THE CULTURAL WORKER by John Pietaro

Performance/CD review - Cal Massey Tribute

2012-02-26T21:04:00.001-08:00

The ‘60s Jazz Revolutionary Who’s Time Has FinallyCome

Performanceand CD review by John Pietaro

THE MUSIC OF CAL MASSEY: A TRIBUTE

Performance: February 22, 2012, the Red Rooster, New YorkCity

Compact Disc: MutableMusic, NY. Produced by Fred Ho and Quincy Saul, Scientific Soul Sessions –www.scientificsoulsessions.com

Harlem’s historic Red Rooster was a house afire as the musicof radical jazz composer Cal Massey commanded the space within. In honor ofBlack History Month and coinciding with the birth anniversary of Malcolm X, theoutspokenly dissident musician Fred Ho feted the music that leapt off of themanuscript through the fifteen hand-picked musicians under his direction. The wallsappeared to almost quake under the weight of this band, driven not only by theexpansive vision of Massey’s composition but the deft improvisatory ear of theleader who included free sections within the already post-modernist score. Hodemonstrated a form of conduction that appeared much like upper-torso moderndance as he waved in cues and embraced the sheets of sound about him.

Though the music being presented was written more than fortyyears ago, it remained urgent, immediate. Cal Massey was a trumpeter andcomposer who worked with a who’s who of jazz greats including Coltrane, Parker,Monk, Billie Holiday, Carmen McCrae, McCoy Tyner, Jay McShann, and most notablyArchie Shepp who recorded the greatest number of Massey’s pieces. But thecomposer’s name will not be known to most jazz connoisseurs as he, like othermilitant African American artists before him, has largely been erased frommusic history. He was a leader of theBlack Arts Movement and a close associate of the Black Panther Party who hadcome of age in the heat of the 1960s’ political conscience. Largely blacklistedby the jazz industry and major labels, he embarked on a career based in theconcept of Black self-determination, producing concerts independently.

As is the case with much of Massey’s work, it was written inconjunction with Romulus Franceschini, a socialist musician who specialized inchamber jazz composition. Both worked with artists such as Shepp and Coltrane andtheir bond was a testament of the progressive scope, Black Nationalist andItalian-American radical standing together. Franceschini is anothermarginalized figure in jazz history, most noted for conducting Coltrane’sAfrica Brass recording. He worked closely with Massey, usually in the role oforchestrator but their collaboration also involved co-writing credits and thetwo led the RoMas Orchestra together. Unfortunately they would have littlechance to continue this relevant work as Massey died in 1972, a mere 44 yearsof age. Franceschini updated the arrangements in 1986 in preparation for anearlier series of concerts Ho produced in honor of Massey.

THE CONCERT AT THE RED ROOSTER was not only about the welcomeresurfacing of Massey, but of his work TheBlack Liberation Movement Suite, commissioned by Eldridge Cleaver in 1969.Massey wrote this 9-movement work for expanded jazz ensemble of reeds, brass, stringsand rhythm as a fundraiser for the Black Panther Party. It has rarely beenheard beyond the tumult of those times and only segments of it have beenrecorded—by Shepp--before this project undertaken by Ho and two youngermusicians, the baritone saxophonist Ben Barson and clarinetist Quincy Saul (whodoes not perform in this piece as the arrangements were kept true to theoriginal, but acted as a producer). As explosive as it is introspective, The Black Liberation Movement Suitestands out as a sonic tour through the African American revolutionary experience,brandishing movements with radical fervor: Prayer, (Hey Goddamnit) Things Gotta Change, Man at Peace in Algiers(for Eldridge Cleaver), the Black Saint (for Malcolm X), the Peaceful Warrior(for Martin Luther King Jr), the Damned Don’t Cry (for Huey P Newton),Reminiscing About Dear John (for John Coltrane), Babylon, and Back to Africa(for Marcus Garvey). Appropriately so, the Suite includes various soundsevoking jazz history with points of defined free jazz, be-bop, swing, NewOrleans and ‘third-stream’ jazz which incorporated contemporary classicaltraditions.

