Music, Politics, and Hillary Clinton

by Walter Brasch

     

      Five years before the Civil War, Benjamin R. Hanby, a student at Otterbein College, composed “Darlin’ Nelly Gray,” an upbeat ballad from the perspective of runaway slave Joseph Selby whose wife was taken from him. Proceeds from the song would be used to try to buy Nelly Gray’s freedom, but Selby never saw her after she was forcibly returned to harsh labor in  Georgia.

Hanby, an abolitionist active in the Underground Railroad, would become pastor in the Church of the United Brethren in Christ, and compose about 60 more songs, the most famous being the Christmas jingle,  “Up on the House Top.” But it was “Nelly Gray” that had the most impact.

Chorus

Oh, my poor Nellie Gray, they have taken you away
And I’ll never see my darling anymore
I’m a-sittin’ by the river and I’m weeping all the day
For you’ve gone from the old Kentucky shore.

~~~~~~~~

      Almost a century later, Bob, John, and Billy Jack Wills modified the music slightly, stripped out the lyrics of “Nelly Gray” and replaced it with a similar and updated set of lyrics. “Faded Love” would become a foundation of western swing.

Chorus

I miss you darlin’, more and more every day
As heaven would miss the stars above
With every heartbeat, I still think of you
And remember our faded love.

~~~~~~~~

      It’s been a month since Donald Trump won enough Electoral College votes to become the president-elect. During this past month, he trampled upon foreign affairs by engaging in discussion with the president of Taiwan, engaged in domestic affairs by unilaterally cancelling construction of a new Boeing 747 for the president, made questionable nominations for most of his cabinet, danced around innumerable conflicts of interest, and continued to tweet caustic and generally irrelevant 140 character messages.

      During the next few months, Hillary Clinton will be seen less and less in public, while Trump and his ego will be tweeting, pronouncing, and declaring. Most of us within the year will probably declare that we miss Hillary Clinton and Lady Liberty “more and more every day.”

      [Dr. Brasch was once a rock musician who morphed into a journalist. His current book is Fracking America: Sacrificing Health and the Environment for Short-TermEconomic Benefit.]

To listen to “Nelly Gray,” click here

To listen to “Faded Love,” click here

      

Marching Bands and High School PE

by Walter Brasch

      The Millard Public Schools in Omaha, Neb., will not allow its students to substitute marching band for its requirement that students take three semesters of physical education.

      The proposal would save about $75,000 a year, according to the administration. But, the administration also said if the proposal was implemented it would negate the district’s emphasis on wellness and promoting physical fitness.

      There are two issues here.

      First, as almost everyone who ever was a member of a marching band knows, it’s physically challenging. Every member must not only march, sometimes at a rapid pace, but also read music, do maneuvers and play an instrument at the same time.

      Some parades are a mile; the Rose Parade is 5.5 miles. Students train not just to march, but to march the entire distance.

      For majorettes, it means marching, throwing and catching batons, a feat not many can do if they are not physically fit.

      Waiving PE credit is reasonable.

      But, the second issue is physical fitness.

      Many school districts, dating back many decades, required physical education every semester. Exceptions were made for athletes.

      The reason for PE dates to the ancient Romans—Mens sana in sano corpora—a sound mind in a sound body. Until the past few years, junior high and high school students took PE classes every day for all semesters. For many, it meant frustration at not being able to climb ropes and accepting being hit and possibly injured by participating in dodge ball; it could also mean embarrassment and towel snaps in the locker room if the teachers weren’t paying attention.

      However, for a nation fixated upon iPads, smart phones, and video games, requiring PE makes sense. The classes also helped acquaint students with recreational sports—bowling, volleyball, swimming, and other activities they could enjoy long after high school.

      Requiring only three semesters seems to be a compromise between requiring PE every semester and not requiring it at all. Schools should require students to take PE, possibly every semester, just as they require students to take English, math, and history classes.

      However, requiring physical education classes in college may not make sense for students who are now adults. These classes—some colleges require three or four classes as part of graduation requirements—may sometimes be nothing more than a place to put varsity coaches who are better at blowing a whistle than delivering academic content in a classroom.

      But, give the high school students in marching band a break—they already are physically fit and contributing every bit as much as varsity athletes who get waivers from taking PE.

      [Walter Brasch was in his high school marching band and orchestra and was also a tennis player before beginning a career as a journalist and college professor. His latest book is Fracking America: Sacrificing Health and the Environment for Short-Term Economic Benefit, available through greeleyandstone.com, amazon.com, and local bookstores.]

