal says.

"You can see courage in those eyes." "You can."

"Didn't she have a fling with your father?"

"She had more than that. I said to him, "Why didn't you marry her?'
This was after she went down in the Pacific in 1936. They'd set up
three airlines together." Even now, more than seven decades later,
there is emotion in his voice. "He said: 'I have never really wanted
to marry another boy.' And she was like a boy."

"Who told you she was dead?" "My father. Roosevelt put him in charge
of the search."

"How did you react?" "I didn't cry. Almost everyone I knew had died,
or nearly died, in an air crash." '

Vidal is engaging, generous and amusing. But you never lose the sense
that his temper ("no gentle affair at best") is a bomb waiting to go
off. Among his contradictions is that he suffers from what he's
called "a dread of anonymity", yet loathes interviews, even though he
has precipitated some of the most glorious collisions ever to occur
in the media. In a television debate from August 1968 (now a popular
destination on YouTube) he locked horns with arch-reactionary William
F Buckley – "Hitler," as Vidal describes him, "without the charm."
Buckley compared anti-Vietnam war demonstrators to Nazis.

"As far as I'm concerned," Vidal told him, "the only pro- or
crypto-Nazi I can think of is yourself."

"Now listen, you queer," Buckley replied. "Stop calling me a
crypto-Nazi or I'll sock you in your goddamn face. I was in the
infantry in the last war."

"You were not," Vidal replies.

"I was."

"You were not."

The British writer Richard Adams, appearing alongside him on That Was
The Week That Was, called his work "meretricious." "Pardon?" said Vidal.

"Meretricious."

"Meretricious to you," the American replied, "and a happy new year."

It's the written press that he really despises. One piece by a female
journalist, published in the early-1990s, abused his personal
appearance in a way that could never be contemplated by a man writing
about a woman: "Unkempt. Overweight. Sloppy trousers ... his belly is
bursting through his shirt." His recollection of this highly
dissatisfactory encounter is uncanny in its detail.

The first English writer to have the wit to seek out Vidal was the
late Arthur Hopcraft: the author of The Football Man and scriptwriter
for the Alec Guinness version of John Le Carré's Tinker Tailor
Soldier Spy remains, I would argue, the most gifted writer ever to
have interviewed Vidal. Hopcraft, while noting the American's "candid
vanity", produced a highly complimentary assessment of his life and
career. The American has absolutely no memory of who Arthur Hopcraft
was. But then Hopcraft didn't make mean asides about his wardrobe or
his weight.

"You've got a pretty good capacity to feud, haven't you? I don't
necessarily mean that maliciously. You're what John Osborne called 'a
good hater'."

"I am quite sure you mean it maliciously. You are a journalist. I pay
no attention to most people. The opinion of the world does not mean a
goddamn to me. I hate nobody."

"Norman Mailer?" [Vidal once characterised Mailer, Henry Miller and
Charles Manson as brother chauvinists who should be collectively
referred to as M3.]

"Mailer feuded with me. I knew Norman's syndrome. If I was on the
cover of Time and he wasn't, my God he would be insulting me in the
press. He couldn't stop. He lived for his little swig of PR."

"Truman Capote?"

"Capote I truly loathed. The way you might loathe an animal. A filthy
animal that has found its way into the house."

"What was Capote doing that you didn't like?" "Lying," Vidal shouts.
"The one thing I hate most on this earth. Which is why I do not have
a friendly time with journalists."

Eugene Luther Gore Vidal was born in West Point, the only child of
Eugene Luther Vidal and Nina Gore. He was raised in Washington DC.
When he was 10, his parents divorced; his relationship with his
alcoholic mother, which ended in 1957 (she died 21 years later) seems
to have been at once unsuitably intimate, in terms of her personal
disclosures to him, and thoroughly poisonous.

He has recalled her telling him, for instance, that rage made her
orgasmic ("I forgot to ask her if sex ever did") and remarking that
she was born only "because my mother's douche bag broke". Nina also
informed him how, on the way to their honeymoon, his father had told
her: "'There's something very important I want you to know.' I was so
excited. He's going to tell me he loves me. But he didn't. Instead,
he said: 'I have three balls.'" According to Vidal, his father "was
in all the medical books".

