Category: folkies

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Intermission

I had some bizarre dreams last night, which led to this post. Yeah, I know…out there.

Not all my friends have been images of rectitude.
Over a few have been hell raisers, imperfect, inconstant, and flawed. Just like me when I knew them.
Straight people don’t get it. By that, I am not talking about sexual orientation but about a sort of lack of bend of creative cognizance; they’ve sat in the pews and listened to correct political or social ideology spoken by politicians, teachers, ministers, or bosses. Go to work, perform your job, vote the party line, live in a safe pocket of suburbia – you know, conformists. But to those who lived on the wilder side, a friend may be just as imperfect as we. In fact, they probably are. Who else will lend you cash for your next frolicking detour to Indianapolis to see the old sweetie you broke up with two years ago? Or help with the rent when there are no gigs, and the job as a dishwasher went south?

We are magnificent monoliths of propriety. We live a respectable life. Yes, there may have been a wilder time, but that is past. We are deacons of our churches, wardens of our lodge, and school board members. Our current batch of friends reflect us in the mirror of class and caste.

There was a wild intermission between childhood and adult life. We don’t talk about it much except in hushed whispers when memories and dreams stir and rise to the surface: when we visit a club and realize that we used to perform that song, visit an art gallery and itch to paint again or find a compelling reason to write.

Some things remain constant, and you really can hide or run. But you can’t change who you are inside. Your true friends realize this. They understand the “whys and wherefores” of the times you howl at the moon, get the wild sparkle in your eyes, or ask for the cash to get you to Indianapolis.

Artwork by L.N. Carreras, copyright

Daily writing prompt
What quality do you value most in a friend?
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The number 39

In 1969, I moved a total of 39 times. I was exact; some moves were from one “squat” or couch to another. One was across a national border. The list is buried somewhere in my papers. Yes, I hung on to it. And now I’m glad I did because after all these years, I am interested in what it will tell me about the sequence of events that year. After all I don’t have a photographic memory, but I do have one that responds well to prompts.

Why did I move all that many times? I was restless, looking for things externally that I needed to find internally, and I also moved a few times for employment. Romantic breakups and entanglements were responsible for at least three of those moves.

I had a hectic time of it, and it was the last full year I spent on the “road” – I was tiring of the impermanent lifestyle – although the 39 moves doen’t seem to indicate that.

At the end of that year I was back in Boston’s Beacon Hill, owned by a nasty grey cat ( Clancy J Bumps, AKA the Grey Menace. He did not like to miss meals or travel. So he actually helped settle me into one place.

It’s funny how small things, like a cat, can have big implications. I finally had someone who totally depended on me, and it had a big effect on my life.

Artwork by Louis N. Carreras, copyright

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The Pad

You could say that it was an early form of “dorming.” A large number of guys share an apartment. In the language of the day, we called it a pad.

The living room sometimes looked like a crazy quilt of bedding as people arrived and departed for other locations within a week or two. Going to Aspen, Montreal, San Francisco, or just a hop across the Charles River to a new place to crash in Cambridge? This was your way station.

Many of us would have been homeless and on the street if this sort of solution to transient housing didn’t exist. We all put into the pot for food, telephone bills, food and rent. There were rules to living there – no heavy drugs; you found work ( and casual work was luckily plentiful), no preying on fellow housemates, and the leaseholder, John, could boot you out for any infringement of the rules. Almost without exception, we were of that breed called “Folkies.”

Folkies were a breed committed to folk music, alternative lifestyles, and a liberal political spirit that echoed many of the 19th—and early 20th-century utopian community movements. And no, don’t make the mistake of referring to a Folkie as a Hippie. We were from Hippies as a Zebra is from a horse. Our little group included folksingers, a leather worker, office workers, skilled tradespeople, and Pious Itinerants.

I wound up drifting into the group with a friend I met while “on the road.”