The Problem with the Bahmas

by Walter Brasch

          His face flushed, his cheeks puffing half-syllables of super-heated air, Sen. Porkbelly Fishbottom was about to swallow an aneurysm.

          I threw water on his face, trying to cool him. It just sputtered and sizzled.

          I tried quietly talking to him, trying to calm him down. He wasn’t listening.

          After five minutes, I was about to call 911 to report a stroke victim, when he said his first two-syllable word.

          “Bahma!”

Memorial Day Special Series, Day 8

I once wanted to be a protest folksinger, going throughout the country to rally the people for social justice, but two things kept me from that. I couldn’t sing and there wasn’t much call for a protest clarinetist.

But there was journalism—which, I sometimes point out, became my profession because I wasn’t good at anything else. Nevertheless, many of the people at the forefront of social change have been journalists; the revolution of the 1960s, with journalists of an alternative media at the forefront, was built upon the base of a revolution two centuries earlier. Sam Adams, Ben Franklin, Tom Paine, and dozens of newspaper editors and writers helped unify a minority of colonists to rise up and create a new nation, founded in liberty and justice. Journalism seemed like a good place to learn more about people, government, and different cultures, while also fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. After all, wasn’t Superman a journalist?

Memorial Day Special Series, Day 7

It was a Saturday afternoon in November. My wife, Rosemary, and I were with a four or five dozen other people in front of a county courthouse to protest what all of us knew would be the upcoming war in Iraq.

It wasn’t the first time we were protesting; it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But this time, our bodies were a lot colder than comfortable; our tempers were a bit shorter than civil.

Many persons driving past honked their car horns in support. But, in this rural county in Pennsylvania there were also dozens who drove past and gave us the finger or shouted obscenities.

Memorial Day Special Series, Day 6

“They had this amateur stage [at Woodstock] away from everything else, and anyone could perform. Bands and poets and jugglers and people who just wanted to have their say. Well, Joan Baez—can you believe it, Joan Baez!—well, she sees that there are people kinda just hangin’, so she does an hour! A whole hour on an amateur stage! Know what else? She didn’t just go up on that stage. She waited her turn. Must have waited an hour, two hours. No one knew she was waiting, I guess, but she waited her turn, just like everyone else. Was almost late for the main stage.”

—Joyce Katzman, Before the First Snow, by Walter M. Brasch

Today, the sixth day of Memorial Day Week, we honor two more of the important voices of the Movement—Joan Baez and Phil Ochs.

Memorial Day Special Series, Day 5

A couple of months ago, a San Francisco newspaper asked my opinion about the differences between the protests during the 1960s and the protests of Occupy Wall Street.

I discussed many difference and similarities, but noted that there are two major differences. First, the protestors of the ’60s seemed to be more joyous, more sprite-like. Abbie Hoffman, Paul Krasner, and others knew the power of humor and satire, and how to use it to make the media and the people actually believe that the Yuppies might lace the Chicago fountains with LSD or, through mental willpower of thousands, levitate the Pentagon.

The other major difference was protest music, something that is missing from much of the current protests. At one time, music was an integral part of the Movement. At one time, writers and journalists, blocked by the walls of the mainstream media, could turn to an alternative press, one that sometimes was published on ditto masters, and to music as a powerful medium to help unite the people.

Memorial Day Special Series, Day 4

On this, the fourth day of Memorial Day Week, we pay tribute to Bob Dylan, John Lennon, and Peter, Paul and Mary—as well as to every person killed in war and to their families.

On April 24, 1971, more than 500,000 people marched onto the Capitol Mall to unite in opposition to the Viet Nam war. There had been several Peace Marches in the years prior to 1971; there would be dozens more in the next four decades, as the U.S. continued to enter into wars. But this one would be the most remembered.