"How old were you when you noticed Nina was behaving differently from
most parents?"

Vidal laughs. "51."

"Come on."

"No. Really. I was a slow developer. The thing is, she was just
atrocious. Everybody who knew her hated her."

"What did she do, exactly? Your grandmother said that when Nina
walked in a room, it was like an evil spirit arriving." "Yes. This is
her own mother saying that. You know what the problem was? It was
racial. And I'll give you the race: Anglo-Irish. They are more
vicious than most. She was a shit." He pauses. "A drunken shit."

"It must be awkward, then, to contemplate the fact that, genetically,
you are half her. Is there anything in your character that you
recognise as inherited?"

"No. If I did, I would take an emetic."

"You sound pretty angry with her."

"If I cared at all, I would say I would still be angry. She was a
terror. The damage she caused."

"To you?" "To many people. Not just me."

Vidal formed a strong bond with his maternal grandfather, Thomas
Pryor Gore, Oklahoma's first Democratic Senator, who had been blind
from the age of 10, and had the young boy read to him. "I would say
that he raised me."

"Your mother was terrified of him."

"Yes. Because he was strong as an ox and he would beat the shit out
of her. Occasionally."

"Why did she drink?"

"Heredity."

"Not anger? Or disappointment? Or jealousy?"

"You have been spoiled by Freud."

"Wasn't your father's relationship with Amelia Earhart a good reason
for your mother to have been unhappy?"

"Well, since you bring up the subject and I play some of the tapes in
my head, I think yes, she must have been very jealous. Amelia was
bigger than Elizabeth Taylor. If you went down Fifth Avenue with
Amelia Earhart you would have 500 people following you. Even at 10 I
was impressed."

I have a feeling that Amelia Earhart is not just the mother Gore
Vidal would like to have had, but also the lover.

When Vidal's parents divorced in 1935, his mother married Hugh D
Auchincloss; they had a daughter, ' also named Nina. After Vidal's
mother left, in 1940, to marry "her on-off lover, Robert Olds, an air
corps officer", Auchincloss married Janet Bouvier – mother of Jackie
Kennedy, young Nina's stepsister.

Gore Vidal had at least one heterosexual relationship as a youth, but
has written far more about his great love, a schoolmate called Jimmie
Trimble. An outstanding athlete, Trimble was killed in action in June
1945, aged 20. "His sweat smelled of honey," Vidal wrote, "like that
of Alexander the Great."

He has said that Trimble was the only person he ever truly loved.
"Many people might find it hard to understand how you have remained
so... I'm not sure what would be the best adjective here..." "Smitten?"

"You might equally say, 'loyal.'"

"You don't forget what matters."

"What attracted you to him?" "Remember my father was the greatest
athlete in his school."

"Can I infer from that that Jimmie reminded you of your dad?" "You
could, yes." Gore gives a mischievous smile. "Not that he did." "And
you are going to be buried together, at Rock Creek Cemetery in
Washington DC?" "Yes. Howard is already there."

Vidal's first book, Williwaw, a war novel, was well received in 1946.
But it was his third, The City And The Pillar, an openly homosexual
novel, published two years later (dedicated "To JT") that influenced
his life most profoundly. Vidal has consistently argued that the term
"homosexual" has no validity, because human sexuality is too complex
and diverse to be reduced to binary terms. This was a nuance lost on
publications such as The New York Times, which refused to review his
next five novels. He retains a special contempt for the paper, "which
never found a well it could not poison".

"You've said that, from childhood, you wanted to be a politician more
than a writer. How do you think your life would have been different
if you hadn't published The City And The Pillar? For instance, when
you ran for Congress in 1960?"

"Not much. I almost won the most difficult seat in the country."

"And yet even today, any admission of a sexual inclination that
doesn't involve two children and a well-manicured back yard is likely
to be used against you in politics."