As a folksinger and Pius Itinerant, I would stay a few weeks or a few months at the apartment. When a gig opened up somewhere, or I tired of the possibilities in Boston, off I’d go. When I wasn’t working as a waiter, busboy, truck loader, or some other job, I could be found in the living room running chords and picking out songs while I prepared for an audition or a gig.

If it sounds a bit idyllic, I could agree. But there was tons of drama: breakups with girlfriends, fights over politics, people being late with rent, or people doing terrible stuff and getting evicted. There was the poet who claimed to be the Poet Laureate of New York, who we unceremoniously booted out one night when he continued to harass one of the girls at a party. You had no choice but to love a chubby, unwashed, make-believe poet when he came onto you. We took his trunk, tossed it down three flights of stairs, and sent him packing after it.

There were also nights spent in the emergency ward of the Mass General Hospital. Let’s see: Pneumonia, flu, lacerations, drugs, suicide attempts, and the always-appreciated urinary tract infections. Sometimes, it was a wonder that we all survived.

Eventually, most of us moved on. One became a right-wing AM radio shock jock – that left the rest of us amazed and wondering where that had come from. Otherwise, a few left for the “Coast” and never returned from California; others drifted into conventional lifestyles and buried their days of living hip. There was also the normal thinning of the herd over the years caused by long-term addictions to drugs and alcohol – mostly alcohol.

Legacy? I am, in part, who I am because of the time spent at our Beacon Hill crash pad. The wide variety of people who passed through ranged from failed clerics, doctoral candidates, Beat Generation poets, and philosophical road bums. It was an educational experience that could not be replicated on purpose. Like a wave that has expended it’s energy on the shore most of what happened, and was said has dissipated. But I still tell the tales, talk about the experiences, and recall the traumas.

On my last visit to the old neighborhood, I passed by the site of our pad. It is now an upscale condo and types like us would probably be chased from the streets by the neighborhood watch. 

sic transit, Gloria Mundi*?

*We always joked that Gloria Mundi was a B-movie star of the fifties who disappeared and was never seen again. Thus, the sic transit, Gloria Mundi.

Daily writing prompt
What is the legacy you want to leave behind?
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Guitars

Let’s see: Martin, Gibson, Gretsch, Guild, and, of course, Harmony are my favorite brands of guitars. Sitting around me right now are the ancient Harmony and two Gretches. The Gibson is in storage, awaiting a trip to a luthier to fix an arching top. Even though I only rarely play these days, I keep my old bandmates close by even though my last regular gig was in 1975.

My last semi-legit gig was around 2002 when I was forced from retirement.

 An old friend died, and his wife wanted me to sing bawdy sea songs at the funeral. There was an intense period of practice and rehearsal. I chose the Harmony for the gig. It was my old traveling guitar, and I knew I could rely on it no matter the setting.

It was a tough house—old Coast Guard and Navy types who insisted they sang dirtier verses than I sang. The more staid types at the funeral got some education that afternoon. 

It took me back to the old days, and I thought of getting into the swing. But change is a brutal force to overcome. My booth space was already booked for three boat shows. I had orders to carve in the shop, a regular job, and family. No, this was not the year to leave retirement.

Maybe next year.

Daily writing prompt
What are your favorite brands and why?
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End of the Road

Among a close set of my friends, the term “end of the road” had a distinctive meaning. “I’ve hit the end of the road!” meant you were leaving our close little circle of travelers. Most often, it meant you were putting your pack down in your girlfriend’s apartment for connubial bliss. We’d sip a glass of fine Irish Whiskey, ceremoniously state another one has bit the dust, and get on with our lives.

So it went till my best friend died in a senseless auto accident – he wasn’t even traveling – just going to the grocery store with his girlfriend. It hit me hard. After the funeral, a few of us snuck back to the grave to ceremoniously sanctify it with Irish Whiskey and Marijuana seeds. It set seeds of doubt. Up till then, we’d been immortal. We determine the direction of our lives, not arbitrary fate.