Memorial Day Special Series, Day 3

“Best of them all, the very best, that was Country Joe [McDonald]. Now, that’s one heavy dude, and that ain’t no shit. Y’know, man, like on Friday, they was havin’ trouble getting their shit together. Afraid there might be dead air on stage. But they find out Country Joe was there, and they asked him to do a set. Now, he ain’t on their program, and he was just hangin’. But, y’know Country, he just played just about every gig anyone asked him for. Lot of them were for nothing, just to help the Cause. Even wrote some good shit, too. Powerful political shit. That ‘Fixin’ to Die Rag’ gave America a conscience. At least some of America. Last couple of years, hardly anyone seen him. He’d been lying low, and he didn’t want to do this gig. Well, they told him they needed him. I mean they really needed him. So he gets out there and follows Richie Havens. Can you believe that?! Anyhow, there’s a whole mess of us out there. More’n Country’s seen in his whole freakin’ life! And he’s scared shitless. And we don’t know ’bout Country, him bein’ out of circulation so long. But he gave us the Fish Cheer, and everyone went wild, just a-yellin’ and a-hollerin’. And Country, he was just a whoppin’ up there, doin’ his thing. I mean, like he couldn’t do no wrong. He made it happen, man. But, wait, that’s not all of it! When the big rains came [Sunday], and there were electrical lines all over the place, and all of us were scared shitless ’cause we thought we might fry ’cause we didn’t think they’d ever turn off all that electricity fast enough, Country [and the Fish] gets up on the stage and they sang to us. Got our minds off things. None of us could hear him. But he was singing for all he was worth! Calmed us down. Sucker sure do know his shit!”

 — Aggie Silver in Before the First Snow, by Walter M. Brasch

Spearing a Tax Deduction

Britney Spears' bedroom in the Kentwood Museum

Fun Game for Readers: See if you can find the hidden

song titles in this column. 

                                        

by Walter Brasch

            On a bright Monday morning, a day before tax returns were due, I bumped into my ersatz friend Marshbaum who was placing a change container at the Gas-High Mini-mart on Low Octane and Greed avenues.

            “March of Dimes?” I asked.

            “Dimes. Quarters. Ten-dollar bills. Whatever.”

            Since he misunderstood my question, I tried it another way.

            “What charity? Humane Society? MS? Veterans Relief?”

            “Even better. A museum.”

            “Science museum for kids? Art museum?”

            “Not even close.”

            “I’m not playing 20 Questions. Put the danged label on your change can.” From a tattered vinyl briefcase, Marshbaum took out a peelable label proclaiming donations for the “Marshbaum Museum of American Culture.”

            “You can drop your spare change into it now.”

            “What’s the scam?” I asked suspiciously.

            “No scam. Legitimate museum. Just like the Historic Voodoo Museum, the International Toaster Museum, and Britney Spears’ one.”

            “Britney Spears has a museum?”

            “Not really a museum, but four rooms in a museum in her hometown of Kentwood, Louisiana. Been there more than a decade. Even has a scale model replica of the stage of her HBO concert and a full-scale replica of her pre-teen bedroom.”

            “Just because she can dance, flash skin, and lip sync at the same time doesn’t warrant a museum. And in your case, even if you do build a monument, it will remain as empty as your own life.”

            “I shall build it, and they will come.”

            “They will come and be taken.”

            “I got credibility,” Marshbaum said, wounded by my skepticism. “I took first place in Air Guitar at the county fair. If I had a gaggle of marketing geniuses and choreographers, I’d be bumping and grinding before every teen, making millions, and creating designer labels.”

            “I doubt you’d have even enough to fill a small case.”

            “I think I’ll have three sections. Just like the Queen of Bubblegum Pop. Teething years. Mouseketeer years. Pop star--”

            “Marshbaum! You weren’t ever a Mouseketeer.”

            “I watched them. I’m donating my TV set. It’s the same age as Britney.”

            “And how do you justify your pop star section?” I asked sarcastically.

            “I eat Pop Tarts all the time. I should have a used box somewhere.”

            “Mold has no value outside a lab.”

            “IRS doesn’t think so.”

            “The IRS may be moldy, but I doubt--” I didn’t even have to finish the sentence. Revelation and french horns played all at once. “It is a scam, isn’t it! Most people have yard sales. You’re donating junk to a bogus museum and taking tax deductions.”

            “And you think Miss Oops-I-Did-It-Again isn’t? She’s a one percenter who have found loopholes in loopholes to tax cheat the people. Probably pays less tax than the person who stuffs her into her costumes. Their whole philosophy is Gimme More. And why should we hold it against her till the end of time? She’s probably getting tax deductions for her traffic tickets and marriage certificates. Probably a half-fortune for her clothes. She has more costumes than an elementary school at Halloween. I mean where else would she put all that drek and get paid for it?”

            “Are you really serious about this scam?”

            “From the bottom of my broken heart.”

            [Walter Brasch is an award-winning syndicated columnist. His latest book is the critically-acclaimed social issues comedy, Before the First Snow, available through http://www.greeleyandstone.com or amazon.]