"The book was fiction. That it could be exploited by political
enemies is – yes – kind of proof of something."

"You were the one that said: 'I might have had a life in politics if
it wasn't for the faggot thing.'"

"You're right, I did say that. And it is true. But now I am old, I
realise that I probably didn't want that [political career]."

"To return to the question, if you hadn't published The City And The Pillar..."

"I would be President, like George W Bush," Vidal says, with just the
slightest hint of sarcasm. "Come on."

"We'd be a lot better off if you were."

"We'd be safer."

In the aftermath of The City And The Pillar, which now appears almost
prudish in terms of its sex scenes, Vidal relocated briefly to
Guatemala, and wrote several novels under pseudonyms. He was once
quoted as saying he had had 1,000 lovers by the time he was 25, a
statistic that adds a certain credibility to his 1960 election slogan
"You get more with Gore."

Surprisingly, for an inherently private man, he collaborated with Dr
Alfred Kinsey, America's first "sexologist", who produced the
ground-breaking 1948 study Sexual Behaviour In The Human Male.

"What interested you about Kinsey?"

"He was the biggest explosion since Freud. Suddenly the whole sexual
world shifted. Why do you think I wrote The City And The Pillar?
Because I knew that everything that people thought was stupid." "Yet
Kinsey refers very rigidly to the 'condition' of homosexuality."

"There was no vocabulary otherwise. Homosexual and heterosexual are
nouns that I would not use myself, it's true. Nor would he, when he
was thinking. These are not semiological signs to a state of being.
They aren't saying anything at all. Except, you know, 'I prefer rice
to potatoes.' What great news that is. Tell it and gasp."

"Did you learn anything from him?"

"No. Well... he made a sexual revolution at the moment when I was
making one. He sent me a copy of his book, with a great inscription.
It compliments me on my 'work in the field'. Kinsey had a sense of
humour. He was not a fool."

Vidal met Howard Auder in New York in 1950. "Where, exactly?" Vidal
tells me that he can't remember. "People have said it was at The
Everard Baths." [For decades Manhattan's most famous gay bath-house,
it burned down in 1977.]

"I remember The Everard Baths. But what would I be doing there?
There's nothing they do there that I like."

"The reason I ask is that most long-standing relationships begin with
a physical..."

"I have always said, very clearly, that there was no sex involved
with Howard. You can get sex anywhere. You cannot get a friend
anywhere. I thought that would be clear to everyone."

"Perhaps people find it hard to identify with a long-standing
platonic arrangement."

"Most people end up having to settle for that: friendship. And it's
not the worst thing."

Vidal persuaded Howard to change his surname from Auster to Austen
after advertising firms refused to hire him because he was Jewish.
For all of its memories of Brando and Orson Welles and Bette Davis
and the Kennedys, Point To Point Navigation is at its most powerful
when Vidal describes nursing his friend through his last illness. In
Austen's last days, the writer recalls, "He said: 'Kiss me.' I did,
on the lips, something I had not done for 50 years.' "

When the two men began living together, Vidal's mother began
complaining about her "pansy son and his Jew boyfriend because of
whom she was not able to see her dearest friends". She had by now
added regular shots of morphine to her voracious intake of alcohol.
The last time Vidal saw her was 1957, when he invited her to London.
"I think she came to try and restore relations," Vidal wrote. "That
didn't work. She took to the bottle. Then she started attacking
Howard. I said: 'I think you had better go.' Later she wrote me a
poison-pen letter and I wrote her and said: 'I shall never, ever, see
you again as long as you live.'"

"And you never did?" "No."

"Wasn't it your half-sister Nina who said that you were the focal
point of your mother's life?"

"Are you sure she didn't say 'vocal point'?"

"What did your mother die of?" "Cancer."

"A slow death?" "Ooh, yes."

"Did you consider going to her funeral?" "Why would I do that? I
don't go to the funerals of people I like."

"Your mother claimed you went to visit her, and apologised, just
before she died." "That was a crazy story that she told. This was a
woman whose potential apologies could have swamped Lourdes."