Eventually, I, too, hit the end of the road. I had a whole raft of stories from the “old days” to tell around campfires, songs about being on the road, and bits of wisdom to spread among the uninitiated. But, except in spring, when the sap rose and leaves emerged, I did not miss it much. I did not miss it at all. Of course, I had to be careful about admitting that. I’d sit with friends and state that I’d cogitate my veritabilites and decide in the morning If I’d bum my way to Toronto.

Then, I settled in and got a degree, a car, and a career. I had responsibilities. I could no longer say I’d go here or there in the morning. Damn! I’d lost my credibility. My ambition had become circumscribed by my family, job, the workshop, the feeding time of the pets, and my own tranquility.

A snide comment at a party hinted that I was a has-been. I responded with a grin, ” in the immortal words of Tiny Tim, It is better to be a has-been than a never-was.”

Daily writing prompt
When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?
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Off, The Road

I

A long time ago, I reread a book that had long been on my reading list. Actually, I read it many times. But I doubt I’ll ever reread it. It tells the familiar story of a young man on the road, doing the things young men in my generation did on the road—seeking epiphanic revelations, howling at the moon, and misbehaving in classically ego-centric and idiotic ways.

You’ll see why the book appealed to me if you’ve read my posts on my folksinger road bum days. I could relate to the protagonist.

Now, there is no way to chrome plate this. Polish it up, put enough sawdust over the bloodshed stains, or hide the crash landing.

The book’s author ( Richard Fariña ) was a folksinger/author familiar with the off-side parts of life. He died in a motorcycle crash on his way to his publication party. 

Richard Fariña and his book were a significant influence on me. My time in Greenwich Village, my road trips, Folk music, and the death of many Folkie friends from drugs and alcohol, had some profound effects on me. 

II

I was selling my carvings at a folk music festival about twenty years ago. After things wrapped up that day, the headliner passed by my booth. He stopped, looked at me, and then looked again, “I know you…” I replied, ” Yeah, I know you too. In early April of ’65, you played at the Cafe Wha in the Village. I played across the street, in the basement, at the Cafe Why Not.” We spent a few seconds looking at each other, and then he smiled and said, “…yeah, but we both made it out alive…”

Many of our peers did not.

III

So, at some point, I put aside the character in Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me, And found another loose alternative. It was not without tribulation; I almost died by gunshot and spent several weeks hiding in Boston dives. I was armed with a dagger in my boot when I left my hideouts. Survival meant shedding my old habits. I eventually took up a quiet and peaceful life.

So yes, there was a book that I admired, a lifestyle I loved, and a world that has passed. Do I have regret? Certainly, but if you offered me the chance to step back into my old greasy calfskin motorcycle boots, shoulder my pack, and guitar to hit the road, I’d be out of there so fast your head’d be spinning.

No thanks.

Daily writing prompt
If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?
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The Hurricane

I knew someone who believed that the significant event in their life was being “born again.” But sitting next to me that night was a veteran of several wars who claimed to be “reborn in the Airborne,” which was his most significant event. Me? Well, they smiled when I mentioned that it happened one day in 1965 when the final ride on my first long-distance road trip let me off in Boston. It was a spring morning, and I had been on the road for three days. Everything seemed fresh and new. I was 18 years old.
And so it goes with crucial life-shifting happenings. Cracks appear in foundations, lightning shoots from the sky, and we reestablish life with new vision, capabilities, or perception.
Don’t laugh at another’s life-defining, altering, or affirming event. Unlike much else in life, their meaning to the individual is unique.
You only lose out on it if you roll over and go back to sleep. Don’t laugh. Many people get confronted by great opportunities only to retreat into the closet of familiarity. It takes a bit of courage to walk away from an old life.
The famous sailor Joshua Slocum summed it up well:
“I once knew a writer who, after saying beautiful things about the sea, passed through a Pacific hurricane, and he became a changed man.”

