Seen a Billion, Jillion Faces That are New York Town to Me

Brooklyn. Saturday, September 22.

“Walk out on ‘em?”

“Goddammit! I jes’ had ta walk out, Will! Couldn’t take that stuff!”

“Goin’ ta keep pullin’ them one-man walkouts till you’ve ruined all of y’r chances here in New York. Better watch y’r step.”

“Will, you know me. You know dam good an’ well I’d play fer my beans an’ cornbread, an’ drink branch water, ‘er anything else ta play an’ sing fer folks that likes it, folks that knows it, an’ lives what I’m a singin’ ’bout. I’m all screwed up in my head. They try ta tell me if I wanta eat an’ stay alive, I gotta sing their dam old phony junk!”

“You’d just naturally explode up in that high society, wouldn’t you, But, money’s what it takes, Woody.”

- “Crossroads” from “Bound for Glory”

Brooklyn College, September 22. Another Woody at 100 tribute concert, formatted much like the first show in Tulsa last March: a pack of artists of all levels of success and ages, playing a couple of Guthrie’s songs, collaborating. Judy Collins opened on acoustic guitar with her classic take on “Pastures of Plenty,” much like we’d heard it that afternoon.

I’d never heard of Mike + Ruthy from Woodstock, New York, before the show. A darling young couple with a newborn at home, they channel Guthrie’s spririt and Carter Family stylings on “Union Maid,” “Vigilante Man,” and “Dust Bowl Blues” before presenting their reworking of his little-known “My New York City.”

It’s Guthrie’s love song to his adopted hometown, the town that has so often been neglected in the glossy version of his biography. We know Woody in Oklahoma. Woody in California. But this was Woody’s life for many years, the place he chose to be. The place he stayed. His train was a subway, not a westbound freighter.

Among the audience and performers, the love for their adopted son bleeds strong. The audience shared Dave Marsch’s sentiment from earlier in the day with a surprising number of tears. Is this New York City? Brooklyn? Toughest city in the country, brought to tears over a death too soon nearly a half-century ago?

If so, I really do want to stay.

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I Shook a Lot of Hands, Poor Boys, Along in the Sun and the Rain

I let my ears bend away from her talking and I let my eyes drift out the window and down sixty-five stories where the town of Old New York was standing up living and breathing and cussing and laughing down yonder acrost that long island. – “Crossroads” from “Bound for Glory”

When we last saw our heroine, she was on a busy Brooklyn street being hollered at by a local woman who seemed like she might steal the glasses off my face.

“So, I saw you talking to Billy,’”she said.”What’s that all about?”

I gave her the fast version – Chicago, Okemah, book hopes – in breakneck speed. I can’t tell anything briefly, so I just cram as much in as fast as I can talk. How do I narrow this down for a stranger on the street? Especially one who might be using Billy as a diversion while her quiet friend pickpockets the glasses off my face.

“I got to meet him at Coney Island on Woody’s birthday,” she said.

That was the day after I saw him in Okemah. He flew out the next morning to attend the Guthrie family’s centennial party by showing “The Man in the Sand” and doing a tribute show with Steve Earle.

“Hey – we’re gonna grab dinner before the show. You should join us. What’s good around here?” my spectacles-theif asked.

“I have no idea. I’ve never been here.”

So she asked some guy on the street. He didn’t have any suggestions. “Let’s just go to Applebee’s.”

I don’t even go to Applebee’s at home. Couldn’t tell you how to find the closest one to my house. But given the option of having a local, interesting dinner by myself or a corporate dinner with someone interesting … fuck being a food snob; I’m going to Applebee’s with Foofie!

Yes, her name’s Foofie.

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If an Atom Bomb Hits New York It’ll be New York No More

“What will be your first selection, Mr. Guthrie?”

“Little tune, I guess, call’d New York City.” And so I forked the announcer out of the way with the wiry end of my guitar handle and made up these words as I sung:

 

This Rainbow Room she’s mighty fine

You can spit from here to th’ Texas line!

In New York City

Lord, New York City

This is New York City, an’ I really gotta know my line! – “Crossroads” from “Bound for Glory”

 

Although the good folks at the Grammy Museum had set me up with a free ticket for Saturday night’s Woody at 100 tribute concert, I was a bit panicked about the first-come, first-served nature of the day’s symposium at Brooklyn. Even more panicked about the transportation issue.

Let me repeat: don’t be fooled by the TV and movies. Cabs aren’t ever-present. Turns out, they’re illegal in all the boroughs except Manhattan. I learned this late Friday night while trying to figure out how to get myself to Brooklyn College the next morning. Not confident in my ability to not flub public transportation, I arranged a car service. Which I hate. It’s a plain car that costs twice as much as a cab. Basically paying to not be seen in a bright yellow vehicle that exclaims, “Hey! I don’t have a car of my own!”