When he was 20, Vidal had a relationship with the erotic diarist
Anaïs Nin. "Psychologically," Nin said of Vidal, "he knows the
meaning of his mother abandoning him when he was 10, to have other
children... but he does not know why he cannot love. He moves among
men and women of achievement; he was raised into sophistication and
into experience with the secret of himself, but the deeper self was
secret and lonely." Nin says he was her lover. In Palimpsest, Vidal
dismisses the idea that they were ever a couple.

"There are rumours that you have a daughter from a relationship with
a woman living in Key West, Florida [in the 1950s]; are they true?"

"Possibly. I don't believe so. The father was either me or a German
photographer. I believe the mother is dead. The child was a girl.
Every Christmas, I would receive ' a picture of them all around the
tree, and there's the little girl, looking like me. I could have a
daughter, yes."

"Have you tried to contact her?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Because you might have a sense of responsibility, which, in the age
of DNA..."

"I sent her mother money for an abortion. Which she used to go to
Detroit, where she found a rich man."

Jackie Kennedy once remarked that Gore Vidal made her feel "like a
Philistine – as if I knew nothing". It's a sensation he's still
capable of communicating, both by gesture and word. Vidal is the only
autodidact I've ever met who is both highly skilled at filtering
information, and not overawed by professional academics; to be more
accurate, he's positively condescending towards them. At one point I
ask him a question about John Kennedy, and he tells me – wrongly as
it happens – that he believes I can never have seen the 1964 film of
his play The Best Man, which stars Henry Fonda.

"So when do you watch it?" asks Vidal (who once remarked that a part
of the condition of the American writer was "an inordinate concern
for reputation".) "Every other leap year?"

It's curious that he should be so sensitive, when his own estimation
of himself is, on the face of it, shatterproof. This is a man, after
all, who wrote the sentence: "Although something of an avatar of Mark
Twain, I have never read The Prince and the Pauper."

There are times when his just-about-ironic pomposity recalls Frasier
Crane in one of his more self-congratulatory moods, as in: "Contrary
to legend I was born of mortal woman and if Zeus sired me, there is
no record on file."

In his memoirs, rarely for a North American, it is sometimes possible
to discern snobbery – or as Vidal prefers to say, 'snobbism' – of an
almost English intensity. Having fallen out with Robert Kennedy, he
writes about that family's "ardent struggle ever upward from the
Irish bog", and complains of another writer that his instincts
reflect "the lower-middle-class insular standards of the day". And
will we really sleep any easier, when reading about a visit to
London, in Point To Point Navigation, to learn that "I stayed, not as
always before at the Connaught but at the Ritz"?

There can be no modern writer who has disregarded so enthusiastically
George Orwell's egalitarian advice to use an English word unless no
alternative is available. Vidal is the only non-restaurateur I've
ever heard employ the noun amuse-gueule, and the only person in any
profession I've known who uses "cher confrère" as a verb. When he
paces a room at midnight, he doesn't do so like any run of the mill
phantom, but "like Wilde's Canterville Ghost".

Gore Vidal gets away with this because of his brilliance, and because
unashamed elitism, in matters of class as well as of intellect, has
become part of his act. It's no accident that he gets on so well with
Melvyn Bragg, another man of extreme intelligence who for some reason
feels compelled to wear his learning, if I can plagiarise Vidal just
once, "like a plume". I ask the American why this might be. "Well,"
he says, "I believe Melvyn's grandmother came from Bury."

There is no doubting the courage with which Vidal has opposed certain
individuals and causes, such as Richard Nixon, Martin Amis and
Zionist expansionism. He spoke out against his distant relative Al
Gore, when family loyalty might have prevailed, and was one of the
very few Americans to understand – if not empathise with – the
Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeigh. The two exchanged correspondence,
and Vidal failed to attend McVeigh's execution in Indiana, in 2001,
only because he was given inadequate notice of its rescheduled date.
For all that, Vidal is instinctively orthodox in outlook. He may once
have declared "I am a political activist", but in his lexicon this
means exercising influence at the highest level of traditional US
politics. This explains how, at the height of the acrimonious attacks
launched by Hillary Clinton (who has known Vidal for years) against
Barack Obama, he continued to support the former, regardless of her
tactics. "I feel," he says, "somewhat paternalistic towards the Clintons."