As Fred Ho stood before them, the musicians played with anintensity that spoke of the piece’s inherent activism. The ensemble passagesand solos, swinging, cruising the airspace, exploded with passion and rage. Themusic not only reflected 1969 but the radicalism of now, from anti-war andlabor struggles to Wisconsin to the Occupy Movement and the ongoing fightagainst racism. Among the primary soloists of the evening were tenorsaxophonists Bhinda Keidal, who brought an almost Dexter Gordon-like quality tothe proceedings with her smoky, searching instrumental voice, and SalimWashington (who doubled on flute), noted free jazz musician and scholar whooffered a point of chaotic intensity that slowly rounded out into a hauntingmelody and then disappeared into a whisper. However, the first solo of theevening was deftly executed by alto saxophonist Darius Jones whose fingersraced over his instrument’s keys, soaring over the orchestral mass each time hestood to play. Ben Barson’s baritone saxophone offered a fresh voice, pulledfrom the lower depths of his horn and then upward. The brass section included NabateIsles, Satish Robertson and James Zollar’s trumpets as well as Aaron Johnson’strombone and David Talyor’s bass trombone. Each offered masterful solos,ranging from the growl trumpet sound with plunger mute to Gillespie-ish flightsto gutbucket bursts. Charles Burnham, violin, and Adam Fisher, cello, comprisedthe string section. Both were visionary soloists whose ensemble parts emphasizedthe textural possibilities, blending into and then leaping out from the winds.

The rhythm section of Arthur Hirahara, electric piano,Julian Litwack, electric guitar, Wayne Batchelor, upright bass and RoyalHartigan, drums and percussion functioned as much more than support. One momentlaying it down, the next kicking it up over the heads of the house, they wereequally comfortable in every mode. Special attention must be paid to Hartigan,a learned percussion master who embarks in world music explorations each timehe sits down at his drumkit, which includes temple and wood blocks and other‘traps’ including a talking drum and a gong. Of note to percussionists(including this writer), Hartigan can often be heard playing his gong like aride cymbal for a ‘kerr-ang’ that no cymbal can supply. Ever the traditionalistin a setting comprised of musical emulsion, Hartigan said that he often feels asense of guilt playing ethnic instruments apart from their tradition. But thisevening was about the amalgamation of sounds that spoke to the people at large.

The compact disc, ‘The Music of Cal Massey: a Tribute’, wasofficially released at the Harlem concert. This disc is the first complete recordingof Massey’s monumental Suite and thereby stands as historic unto itself. ButHo, who produced this recording with Quincy Saul, took the tribute furtherstill. He also arranged a series of shorter Massey compositions for the CD, Goodbye Sweet Pops (for Louis Armstrong),The Cry of My People and Quiet Dawn, which was originallycomposed for the Duke Ellington Orchestra. These works together with the Suiteserve now as the ultimate Massey compilation. For the recording, Ho brought inconductor Whitney George and much of the band heard at the Red Rooster, but forthe record, the disc line-up is: along with Bobby Zankel (alto saxophone), BindaKeidel and Salim Washington (tenor saxophones), Ben Barson (baritone saxophone);Jackie Coleman, Nabate Isles and James Chandler (trumpets), Frank Kuumba Lacy andAaron Johnson (trombones), Art Hirahara (piano), Wes Brown (bass), Royal Hartigan(drums and African percussion), Melanie Dyer (viola), Dorothy Lawson (cello). Arevolutionary artist like Massey, lost to time and by the hand of thereactionaries, is in need of rediscovery by a new generation hungry for theculture of dissent. Add this CD to your collection and file it along with your ‘Autobiographyof Malcolm X’, collection of Langston Hughes poetry, your favorite old WoodyGuthrie records and DVD of ‘Salt of the Earth’.

Here’s a recording that will stand the test of our time andplace…..and as you read of the latest hateful, divisive rhetoric of a RickSantorum, a Newt Gingrich or an Eric Cantor, it will remind you of the need forreal social change in our current society. Speak to us Cal Massey, speak.

