Tag Archives: Oklahoma

Some Rob You With a Six-Gun, Some With a Fountain Pen

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If you think of something new to say, if a cyclone comes, or a flood wrecks the country, or a bus load of school children freeze to death along the road, if a big ship goes down, and an airplane falls in your neighborhood, an outlaw shoots it out with the deputies, or the working people go out and win a war, yes, you’ll find a train load of things you can set down and make up a song about. You’ll hear people singing your words around over the country, and you’ll sing their songs everywhere you travel or everywhere you live; and these are the only kind of songs my head or my memory or my guitar has got room for. – “The Telegram That Never Came” from “Bound for Glory”

 

Robert Santelli has this panel discussion business down-pat: prompt musicians to tell their stories both in words and music. After he made me shrivel in my seat, he moved on to introducing the panel, who all told their stories of how they became familiar with Woody Guthrie’s music. For Noel Stookey, he was a part of the Beat scene at Gaslight Cafe in Greenwich Village, where he learned about Woody from Ramblin’ Jack and Bob Dylan.

Ramblin’ Jack learned about Woody by calling him repeatedly while Guthrie was hospitalized with appendicitis in 1951, eventually showing up at his house and not leaving for a few years.

LaFave grew up in Oklahoma with the Guthrie lore, which he passed on to accordion player Radoslav Lorković, who joined the musicians on stage, giving extra spring to LaFave’s soft-sung take on “Oklahoma Hills.”

At the beginning of the program the audience was told that, because the discussion was being recorded for the library’s archives, we needed to be quiet. But I love to sing along to “Oklahoma Hills”! Ask Aimee. Folk music isn’t meant to be quietly enjoyed while ensconced in your seat. With everyone conscious of every move and noise they make, the song’s spark gets extinguished.

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I Remember a Big Blue Rug, But I Can’t Say Which Rug

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I remember one little girl that come in from the country. She blowed into town one day from some thriving little church community, and she wasn’t what you’d call a good-looking girl, but she wasn’t ugly. Sort of plump, but she wasn’t a bit fat. She’d worked hard at washing milk buckets, doing housework, washing the family’s clothes. She could milk an old Jersey cow. Her face and her hands looked like work. Her room in the rooming house wasn’t big enough to spank a cat in. She moved in, straightened it up, and gave it a sweeping and a dusting that is headline news in an oil boom town. “Boy in Search of Something” from “Bound for Glory”

In processing my Oklahoma trip, one thing keeps coming to me: the importance of memory. Not as in remembering where I parked my car, or remembering that my daughter’s day camp ends at 3, not 3:30 (although that one was pretty important on Tuesday). Memory in bigger terms.

Being remembered by Billy Bragg made me feel more important than I care to admit. But it’s the truth. I don’t know why he remembered me. Could have been for positive or negative reasons.

What matters is I was remembered. Something about me was unique enough to merit a spot in the brain of this person I admire who has absolutely no obligation or reason to remember me.

I also spent a lot of time, especially while cooped up in the driver’s seat by myself, wondering why this project is important to me. Why is it important to – here’s that word again – remember Woody Guthrie a hundred years after his birth?

No, I don’t have an answer. I have a lot of answers, all right and wrong and everywhere in between. They all boil down to one stupidly simple thing:

It’s important to be remembered.

Not just for our egos, either. If you’re remembered, you’ve done something or been someone who has left a mark. Hopefully a positive one. We all leave marks, trails made of bits other people pick up along the way, tuck into their pockets. Lots of those bits get lost in the wash. Except for the important ones we care to protect.

It’s not special to be remembered. It’s special to leave bits that are worthy of the time, space, and energy required to remember.

This is probably some of the reason why I was so pissed off at a reporter from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch the morning after the Billy Bragg concert.

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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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Riding in My Car Car

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By Robin Wheeler

A mile or two of up-grade, and the tank was empty. The driver throwed the clutch in, shifted her into neutral, and kept wheeling. The speed read thirty, twenty, fifteen – and then fell down to five, three, hour, five, seven, ten, fifteen, twenty-five, and we all yelled and hollered as loud and as long as our guts could pump air. Hooopeee! Made ‘er! Over the Goddam hump! It’s all downhill from here to Alamagordo! To hell with the oil companies! For the next half hour we won’t be needing you John D.! We laughed and told all kinds of good jokes going down the piny-covered mountain – some of the best, wildest, prettiest fresh-smelling country you could ever hope to find. And it was a free ride for us. Twenty miles of coasting.

- “Off to California” from “Bound for Glory”

No, I’m not in California again. I’m in Tulsa again.

When I started this project at the beginning of the year, I didn’t anticipate traveling all over the place for it. I didn’t even travel to the bookstore to buy “Bound for Glory” – I totally cheated and bought an electronic version. Which explains why I’m able to include quotes in all of my posts. Keyword searches in electronic books might be the best invention of the century.

I’m babbling. Because it’s 11 pm last night (Wednesday. I think.) I drove eight hours today. Four with my daughter, four without. I left her with my parents in Springfield, Missouri. I think. It was a long time ago.

I think I’ve hit the point where I’ve done enough solo traveling to push myself into a slightly new dimension. Once I’ve been alone and traveling for a few hours, I start noticing weird things. Or weird things start appearing. I don’t know – maybe the things I notice are there all along, but I’m too distracted by my own people to notice. Being a lifelong fan of solitary pursuits, I learned long ago that weird things rarely happen when you’re coupled or grouped. The loner is the target.

And this is why I love traveling by myself,

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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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