While his 96 year-old friend, writer Studs Terkel, has spent his life
trying to rock the ship of state, if not actually scuttle it, Vidal
tends to see his role as commanding from the bridge. With this in
mind, he returned to politics in 1982, but was beaten by Jerry Brown
for the Democratic nomination in California.

"WB Yeats, years after Oscar Wilde was dead, said: 'I think that the
English don't understand that we Irish do. Wilde was a man of action.
He was meant to lead the state. But he gets caught up in all of this
airy-fairy nonsense."

"Can you identify with that?" "Yes."

While Terkel spent time with John Lennon, Malcolm X and Woody
Guthrie, Vidal, who sometimes seems slightly dazed by contact with
royalty, and had lots of fun with Barbara Cartland, has little time
for hardcore activism. When I ask him his opinion of popular music,
he pulls the kind of face you might expect to produce if you'd just
snapped a hydrogen sulphide capsule under his nose.

"Did you spend any time with people from the so-called
counterculture: men like [the black activist and diet coach to
Muhammad Ali ] Dick Gregory, say, or Bob Dylan?"

"Not if I could help it."

"Why not?"

"I was bored by them."

"I'd have thought that the moment during the Watts riots, in South
Central Los Angeles, in 1965, when Dick Gregory walked from the
police line to try to negotiate with the rioters, and was shot, was
about as far from boring as you can get." Vidal gives an exaggerated
yawn. "I didn't even know that detail."

"I believe Gregory received two details; one grazed his hip, and the
other penetrated his left thigh."

"I'm sure he did many useful things of a public nature."

"Would it be fair to say that you're not really a rock'n'roll kind of
a guy?" "I hate it," says Vidal (whose first contribution to street
culture occurred in 2004, when he was persuaded to perform a bold and
strangely haunting Celtic rap, in the second US series of Da Ali G
Show.) "But then I am an elitist. Obama has been accused of being an
elitist. And as he pointed out, how can a boy who was brought up in
the jungles – the woods – of Kenya, with a mother on welfare by the
time they got to America, be an elitist; which is what Hillary, to
her shame, was trying to reduce him to."

"How was your friend John Kennedy on the question of racial
equality?" "Jack was rather bad on the black situation. He wasn't
especially interested."

"How about you?" "As good as most people could be, who were not
deeply involved in it. I was the first editor of a publishing house
to try to get Jimmy Baldwin published. I have done my duty."

He hands me a copy of the book Ain't My America by the so-called
"radical reactionary" Bill Kaufman, who challenges, from a right-wing
perspective, the expansionist policies of Bush and Cheney. "I am
considered to be a radical leftie and of course I am not. Neither is
Kaufman. We are the original patriots. Like General Washington. We
are, for instance, strongly opposed to foreign wars."

"Joseph Heller wrote a chapter, towards the end of his life, which
was called: 'Every Change is for the Worse.'"

"I won't contradict it."

"You would consider yourself to be living under a dishonourable
regime?" "Absolutely."

"With a corrupt president?" "Yes."

"Who cheated his way to power?" "Oh, yes."

"Is this the most pernicious US government you have ever
experienced?" "Yes. It is inconceivably bad. There is nothing that
one could ever have imagined to be so bad."

"So what hope do you have for what you've described as the American
Empire?" "None. It's finished."

"How do you see it ending?" "No more money."

"You once wrote: 'Robert Frost thought that between fire and ice, the
world would end in ice. Plainly it is going to be fire this time.'"

"I don't think so now. We're too cowardly. We would be at risk if we
attempted to blow up..."

"You're already at risk."

"Not to anybody truly dangerous."

"How about a meltdown in the Middle East precipitated by Iraq and
Iran? Doesn't that sound dangerous to you?"

