Category Archives: Okemah

Guest Post: Traveling to a Protest

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By Peter Diebold

When I was in Okemah, Oklahoma in July for Woodyfest, I hung out with Peter Diebold, a musician from suburban Chicago who’d hit the road with his guitar earlier in the year after getting involved and disillusioned with the Occupy movement. In light of the first anniversary of Occupy, and the fact that I finally got around to writing about the NATO conference in Chicago in May, I wanted Peter to tell about his experiences. He obliged, and here’s his story in his own words.

The morning was cold, especially with the wind from the train still tunneling under the axles of the semi truck trailer we’re sleeping under. I used my pack to block most of the wind, but still I slept uncomfortably with Seeger inching ever closer to me during the night. I didn’t mind the advances, but I had made it extremely clear I wasn’t comfortable and was being squished. The fact that he didn’t seem to care about that was pissing me off. I elbowed him a few times and got no response, so I decided to get up and enjoy the morning.

We were supposed to be getting off our train in Minneapolis so we could find a train with better hiding spots to take into Chicago. We must have slept right through the stop, an impressive feat when riding on a freight train. When they start up it’s like being in a fender bender at a stop sign, those fuckers can rock! I’m actually glad to be staying on this train. I want to go home to and this one’s hauling. Using the mile markers and my watch I calculated that we’ve been going about 60 mph consistently throughout the entire ride. Our train is also high priority because other freighters have been pulling over to let us by almost every time. The perfect train to get me back to Chicago as soon as possible. Everything is going my way, as usual.

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Ain’t Nobody That Can Sing Like Me

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“I’m with yuh, brother!” A lady walked up with a big black purse and a gallon jug of wine, ready to be broke over somebody’s head.

 

“I ain’t a-movin’, neither!” A little old skinny man was flipping his belt buckle. “Let ‘em come!”

 

“As the last two or three flat cars of men rolled down the street and kept the wild mob back for a minute, I grabbed my guitar up and started singing:

 

“We will fight together

We shall not be moved

We will fight together

We shall not be moved

Just like a tree

That’s planted by the water

We

Shall not

Be moved.

 

“Everybody sing!” Cisco grabbed his guitar and hollered out. “Stormy Night” from “Bound for Glory”

Even though I haven’t written about the Billy Bragg concert in Chicago last month, I covered his songwriting workshop. And I’ll get around to writing about the Chicago concert, because I have a lot to say about that night.

I’ll refrain from posting the photo of me in full-on jackass bray from my Billy Bragg meeting in Chiago. But I’ll continue to post this one all over the internet until I’m at 93 years old, because I love it.

My cousin-in-law commented that I look like a little girl on Christmas. I had some pretty great holidays as a kid, but I never got a five minute conversation with one of my favorite musicians. So this was Christmas morning times a thousand in terms of excitement.

I was most impressed that Bragg had taken the time to have actual conversations with the fans who hung out after the workshop that day, asking what brought each of us to see him. I told him a little bit about my project and he asked if he’d see me in Okemah. I was still trying to pull together the details of the trip at the time.

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Beer to Beer and Ale to Ale

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Others came down with the beer head. That’s where your head starts swelling up and it just don’t quit. Usually you take the beer head from drinking home brew that ain’t made right, or is fermented in old rusty cans, oil drums, gasoline barrels, and slop buckets. It caused some of the people to die. They even had a kind of beer called Old Chock that was made by throwing everything under the sun into an old barrel, adding the yeast and sugar and water to it, and letting her go. Biscuit heels, corn-bread scraps, potato leavings, and all sorts of table scraps went into this beer. It is a whitish, milky, slicky-looking bunch of crap. But especially down in Oklahoma I’ve seen men drive fifteen miles out in the country just to get a hold of a few bottles of it.  “Boy in Search of Something” from “Bound for Glory”

 

Oklahoma hasn’t changed much. It’s not the place for a spoiled craft beer snob like me to be cavorting. Still, I think the table scrap brew would have gotten my interest before the mass-market brews that originated in my home base of St. Louis. When I hit Lou’s Rocky Road Tavern for a celebratory beer after my crime spree, a settled for a can of Busch.

If I’m going to drink cheap beer, you better believe it’s gonna be the cheapest. I’m fine with that. Because as much as I love good beer, I love good people more. To find good people, go to the worst-looking bar. If the clientele’s right, the Old Chock will go down like something brewed from a 600-year-old secret Trappist monk recipe.

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The Sign Said No Tresspassing. But On the Other Side …

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I just reared back and soaked in every note and every word of their singing. It was so clear and honest sounding, no Hollywood put-on, no fake wiggling. It was better to me than the loud squalling and bawling you’ve got to do to make yourself heard in the old mobbed saloons. And, instead of getting you all riled up mentally, morally and sexually – no, it done something a lot better, something that’s harder to do, something you need ten times more. It cleared your head up, that’s what it done, caused you to fall back and let your draggy bones rest and your muscles go limber like a cat’s. - “The Telegram That Never Came” from “Bound for Glory”

 

I’ve been to many music festivals. Even though I was only able to spend one day in Okemah for Woodyfest, I can say that it’s quite likely the most musician-centric festival I’ve seen. The crowds were small on Thursday, but the focus was definitely on music. Not on trying out the latest home video game unit, or sideshows or any other crap. It was music. From buskers on the street to open mic at Lou’s Rocky Road, and afternoon sets at Brick Street Cafe. Music was everywhere, as were hardcore music lovers from little kids to elderly folk.

