Tag Archives: folk music

Would Llewyn Davis Ever “Kick Back”?

About two-thirds of the way through the Coen Brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis, Llewyn returns to his sister Joy’s house, in Queens, to collect his Master Mates and Pilots License. He’s just been to visit his nearly catatonic father at Landfall, a sailor’s retirement home. He plans to give up folk music and ship out.

Llewyn discovers Joy in the kitchen with her son Danny, who’s eating a bowl of cereal.

“How is he?” asks Joy.

He’s great. Good to see what I have to look forward to.

What. Llewyn.

No I’m not kiddin. I’ve got it all figured out now.  Put in some hard years, yeah, but eventually ya get to kick back, get your food brought to ya, don’t even have to get up to shit.

Llewyn! Danny is sitting right here.

Joy may be appalled by Llewyn’s use of profanity in front of her six-year-old son, but she should also be thrown by his anachronistic use of “kick back.” I was, so much so that it took me a while to find my way back into the film, which up to that point had me in its spell.  I half expected Joy to ask her brother what “kick back” means, or is supposed to mean.

It’s 1961 when Llewyn walks into his sister’s kitchen in Queens. Merriam-Webster’s can find no instance of the expression “kick back” before 1972. (Even then, I’ll wager, it wasn’t in wide use.) The expression carries with it the breezy attitudes and hedonistic aspirations of 1970s California, not the earnest commitments of Gaslight folkies.

Is this just nitpicking? I’m of two minds on that question.

On the one hand, in a film of such obvious artistic merit, there ought to be someone combing through the dialogue for anachronisms and other false notes, so that audiences can stay with the picture.

The New Yorker’s Anthony Lane had even bigger problems suspending his disbelief: while he admires the “gleefully precise” ways in which production designer Jess Gonchor recreates 1961 Greenwich Village, he concludes that “something in the movie fails to grip”: Llewyn never looks “very down at the heel”; and the beauty of Bruno Delbonnel’s cinematography “hazes over the shabby desperation that…should plague the struggling artist.” Even Al Cody’s apartment, which he describes as a “dump…looks pretty neat and clean.”

Terri Thal, the ex-wife of Dave Van Ronk, the West Village folk icon whose biography inspired the Coen Brothers’ film, also notes that “the apartments are remarkably clean: No one I knew could keep soot out of apartments.” She wanted to see “roaches” and “fallen plaster.” (The American movie industry never seems willing or able to go there.) On a more serious note, Thal also finds it beyond any measure of credibility that Llewyn can sit down with a “respectable” doctor and casually discuss an illegal abortion: the only woman Dave Van Ronk impregnated, she writes, “rode a bike down several flights of stairs to get rid of his fetus.” Her situation was that desperate.

On the other hand, holding Inside Llewyn Davis to strict standards of historical authenticity will only end up limiting our experience of the film, which is as much a re-telling of Homer’s Odyssey as a hard-luck story from the early 1960s. Part of the film’s magic lies in the way it discovers one of the Western world’s most ancient and most persistent narratives in Llewyn’s lonesome wanderings. This gives the film a magical-realist grace that neo-realist grit could never provide.

llewynsubwayA cat named Ulysses guides Llewyn to an underworld and seems, at one point, to offer a real chance at redemption. But Llewyn doesn’t take it. There’s no direction home, and no chance our hero will ever have the leisure or the luxury of just kicking back.

David Bromberg, who played with Van Ronk, put it simply: you’ve got to suffer if you want to sing the blues.

It’s 1913 Again in Michigan

Crossposted from 1913massacre.com

I’ve run across a few people drawing connections between the Italian Hall disaster and the school shooting yesterday in Newtown, Connecticut (e.g., here). Maybe listening to Woody’s song helps people register Newtown’s loss, or the horror of Newtown helps us understand a little better what it must have been like for the Italian Hall parents and the Calumet community as a whole in 1913. But beyond that I don’t think there’s a very meaningful connection to be made.

It is, however, worth reflecting on what happened in Calumet in December of 1913 and what’s happening in Michigan right now. This week, the Michigan legislature — without allowing much debate or deliberation, and over the protests of thousands — handed Governor Rick Snyder a bill making Michigan a “right to work” state. They added insult to injury a couple of days later when they passed Emergency Manager Legislation that Michigan voters had rejected on November 6th. This one-two punch is supposed to remedy Michigan’s economic woes and get the state back on the road to recovery. It looks more like a last-minute power grab before the next legislature is seated, enabled by another big-money subversion of democratic process.

Indeed, a provocative piece by labor historian Nelson Lichtenstein published last week cast the “right to work” legislation in Michigan as part of a “coup.” Lichtenstein sees here “a serious defeat not only for the unions but for the very idea of social solidarity.”

this conflict is about something far bigger — the meaning of solidarity, a way of feeling and thinking about the world of work that is the basis not just of the union idea, but of a humane cooperative society.

I am not entirely persuaded by Lichtenstein’s argument: I just don’t think the “idea of social solidarity” goes down in “defeat” so easily.

It was under attack in Calumet in 1913. The Christmas party at the Hall was itself an exhibition of solidarity, six months into a brutal strike. And after the Christmas Eve tragedy, the town came together, again, to mourn. They grieved, but they didn’t give up, even after they lost their bid to unionize and the strike was over. As Joe Krainatz says in our film, “They did go on. They did survive. They raised their families. They went to work in the mines again.” And what’s most remarkable is that they rebuilt their community; their feeling of solidarity and shared humanity survived even the closing of the mines and the ruin that came in its wake.