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Engineer Boots

Do shoes make the Man? It certainly can help create a style for the Man. In my case, it was a pair of greasy calfskin, D-ring engineer boots I wore in the 1960s. No, it was not your average cowboy or hiking boot. It was a boot created for people who had a career doing heavy work – shoveling coal on the railroad and other forms of physical labor. The leather was thick, the sole supportive, and the toe generously sized and not pointy.
I picked them up second-hand on my first major road trip at a local Salvation Army.
My best friend and road buddy suggested them because they had the arch support my flatter than pancake feet needed, were all weather, and could be handy in a fight. They were stomping boots. But comfortable stomping boots you could wear from Monday till Sunday. Then, hitchhike from Boston to Portland. And deter a fight as you, not so gently, crushed someone’s feet with them. They also polished up well for semi-dress wear.
I put them in storage at my parent’s house, and my mother, in one of her pre-Marie Condo moods, tossed them, most of my music, and all my clothes. Her agenda was to clear clutter from the closet. Luckily for her, she did not get rid of my guitar.
I’ve never found a pair of boots since that was comfortable like they were. Or made the sort of statement those boots made when you stomped onto a stage in a coffeehouse; if you were busking on a street corner or a bar, they provided a particular security from assault, too. Their absence has been noted every time I’ve hunted the shoe stores for a quality replacement.

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Thumb

During the sixties, I was part of what people called the counterculture. No, not the hippies – they were from well-to-do families and could afford all the glitz, clothes, and designer drugs. I was a Folkie, not only a Folkie, I was a Folksinger. You know those dark holes-in-the-wall clubs with exotic coffee drinks and people singing the blues or soulful ballads? Well, those places paid shit, and that meant Wes, my stage name, traveled using the thumb.
Most places have laws against begging for rides, which is what traveling by thumb is. So, yes, I was a breaker of the law – and not unintentionally. One might say that I attacked it with glee and contempt. To place a finial atop the whole thing, I was a serial offender. I did it almost weekly for thousands of miles of illegal travel. They say confession is good for the soul…so there it is.
Did I ever pay the cost of my sins against the community? Well, there was the time in Cape Neddick when I got stopped and made to walk from one end of the town to the other with the local cop checking every few minutes. But in the next town, their officer picked me up and drove me to the best location to get a ride. He said that Officer Opie was an ass.

Clearly, I have repented of my irreverent, youthful ways. I am a law-abiding pillar of the community. I only unintentionally break laws these days, except by pulling those nasty tags off pillows. Old age sucks!

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Have you ever unintentionally broken the law?
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Flashback Friday- songs your mother never taught you

originally posted – February 9, 2021

I had moved to Portland to get away from Boston. In those days, the late 1960’s, Portland was a hike from Boston and was in an entirely different cultural world.
Portland came well equipped with a small church-run coffeehouse that I could habituate when not working. The Gate Coffeehouse became the center of my social life. After work in the afternoon, I’d go there for coffee. Again, in the evenings, I’d be there.
I filled out a small group of folk singers from the area that also centered parts of their life on the Gate. Round Robin song sessions were the norm, and it felt as good as it gets.
One afternoon, my friend Jim started singing a slightly salacious bit of doggerel. I began to respond with selections from my not-insignificant repertoire of the semi-obscene. I behaved, up to this point, carefully in consideration of it being a church-sponsored coffeehouse. But once started, I exposed my history as a ribald Folkie. About ten minutes into my singing about cheating, violent drunk men, improbable erotic acts, and loose women, Mrs. P walks over.
I figured I had done it now. I’d get expelled from paradise. Instead, she sat down and asked me, “Have you heard this one?” What followed was five minutes of what she informed me was bawdy British Music Hall tunes from her “Salad Days. I almost gasped ” I never expected that from a church lady.” She winked at me and said, “If you like molly nogging ( running around with fast women), you should remember what’s good for the gander is also good for the goose.” with that, she got up and swept away.
After that, when we were alone in the coffeehouse, I’d start with, “Have you heard this one?” And she’d respond in kind.