One of the smartest festival-planning moves I’ve ever seen: all the daytime sets were inside. Because it was 100 degrees. Perfect! Since the earlier acts tend to attract smaller crowds anyway, it was an idea set-up. I got into town later than expected, and spent more time roaming downtown (buskers, statue pilgrimage, visiting my brick on the new Grammy Museum monument, eating tacos), so I didn’t catch as much music at Brick Street as I would have liked. By the time I made it there, I was wobbly from the heat and adrenaline.

Since Brick Street not only offered free live music, but also wifi for the reporters (and free lunch! Which I unfortunately missed.). I did triple-duty: music, work, and hydration.

Not a bad work day, if you can swing it.

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Just a Wandrin’ Worker, I Go From Town to Town

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I said, “I like the way you play that guitar with your fingers! Sounds soft, and you can hear it a long ways off. All of these three hills was just ringing out with your guitar, and all of these people were listening to you sing.”

 

“I saw them listening,” one sister said.

 

“I saw them, too,” the other sister said.

 

“I play with a flat celluloid pick. I’ve to be loud, because I play in saloons and, well, I just make it my job to make more noise than they make, and they’re sorry for me and give me nickels and pennies.” - “The Telegram That Never Came” from “Bound for Glory”

I left the crush of the press at the historical society with thoughts of lunch. Earlier I’d noticed a Mexican restaurant two doors down from the Woody Guthrie statue. I don’t recall this restaurant being there during my visit in March, so I took it as a sign that my Guthrie tribute/al pastor streak was meant to continue.

I crossed the street by the Crystal Theater, with its “Welcome to Woodyfest” marquee, giving a small nod to the busker sitting on the sidewalk. His can held a sign reading, “Traveling broke but happy.”

This is why I’m not a real reporter: I got all the way across the street before I considered that perhaps I should visit with this fellow.

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A Hot Old Dusty Highway for a Dust Bowl Refugee

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By Robin Wheeler

And so the week of centennial celebrations is over. I’m a little sad, but I’m also happy to rediscover these things I’d forgotten. Namely, my family, and this blissful thing called “sleep.” Have you tried it? It’s awesome! I partook in around 14 hours of it on Sunday.

Lots of you are coming here for the first time after hearing me blab about my project at Woodyfest on Thursday, Corey Woodruff’s photo exhibit on Friday, or the KDHX benefit on Saturday. I appreciate the growing interest in this project so much, and I love hearing what others have to say about Guthrie and his influence. This project didn’t start as a way for me to run my mouth about my experiences; it was originally a way for as many people as possible to express their thoughts about Woody and his work. Got something you’d like published on the blog? By all means email it (boundforglory100 at gmail.com) and I’ll post it. It started out as thoughts on his book “Bound for Glory,” but I’ll gladly take anything you have to say. One of the many things I’ve learned: Guthrie can’t be surmised from one single piece of his work.

I’ve been really lazy about pointing out our Facebook presence. Of course we have a Facebook page, and I’ve been posting a lot of extra goodies on it. As have the people who’ve followed the page. Perfect example: this weekend a fan from the Netherlands posted that a local band played “Worried Man Blues” for Guthrie’s birthday at a gig on Saturday, then posted a video of the band on our Facebook page:

Want to see exactly how music transcends language, countries, continents, genre? There it is.

Where we we last? A hotel room outside Tulsa, last Thursday. I started writing this at Woodyfest Thursday night.

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Happy Birthday Woody

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By Robin Wheeler

I’ve been thinking about what to write all day. Nothing will be enough. Or it’ll all be way too much. But today, on the 100th birthday of Woody Guthrie’s birth, I can’t not at least articulate why the arrival of an infant a century ago means so much to me.

Lately I feel like I have to tell people that I’m not obsessed with Woody. I’m not. And no one’s accused me as such. This project has taken me into a deeper focus than any writing project I’ve ever done. I’m not completely sure why. Maybe I’ll know by the time I finish. Even though my Guthrie travels and research mean that my friends and family have been neglected (I’m sorry), I haven’t picked up my knitting in over a month, I’ve only read five books so far in 2012 (I’m usually up to 15 by now), my house is a mess, I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal for my family, and it’s been well over a month since I’ve taken on any paying freelance work … okay, in that perspective, maybe I am obsessed. But I think I need to be right now. Not just in a fangirl way, but because learning about Woody has taught me things about myself that I don’t think I would have learned otherwise.