"Well ... our people are very, very stupid. And stupid people are apt
to make huge mistakes."

"And your hope for the future?" "Politicians are shadowy people. We
don't know what they may be capable of. The one certain thing is that
there will be big surprises. They may be pleasant surprises, but it
is my experience of history that most surprises are unpleasant."

Gore Vidal is back in Europe this week, for a visit you sense he
feels may be his last. "I examine a new cancer on my forearm," he
writes, in Point To Point Navigation, "while I wait for diabetes to
do its gaudy final thing."

"Do you have major regrets?" "There is nothing that I deeply regret
in my life. I see nothing to apologise for." "You're lucky." "Maybe.
Or maybe I just played the game harder."

He has talked many times about his readiness to proceed – serenely –
through what he terms "the exit door". "What do you expect to find on
the other side?" "Nothing."

"You never know; it might be like coming out of a cinema matinée in
the summer – you're always astonished to find that there is another
life still going on in daylight, outside."

"I banish you," Vidal says, in his most witheringly ironic tone,
quoting Coriolanus. "There is a world elsewhere."

"Do you fear death?" "I think everybody does. If it's going to be
immediate, sure. I can't imagine brooding about it."

"I suppose it's not really an option to say: 'I'm scared witless.'"
"As I recall, Kurt Vonnegut told me that he was."

"But you're convinced that, to put it crudely, when you die, that's
it." "No," Vidal replies. "I wouldn't say: 'When you die, that's it.'
I'd say: 'When you're born, that's it.'"

.

The price of free love [Brits '68]

The price of free love

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2008/may/25/radio.1968

Hung-up Brits did not cope well with sexual liberation in '68

Miranda Sawyer
The Observer,
Sunday May 25 2008

I was one year old in 1968, thus the myth of that year passed me by.
I have hazy impressions: revolting students, Vietnam, assassinations,
free love. So when Radio 4 asked me to make a documentary about arts
and culture in Britain in 1968, I expected to cover the usual Sixties
wafty nonsense.

In fact, the plays, films, telly and books of the time were
remarkably stressed. Particularly when it came to sex. Sex had a
bizarre power back then. Hair, the swinging musical, promoted the
idea that if only uptight politicians could have it away with a
hippie they'd stop waging war.

So, to a lesser extent, did Peter Brook, who directed a production of
Seneca's Oedipus that climaxed (sorry) with an enormous golden
phallus being wheeled onstage. Artists believed sex was a magical
act, and if you got it right it would lead to personal freedom.

Others angsted about sexually liberated young women. The Pill was
available, and in April 1968, abortion was legalised. Finally, women
could have sex as they wished. Male writers were terrifically
exercised about this, especially older ones. It's bizarre how many
older man-younger girl set-ups there were: in Kingsley Amis's I Want
It Now, in Terence Frisby's comedy There's A Girl In My Soup. And
David Mercer, the respected TV playwright, had Glenda Jackson and
Denholm Elliott get it together in Let's Murder Vivaldi, with
disastrous results.

In all of these works, sex is portrayed as a power game; as paranoid,
one-sided, difficult. Disturbingly, there's a lot of casual violence
against women. All in all, a weirder, darker response to the previous
year's summer of love than I'd imagined. Maybe the British were too
hung up to rut like real revolutionaries.

· 1968: Sex, Telly and Britain, a three-part series on Radio 4,
starts on Saturday, 10.30am

.

Shifting Topographies: Mickey Hart and The World's Music

Shifting Topographies: Mickey Hart and The World's Music

http://www.jambands.com/Features/content_2008_05_23.08.phtml

John Patrick Gatta
2008-05-23

It's appropriate that another conversation with Mickey Hart takes
place during springtime, a time of renewal, a time of earthly
rebirth. Hart's music career moves in that type of cycle, gestating
with possibilities and, suddenly, blossoming for public view.