-John Pietaro is a musician andwriter from Brooklyn NY. His website is www.DissidentArts.com. This piece wasoriginally published on The Cultural Worker blog

POETRY IN RETROSPECT: 2010 - 2001

2012-02-14T21:05:00.000-08:00

This is a collection of Pietaro-penned material in retrospect. The first poem is from 2010, very soon after my wife and musical partner Laurie Towers and I arrived back in Brooklyn after living upstate in Beacon NY for five years. The collection extends back through the period immediately following September 11, 2001. Along the way find many politically-charged works, from Valerie Plame to Hurrican Katrina.............

Reaching Outward

Ssshhhhhh…..softly.

Above you stands the mountain, casting massive shadow

High above the city limits.

Like a giant swath of darkness

It cuts deep into the light of day.

How majestic is its reach, how consuming

Its breadth.

Ssshhhhhh….softly.

Drink it in, drink it in, the sound of outdoors, the scent

Of nature.

The din beneath calls out loudly, can you hear its clamor?

Can you feel its draw?

Reaching upward, back toward the cloud-splitter,

The height is dizzying.

And then the imagery escapes.

Ssshhhhh…Ssshhhh….

You stand apart from the vision, now;

Beyond the dream, the sky is small again.

The sky is small again and you,

You are microscopic in its wake.

Straining your neck to look above the rooftops,

through the pulsating walls about you,

The thick clouds are but fading into the grey

And the swarm of motion has eclipsed all.

---January 29, 2010, 12:17 AM,Brooklyn NY; written for Laurie’s country heart--reflecting back on the view oflife from NY’s Hudson Valley.

Ballad of the BigWind

The big wind blew away New Orleans;

Took lives and homes and reality.

The Gulf never knew blues so blue,

It sure looks like murder to me.

The big wind could not be predicted;

No gauges, no charts could ever see;

No armies could fight, no doctors could save,

No statesmen could care, they let it be.

The big storm engulfed all the houses

And poured over poor people’s dreams.

The big wind drowned out all the voices,

Killed the animals and innocence, it seems.

It broke men and took down the women

Who’d known more of struggle than most.

For a while it silenced the music;

It roared as it took down the coast.

A warning to all weather stations:

The gauges and charts speak to us!

The big wind that blows through this nation—

The chill factor’s goddamned corrupt.

The big wind blew away New Orleans;

Took lives and homes and reality.

But nothing was done by the fortunate son—

The storm in this Right-wing regime.

October 28, 2006,Beacon NY. Written in a rush of inspiration after listening to reports on thenatural disaster of Hurricane Katrina’s destruction of New Orleans---and thevery human failings of the government’s national rescue efforts. As iswell-recalled, George Bush appointed a completely inappropriate person to headup emergency response duties and an endless list of people lost their homes andtheir lives, let alone lifestyles in the wake of this horrendous storm. Feelfree to read what you will into the ‘big wind’ symbolism; no problem. The melodyand also the lyrical style were very influenced by the work of Woody Guthrie,evidenced by the recording of this piece on the disc ‘Revenge of the AtomSpies’.

Un-American Gothic

This unrequited logic outcast from covert project

In times of hidden frolic-- Un-American Gothic.

The We who stand alone here sweat the sweat and pay theloan, dear.

There’s no time for upward striving, we’re too busy justsurviving

In times of scorn and maiming, alabaster self-proclaiming;

Batten hatches, pull the bridge in; light the fuse, boil thefission.

Oh, they play Un-American Gothic with a smile and twist offate.

And they bank un-American profit; with sleight of hand,manipulate.

Oh, they play Un-American Gothic; today’s smile istomorrow’s hate.

While they bank un-American profit it’s the deal theystipulate.

-June 1, 2006, Beacon NY.Commentary on the machinations of George W Bush’s cowboy capitalism as well ashis continued appropriation of our post-9/11 fear.

Contrasts

Lost in time, faceless twins;

Mirrored lives and nameless sin.

Do they know? Do they know?