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Centennial Week

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By Robin Wheeler

I had another armload of loose clothes and pots and pans. “July Fourteenth is my birthday! I’m twelve! But this ol’ house is seven hundred an’ twelve! We left Okemah on my birthday, an’ come back on it! Today! I’m gonna plant me a big, big garden out in th’ backyard! Sell cucumbers, an’ green beans, an’ watermelons, an’ shellin’ peas!”

 

“That’s my little hard-headed brother,” Roy said to the man. - “A Fast-Running Train Whistles Down” from “Bound for Glory”

You’re reading this, and I’m on the road to Oklahoma yet again. Because it’s that week. Centennial Week! I’m writing in advance; it’s Sunday night and, well, if it’s Wednesday, I’m on I-44 yet again.

Before I forget, Ryan McMillan of Otis Ryan productions recently interviewed me last month about this project. Take a gander. Even more exciting: the interview was featured on No Depression! I wouldn’t have known this had I not checked my blog stats one night and saw a bunch of visitors coming from the No Depression website. To say I’m honored? Doesn’t even come close. To say I texted everyone I know at midnight on a Sunday night when I discovered it comes closer.

I can’t even begin to wrap my head around July 3-14. On the 3rd I drove to Davenport, Iowa, to see Wilco with Kelly Hogan. Of course, that’ll get its own post. Someday. I know I’m running about two months behind on writing about everything I’m doing. Sometimes writing has to take a backseat to the activities that give me things to write about.

Monday I kicked off Woody Week with my favorite covers of Woody Guthrie songs. Please, by all means argue my choices and tell me which songs are better. Chances are I’ll agree with you. I’m not much fun in an argument when awesome songs are concerned.

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“Empty Snuff Cans” – Chapter Two

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By Kim Gutschmidt

Chapter two of Bound for Glory introduces us to the Guthrie family and his hometown of Okemah, Oklahoma.  It begins with his birth in 1912 and he explains that he was named Woodrow Wilson Guthrie in honor of the soon-to-be President Wilson.

Okemah, in his childhood, was a small farming community of around 1,000 citizens.  Woody claims that everyone knew just about everyone else and the reader sees as the chapter progresses how that fact can be both an advantage and disadvantage.  Much is made of the reputation and impressions people living in Okemah leave on each other.

Woody had two older siblings, Clara and Roy, and an amusing part of the chapter tells of how a toddler Woody attempted to follow his brother and sister to school.  It reminded me of my own envy of seeing my older siblings go off to school each morning and I was left to entertain myself.  Woody composed his first little song while waiting for Clara and Roy to come home, the pickets in the fence his audience.

In the chapter Woody’s father, Charles, was a successful businessman dealing in land purchases and it was a source of pride for the family that they were able to live in a fine home and were able to purchase anything they desired at local merchants just by signing their names to a charge slip.

As in the first chapter, we see the theme of conflict in chapter two.  Charles Guthrie is described by Woody as being a fighter in his land deals.  Woody writes, “Papa was a man of brimstone and hot fire in his mind and in his fists and was known all over that section of the state as the champion of all the fist fighters.”  Woody’s mother, Nora, seems to have a more gentle nature.  Woody describes her as one who taught the children songs and ballads and stories and to “…always try and see the world from the other fellow’s side.” His father, however, “…taught us never and never to allow any earthly human to scare us, bully us, or run it over us.” It seems that those early lessons from his parents taught Woody to use his love of music and storytelling to fight for and demand fair treatment and to encourage others to stand up against wrong.

Another theme continued from the first chapter is one of cooperation between others in order to solve a dilemma that, on the surface, seems near impossible.  Woody tells a rather funny story of him trying to best a playmate and in his eagerness to be higher and therefore superior to his playmate, Woody finds himself literally up a tree and unable to get down again.  It’s the cooperation of other children in town, along with the incentive of a reward, that gets him back on the ground.

Although chapter two has charming and lighthearted stories contained within (the conversation Woody has with his mother after his tree rescue is especially sweet), there’s a dark cloud that seems to be gathering along the horizon for the family.  It seems that sadness will come to the Guthrie family before too long.

 

Watching “Man in the Sand” on the Eve of Billy Bragg’s Woody Guthrie Tributes

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There’s no reasonable excuse for me taking 11 years to watch “Man in the Sand,” the documentary about the making of “Mermaid Avenue.” It’s been on Netflix streaming for years. The 3-CD “Mermaid Avenue” re-release that I bought in April includes a DVD of the film.

I love music documentaries. Why haven’t I watched the one about the music I love the most? Because I’m avoidant. That’s the only excuse I can conjure. Fear that it’ll disappoint, or ruin the myth.

But today, I’m watching it, since I’m leaving for Chicago early in the morning. On Saturday I’ll be seeing Billy Bragg performing Woody Guthrie songs at the Old Town School of Folk. That morning? A songwriting workshop with Bragg.

I need to brush up.

In the first few minutes of the movie, Nora Guthrie narrates that she asked Bragg to do this project to “look for the man behind the myth with me.” And then she utters what has become my favorite words from Woody: “My dad would only say, ‘All you can write is what you see.”

Okay, I’m in.

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