Last fall Global Drum Project -- the album and tour -- brought him
back to the World Music scene that he helped spotlight with his side
projects away from his day job -- beating the skins in the Grateful
Dead. With the Mickey Hart Collection on Shout! Factory, reissues of
those world rhythm-based albums -- Diga, At the Edge, Planet Drum,
Mystery Box and Supralingua -– it felt like a good reason to discuss
among other subjects the musical efforts that opened the ears of
Deadheads and many others accustomed mainly to the sounds of the
western world.

Of course, Hart moves constantly forward. A DVD of the 2006 Rhythm
Devils tour comes out later this year. He performed with the Mickey
Hart Band last March at the Langerado Music Festival, took part in
the Green Apple Festival with an ad hoc grouping of percussionists
and vocalists and celebrated in song at the Wavy Gravy Birthday
Party. In June MHB will begin a series of festival appearances and
headlining dates with a line up that includes Steve Kimock, George
Porter Jr., Jen Durkin, Sikiru Adepoju and Walfredo Reyes Jr.
--

JPG: I thought we'd start with upcoming events and then discuss the
re-issues. First off, summer tour with the Mickey Hart Band. I didn't
see or hear the Langerado show but I saw the Rhythm Devils back in
2006. On paper it looks like the same musical set up. Should fans
expect a similar type of set as the Rhythm Devils?

MH: It's the Rhythm Devils without Billy [Kreutzmann] and without
Mike Gordon, basically.

JPG: It seems typical of you, going from different type of project to
another, where this is a bit more of a straightforward rock outfit
and last fall you did Global Drum Project, which was more of a World effort.

MH: I wouldn't say 'straightforward rock' thing because we have a
talking drummer. We're playing international grooves. So, no it's not
straight rock at all. The band does rock. It's a different kind of
rock. It has more relevance to West African highlife music. Pop music
of Africa, we incorporate a lot of that. That's my favorite music. I
wouldn't say it's rock and roll exactly. It'll be familiar to western
ears as opposed to Global Drum Project, which is rhythm-based. This
one is, too, considering we have three drummers. All my projects are
rhythm-based. That might be a commonality to it all. That's a good question.

JPG: In the announcement for the tour it said MHB perform a number of
recent Robert Hunter tunes performed by the Rhythm Devils ("Fountains
of Wood," "The Center" and "Your House").

MH: A lot of Robert Hunter tunes, typically for this band. And so we
have a lot more Robert Hunter songs. We've been composing. It's a new
band with new songs. And some of the old songs from the Rhythm Devils.

JPG: Now, I'm calling you in the studio, is that just a convenient
spot or are you working on anything?

MH: Find something every day. Always in the studio. When I'm not out
performing, I'm in the studio experimenting and working on projects.
Today, I'm composing.

JPG: Composing for anything particular?

MH: Yeah, Mickey Hart Band

JPG: Oh, okay. I didn't know if it was for this band or previous
recording or a score or…

MH: No, no, I'm working on electronic enhancement for the Mickey Hart Band.

JPG: As we head start to head back in time towards the reissues,
let's move to last month to your Green Apple Festival performance.

MH: (slight laugh) That was something. That was really, really a
moment. We had the horde of Brazilian drummers and the drummers from
Guinea. There was Joan Baez and Bobby [Weir]. We had about, I guess,
45 drums up there at one time. It was really beautiful to see how the
Brazilian groove kind of melted into the Guinea/African groove. The
slightly different groove rhythms, same tempo, as one was leaving the
other one was coming. We had them overlapping. The transitions were
just beautiful. Tommy Lee was there. Ludacris was there. About 25 to
30,000 people. Were you there?

JPG: Unfortunately I wasn't, not able to make it. I would have loved
to. Just reading about it sounds fantastic.

MK: Oh, yeah. It was really a high moment.

JPG: A situation like that, playing with so many different drummers,
are you able to take the opportunity to rehearse in some manner or
does it kind of run on the fly?