Born of one, an age apart:

Rebel son, sister heart.

Do they know? Do they know?

Contrasts, Contrasts.

Another side, another look--

Conquer, divide, re-write the book.

From Red Scare one to Cold War times

Dissent is shunned, now thought’s a crime.

Here’s to life and twists of fate

From corporate reach to fascist weight;

Do we know? Do we know?

It’s been the same through all of time:

Manipulate, create the crime.

Contrasts…contrasts?

Lost in time, the pawns of war;

Silence them and close the door.

So we go, so we go.

Nothing’s changed but who and when;

Plant the fear and start again.

So we go, so we go.

-March 3, 2006, Beacon NY.Originally a song which was written as part of a music therapy group project in1993, albeit with a non-political content and one reflective of one’s innerstruggle, the lyric was adapted and the song ultimately recorded by thecomposer’s ensemble, the Flames of Discontent on their 2007 release, ‘Revengeof the Atom Spies’

Who’s To Blame?

Who’s to blame? Who’s to blame? Who’s to blame for ValeriePlame?

Joe Wilson’s wife; the White House claimed

There was no leak! Howcould there be? We do not speak, oh, no--not we.

Now, Valerie Plame of the CIA

Was brought to light, by force, to pay

When Joe was loud and rightly so, said What is this war? and Why didwe go?

So who’s to blame? Who’s to blame? Who’s to blame forValerie Plame?

There’s no DeepThroat, the sources claimed; Therewas no word! It was not spread!

So what was over heard was from that figure-head??

Who’s to blame? Who? Who’s to blame?

Was it Cheney from the depths of his secret lair? Or Condiefrom the view of her awful stare?

Was it ‘Rummie’ and his toys in the big War Room or Kennyand the boys?…oh, they’re George’s corporate doom

Who’s to blame? Who’s to blame? Who’s to blame for exposingValerie Plame?

We’ll find out!,the Dems ascertain, Perhaps we’ll standtall and speak from our base.

Ohhhh, that’s one way they can finally save face.

It might be the Christian Right or Fox News that composedthis secret government blues.

Was it in a sound-bite or misinformation?? Let’s get therubber hose and start the interrogation.

Was it Mouthpiece Fleischer or perhaps McLellan? No this plotbelongs to the real felons.

Then it had to be Rove, little Dubya’s tutor or

Could it have been a grown man who calls himself…’Scooter’??

Ohhhhhhhh, what a brood, it’s so hard to choose; thisinsidious bunch has control of the news!

When did it get away---how did we fall?

They’re taking the courts and winner takes all.

Who? Who? Who? Who? Who? Who’s to blame?

Who’s to blame for breaking our trust--and outing AgentPlame?

Joe Wilson’s wife. The White House claimed: There was no leak. So how could it be?

And yet---WE do not speak. Oh, no…not WE.

-November 4, 2005,Beacon NY. This was one of those pieces that comes out like a stream ofconsciousness and is almost born complete. The news reports of the leak aboutveteran CIA agent Valerie Plame—payback by the White House for her husband JoeWilson’s vocal protests against the Iraq invasion—was amazing fodder for atopical piece. It was the afternoon of one of our Flames of Discontentperformances and there was no time to think about composing a melody and harmony---weplayed it then and always as modern day Beat poetry, I dramatically recitedover a searing bass line by Laurie. It was recorded this way too.

Your Assets on theLine

Fight’s in the air, the anger’s shared

As we march into the streets.

We’re speaking out in rebel shouts

No, we’ll not accept defeat.

Your call to war has made us sure

Democracy’s over due

You act alone, but from your throne

The whole world’s watching you.

-May 4, 2003, Brooklyn NY. Composedin a fit of anger about the Bush Administration. The style being overtly1920s-30s Leftist, purely in the mold of the agitational fight song but with adirectly confrontational and accusatory approach indicates some leftoverbravura from May Day; several days prior, we were performing radical laborsongs in Union Square Park!

September’s Divide

Each night I watch the evening news

It shapes my mind, feeds on my blues;

Reports to me with charm and grace

The need for pride and tears and faith.