Maybe the lesson of Calumet is that human solidarity runs deep. Money and power have never really won out over it. So far, I haven’t seen any white flags waving in Michigan.

Woody Guthrie and the Cambodian Thanksgiving Massacre

I did a double take when I first read about the victims of the Cambodian stampede being taken to Calmette Hospital in Phnom Penh. For the past several years I’ve been working on a documentary film about another human stampede, which took place in 1913, in a town on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula called Calumet. This weird echo — Calmette, Calumet — wasn’t the only thing that made the grim news out of Cambodia resonate eerily with a tragic event from our own past.

Both stampedes took place during holiday celebrations: in Cambodia, it was during Bon Om Tuk, an annual water festival; in Calumet, it was Christmas Eve. There are all sorts of parallels in the accounts of eyewitnesses and all sorts of ways in which the pictures out of Cambodia and Calumet illuminate one another. The photograph the New York Times ran on its front page yesterday offers a horrifying glimpse into what it must have been like for those who died in the chaos in Calumet. A photograph of the bridge the day after the stampede, with its shoes and holiday favors, reminds me of the pictures I’ve seen of the day after the 1913 stampede. And then there are the pictures of the dead. We have all seen photographs of mass executions, bodies thrown into ditches and body parts strewn around battlefields; but only this kind of panic – people trampling and crushing the very people with whom they were just celebrating, a whole tangle of limbs and bodies, twisting and writhing, people suffocating and having the life squeezed out of them — produces a gruesome stack of corpses. Stacked “like cordwood” is how they put it in Calumet.

And as powerful as these images are, they still don’t tell us much about what really happened. It’s up to us to put together a story. And that is where things start to get a little more complicated.

We know the trouble in Calumet took place during a strike that virtually shut down Michigan’s copper range from the summer of 1913 through the winter of 1914. On December 24th, the striking miners had gathered with their wives and children for a holiday party in a building called the Italian Hall.

The party was on the second floor, in a big room the Ladies Auxiliary had decorated for the occasion. There were about 500 people in the Hall. As the children were lining up to get their presents from Santa, someone – to this day, nobody knows who – yelled fire! Panic took hold of the crowd, and in the ensuing chaos, 74 people were crushed to death on the stairway of the Italian Hall. 59 of the dead were children.

Woody Guthrie, whose song about the trouble in the Italian Hall inspired our film, has it that the mining company hired “thugs” and “scabs” to enter the hall, raise the cry of fire, and then hold the doors of the Italian Hall shut. Most historians and many people in Calumet nowadays take issue with his account of the “massacre” at the Hall, especially with that last detail about the doors; and the provenance of the story reveals its undeniable bias: Woody learned the story from labor organizer Ella Reeve “Mother” Bloor, who was in Calumet during the strike, working with the Western Federation of Miners.

But the power of Woody Guthrie’s song doesn’t lie in its historical accuracy. It’s a heartbreaking story, simply told; and it situates the trouble at the Italian Hall in the strike, in the deep social and political divisions that ran through Calumet in 1913 and still, to a certain extent, have a claim on the telling of Calumet’s story today. Those very divisions – and misguided ideas about how to heal them or erase them – may, in fact, have been behind the town’s razing of the Italian Hall in 1984.

What social and political tensions may have precipitated the disaster in Cambodia, or may now be playing a role in the recounting and representation of that disaster, is not so easily discerned from reports in the Western news media. But they are no doubt there, just beneath the surface. Take the holiday of Bon Om Tuk itself, the occasion of the disaster. It is an agrarian festival, celebrating the reversal of currents from the Tonle Sap to the Mekong at the time of the full moon; but it is also a celebration of padi state power, with demonstrations of naval prowess held in front of the Royal Palace, and official histories dating the festival back to the 12th century and the martial exploits of King Jayavarman VII. On the one hand, farmers are celebrating the harvest and fertility of the land; it is a kind of Thanksgiving. On the other, the state is demonstrating its power and hearkening back to a time when it dominated the Mekong.

The official story of this Bon Om Tuk has not yet been written, but it is already beginning to eclipse other accounts and put an end to dangerous and possibly subversive speculation. For instance, what caused all those people to panic? A Times report simply answered with “unclear.” A day later, the BBC went a little further than that, saying “the cause of the panic was not immediately apparent. Electric shocks from the lights, fights among young people and fears that the structure was about to collapse have all been put forward.” In a CNN report, “the municipal police chief” offers his own “likely” explanation — “a suspension bridge packed with people began to sway, creating panic” – but that same report goes on to quote Steve Finch, a journalist with the Phnom Penh Post:

Finch said police began firing water cannon onto a bridge to an island in the center of a river in an effort to get them to continue moving across the bridge.
“That just caused complete and utter panic,” he told CNN in a telephone interview. He said a number of people lost consciousness and fell into the water; some may have been electrocuted, he said. Finch cited witnesses as saying that the bridge was festooned with electric lights, which may have played a role in the electrocutions.

Finch’s own paper today says that the cause of the panic “remains unclear,” and reports that the government — which now deniesthat anyone was electrocuted — has “established a special ‘investigation subcommittee’ made up of police and officials from the Ministry of Justice to probe the causes of the tragedy.” This is in response to criticisms leveled at the government by the Asian Human Rights Commission. Whether this subcommittee will get any closer to the truth is hard to say. A Congressional inquiry into the Italian Hall disaster in 1914 certainly did not.