MH: Both. Before the show, we rehearsed. We had a giant tent back
there. Really, they all did their own thing and I just gave them
transitions how to get from one thing to another and time limits, a
couple of hand signals. But this kind of stuff is mostly left to the
spirit of the moment. I like those kinds of things. As long as you
have capable players that aren't just going to run away with it, just
become oblivious to their counterparts onstage. You have to pick
those kind of people that are suitable to play Moment Music. That's
really the composition. Give me an overall concept, which again is
rhythm-based. You put the right people together. You point them in
that direction and you say, 'Let's rock.'

JPG: I have to ask because it just seems on the surface a case of
strange musical bedfellows. Playing next to Tommy Lee [of Motley
Crue]. No one would expect him to be part of that situation. How did
that come about?

MH: He just called up and wanted to be part of it. I've never met
him. Nice fella. We had a great time. We talked. We hung out. Very
respectful. Very nice. He listened. There were no airs. He was just
another drummer on the stage. As I was. Just enjoying the moment. So,
it was a pleasure.

The percussive parts weren't challenging. We're all trying to play
group rhythms. It wasn't about virtuoso solo...it was more like
playing together and enjoying the rush of Group Rhythm. He was
standing next to me with a big drum just like I had and we were just
playing in unison. It was really just fun. I don't know his history
except stuff that you know, [Pamela] Anderson stuff and all that.

JPG: Moving on to the five reissues – Diga, At the Edge, Planet Drum,
Mickey Hart's Mystery Box and Suprlingua – I wanted to touch upon
your memories of each album, goals and whether or not you achieved
them, happy accidents, etc.

MH: All of the above. Each one of these things I try to give every
time…when I step up to the plate, I swing. I go to the long ball.
There's also a lot of chance, chaos involved in my work. The
ultimate, I guess, reward is to see that, eventually, they are still
in print. They're very successful. They're seminal records all of them.

Diga [by Diga Rhythm Band], that started this whole world fusion
thing, you know. It was released in '76. That was a major challenge,
learning all of those very intricate parts and the memorization. It
was a major leap in both Zakir [Hussain's] and my development. And it
solidified our partnership for life That was a seminal work.

JPG:Now, Diga recorded at the Barn. That was your place, correct?

MH:In Novato, [California]. Right.

JPG: At that time in the early to mid-'70s, I don't think that many
people had a quality home studio. If they did it was something small
for a few demos, like Pete Townshend.

MH: I've had a studio since '69 in my home, quality studio,
multi-track. The best gear. I'm a studio rat. Dan Healy, our
engineer, myself, and my partner, Johnny D, we built this studio
together in the woods. It was modeled inside an old cow barn. I
slept, ate, recorded in the same place. It was really home.

I remember seeing Stephen Stills back in the studio in '68. He
inspired me because he was the first musician I'd ever seen get
behind the controls and actually drive that train. He was in charge
of his destiny and his fate. Steve and I were very good friends
'cause we lived together for awhile. He lived with me at the studio
for awhile -- The Barn -- when Crosby, Stills and Nash were doing
that thing in '68, '69. So, we were all very good friends. Actually
influenced the Grateful Dead vocally quite a bit by hanging out.

JPG: I could see that.

MH: A major part of voices really coming together in marvelous
harmonies…After we all heard them do that we said, 'Wow! Maybe we
could do that, too.' I guess the vocalists thought that anyway. I
wasn't one of 'em. I certainly saw the difference in the vocal
interpretation after these encounters.

I love the studio and I wanted to be in control of my own fate and
not have to ask anybody how to do it, what to do or do it at all. I
like to get down behind the knobs and do that kind of stuff. Stephen
was a major influence in that respect because in those days…remember,
when we first started in the studio in '67 the engineers were all
union. You couldn't touch the knobs. You couldn't even go near the
desk. You couldn't go near the console. You couldn't touch a fader.
It was against the rules, the laws of the studio. That was just not
acceptable. So, sooner or later, we took their jobs. Built our own
studios and took their jobs.

JPG: If you didn't have the Barn, do you think some of these projects…

MH: Absolutely. They would never have happened. They were so labor
intensive. You could never afford to let the clock turn because most
of this was experimen