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Ain’t Nobody That Can Sing Like Me

“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

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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Centennial Week

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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“The Scribbling Really Did Stay” – Billy Bragg on Songwriting

By Robin Wheeler

I shook hands with the lumberjack and we went our opposite ways. I never did get a real close look at him in the clouds; and when he walked away, his head and shoulders just sort of swum away in the fog of the morning. I had made another friend I couldn’t see. And I walked along thinking, Well, now, I don’t know if I’ll ever see that man again or not, but I’ll see a lot of men a lot of places and I’ll wonder if that could be him. “The House on the Hill” from “Bound for Glory”

While strangers might not have been so friendly (or interesting) in the hotel bar on Friday night, my decision to do some time in there was a good one in the long run. The emotional prophylactic of that sterile environment prepped me for the heart-bursting level of emotion that was Saturday.

Saturday morning, none of the issues that plagued my travel attempts to Lincoln Square on Friday night reappeared. Pretty sure the universe really wanted me to stay put that night. Arrived at the Old Town School of Folk with plenty of time to stake out a good spot for Billy Bragg’s workshop: “Why Write a Song?: Protest Music in the Digital Age.” Not that there was a bad spot; the audience was kept at around 100 people, hosted in an acoustically-perfect room, going 90 minutes instead of the allotted 60.

All that for $35. And I never would have known about it had I not called the box office, begging for concert tickets two weeks ago. Sometimes it pays to be a pest.

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The Sausage Queen of Chicago Fails

 

Sent from my iPad

On Jun 22, 2012, at 10:21 PM, Robin Wheeler wrote:
I’m supposed to be at a sausage party. Instead I’m 15 stories above the Chicago River,watching the sun set on one of the longest days of the year, listening to a woman, buzzed on Prosecco, rattle to her mate about… I can’t even tell. Or care. She likes the smell of cut limes. Who doesn’t? 
I’m drinking a $9 can of beer, so I have no room to judge.
The sausage  party – it’s not that kind of sausage party.  My friend

Sam invited me to have join her friends on the roof of a sausage shop in LincoIn Square. 

 

How perfectly Chicago.

I tried to go. Left my Merchandise Mart hotel for the Brown Line, keeping an eye out for a quick dinner option in case there wasn’t any sausage at the sausage party. Despite knowing the way to my train stop, I ignored my instincts, setting my trust in my phone’s GPS, which immediately panicked when faced with tall buildings.  
One hour, one chicken roti plate, and one rubbed blister on top of my foot later, and countless wrong turns later, I gave up on sausage and returned to the hotel.  
I can’t even hop the L. I’d make a terrible hobo. 

I really wanted to see Sam, to see if she’s as vivacious and music-driven as I recall. We met at a Wilco fan party in Winnetka four years ago. When
“Monday” came on she erupted in a bounce of pure, unashamed joy. I always did the same to that song, but never in public. Tonight, I wanted to leap and squeal with Sam. Being on the roof of a sausage shop just adds to the magic. 

 

But I’d reached my limit. A few short nights, trip pep, five hours on a bus, and my typical Chicago comedy of errors… I could have gone, but my gut told me to save my reserves for tomorrow. Said gut is doing the “I Told You So” Dance (Which is also done to the tune of “Monday”), so I begrudgingly heed.  

 

You wouldn’t think a place with alcohol and this view would be depressing.

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

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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Bound for California, Chicago, and …?

By Robin Wheeler

In May I spent eight out of sixteen days traveling, mostly chasing Woody Guthrie-related tributes. It’s been almost two weeks since I returned from my last jaunt, and I’m struggling to articulate where I’ve been and what I did. Just as I’m struggling with what comes next. And struggling to decide if this project is worth more than just my own entertainment.

Turns out, it’s not just for my entertainment. Just when I was on the verge of shutting down, we got our first submission about “Bound for Glory”! My dear friend Kim Gutschmidt’s thoughts on the first chapter will be posted on Monday. Kim’s from Germany by way of Mississippi, and one of the smartest people I know. No doubt she’s going to have some interesting things to say.

May began with my first trip west of Nevada for the annual John Steinbeck Festival in Salinas, California. My old friend Mary, who’s been reading my blog since damn near its inception, gave me a wonderful opportunity to write about this year’s Steinbeck Festival honoring Guthrie. She’s been hounding me for years to come to the festival, so obviously I couldn’t say no. And I’m so glad that was the case.

This was my view during the third day of the festival while I had my coffee and a perfect strawberry scone from The Bakery Station and did some writing that’ll appear here someday soon. Behind me, bustling little Old Town Salinas. I didn’t get into a vehicle during my entire visit, what with everything being walking distance.

It’s easy to see why Midwesterners in the Great Depression were convinced this was the Promised Land. I didn’t want to leave.

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