The headline screams, the crawl reports

While talking heads speak double talk

And graphic flags’ red, white and blue

Reach from the side, obscure my view.

What guides me through times like these?

The City quakes, west to east.

No “us”, no “them” and we’ll survive

And so we close September’s divide.

Broadway still shines through darkened stage

And black smoke refines the fits of rage

While the protestors call out for peace

And march proudly down Fourteenth Street.

New York labor speaks union of race,

We can’t seek the blame on the foreigner’s face.

“America first!” the angry man cries,

But war only calls for workers to die.

The war to end wars led to the next

And the one again st Reds they called the best.

The fight for our rights continues still

So how do we march while refusing to kill.

Avenging the deaths of friends once here,

Amending the reign of corporate sneer.

Rebuild the skies! Our hearts decide

But what’s left to fix when the soul divides?

What guides me through times like these?

The City quakes, west to east.

No “us”, no “them” and we’ll survive

And so we close September’s divide.

What guides me through times like these?

The whole world quakes, west to east.

No “us”, no “them” and we’ll survive

And so we close September’s divide.

-September 10, 2001, BrooklynNY. This piece was composed in the weeks immediately following the 9/11attacks; prior to writing this, I was unable to release any emotion about thatday through my music. When the attack on the World Trade Center occurred, I wasworking on the Psychiatry unit of a hospital located in the heart of Brooklyn’sPark Slope neighborhood, not far from lower Manhattan. From the windows of theunit, I stood and watched the towers burn and implode and then had to find the rightwords to discuss it all with a ward full of anxious, understandably desperatepeople.

POETRY IN RETROSPECT: 2001 - 1990

2012-02-14T20:58:00.000-08:00

A collection of Pietaro-penned poetry, 2001 back through 1990, bridging my output based on the HIV/AIDS case work, to my labor and other social justice-based pieces from later in the period. Beneath each poem is a brief descriptive paragraph cataloging the place and time it was composed in...........

The Rage

I guess I’ll never know just where I stand

On how it comes to be that man still eats man.

Soft beneath the skin, or so we are told.

Alas, already dead from pains of old,

Alas already dead from innocence sold.

The numbing of his pride just shuts him down,

Freezing deep inside without a sound.

It’s such a shame, he’s come of age,

Releasing all the while hot fits of rage,

Releasing all the while hot fits of rage.

A wise man once claimed it let’s mankind survive:

“Bestial acts keep mankind alive”

I thought I’d never see the likes of this

Broken lives in parts and parts and bits,

Divided he from all the rest,

Oh how we’re wont to profess,

Oh how we’re bound to regress.

The numbing of the times should surely cast some doubt

But it’s only casting out

All humanity, there’s just so much disparity

And insanity, unbridled opportunity.

A wise man once claimed it let’s mankind survive:

“Bestial acts keep mankind alive”, yes

“Bestial acts keep mankind alive”

-May 23, 2001, Brooklyn NY. Theinitial inspiration for this piece came when I was working on an in-patientpsychiatric unit at a hospital and one of our staff members had a bizarreviolent episode, but most of the body of the work was as a result of a seriesof violent events which occurred in the greater society. The quote in therefrain came from a Brecht poem of 1928.

Revenge of the AtomSpies

Revenge of the Atom Spies

The end of Cold War lies.

Defend and organize

Pretend atom spies

Much confusion has surrounded

The nature of atomic secrets

Not withstanding the efforts of

The scientists to clarify the

Public thinking.

For there exists the sorry notion

That the formula was just our nation’s

No other land could

Discover it.

Revenge of the Atom Spies

The end of Cold War lies.

Defend and organize

Demonized atom spies

Is American pride just so fragile that

Government lies must be so agile?

They deny what they don’t know;

Close our minds and

Just Say No!

Manipulate and castigate,

Impregnate and then castrate;

The people learn to tolerate

What you feed them.

Revenge of the Atom Spies

The end of Cold War lies.

Defend and organize

Pretend atom spies.

-April 4, 2001, Brooklyn NY. Partsof this piece came to light in January of 2000, during George W Bush’s‘coronation’, but the rest practically wrote itself after I read historicaldocuments from the 1950s and with respect to the Rosenberg case in particular.This song has been performed often as an uptempo post-punk piece whichcelebrates ‘60s pop. It also serves as the tile song from the ‘Revenge of theAtom Spies’ album.

Injustice

She’s mean, so cold, so out of touch.

Stands high above the rest of us.

This sentry guards the privileged few and the rest of usstand alone it’s true.

With shielded eyes and stone-grey face

She hides her hate and her grimace.

HUAC’s right-wing faith fuels her fire to litigate.

With a King Midas touch

She’ll divide and she’ll crush

And she’ll bequeath this promised land to supply and demand.

She’s blind and deaf to those apart;

Maligned in depth by those of heart.

Imbalanced scales tip the weight, the struggle pales ournation-state.

She’s mean, so cold, so out of touch,

Stands high above all of us.

This sentry guards the privileged few and the rest of usstand alone, it’s true.

---February, 2001, Brooklyn NY.Early into the George W. Bush years. Nuff said. But the prototype for this wasactually a protest against the draconian policies of then NYC mayor RudolphGiuliani, whom I dedicated a few topical numbers to, including a reworking of‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’ called ‘Bring Back Humanity’ (its key linecompared Giuliani to Mussolini as back got the trains running on time).‘Injustice’, was finally recorded on the 2007 album ‘Revenge of the Atom Spies’.

America, OnceBeautiful (parody of “America the Beautiful”)

O beautiful, the endless hype of our democracy.

We close our eyes to bald-face lies, perverted liberty.

America, America, Bush cast his fate on thee.

Divide and crush then shyly blush with cold efficiency.

So dutiful, with mindless speech, this son of destiny.

He’ll scratch his head, still bottle-fed with Reagan’slegacy.

America, America, Bush cast his fate on thee.

He’ll keep the wealth for corporate health, no thought ofyou or me.

Old money’s sworn for bluebloods born with silver spoon inmouth

The favorite child of fascist-mild, a righteous MickeyMouse.

America. America, Bush cast his fate on thee.

The Court descends, there’s no defense of civil liberty.

-January 12, 2001, Brooklyn NY.This parody was in honor of George W Bush’s inauguration, the event thatprogressives all over the world had dreaded. After weeks of struggle about astolen election, with hanging chads and manipulated Rightist anger in Floridataking center stage, the Supreme Court placed Bush into office and laid-downthe groundwork for his reign. This piece ended up on various internet sites atthe time, including in activist threads which hailed from points as far off asTasmania. Everyone felt our pain, this much is true.

The Tin-Man is You

You are part of the machine;

You are bound by steely seems;

You’ve become cold to the touch;

You buckle and bend because you weight too much:

The Tin-Man you, you. The Tin-Man you.

You have eyes of iron gaze,

You are wound in corporate maze;

You are tarnished by capital sin.

Where do you end and the system begin?

The Tin-Man you, you. The Tin-Man you.

Walking gold-paved streets with yellow-brick feet,

It’s easy to drown.

Your lungs gasp as your breaths rasp;

Your head’s underground.

(Programmed man, programmed man, programmed man, programmed)

You now speak only machine;

In passion you release metallic gleam.

You stand high, no one can touch,

But, outmoded, you’re soon to be hushed.

You invest on gold-rush days;

You dress your children in per capita grays.

You will rust and fester within.

The start of the end---the system moves in!

The Tin-Man you, you. The Tin-Man you.

-August 7, 2000, Brooklyn NY.This song was written in response to the symbolism contained in L Frank Baum’s‘Wonderful Wizard of Oz’, which includes the character of the Tin-Man, meant torepresent the factory worker in the industrial revolution. The early machineswere so dangerous--in light of the caustic, indeed savage, greed of the factoryowners--that endless injuries occurred in that period, often creating a fallenworkforce with false appendages and a variety of metallic rigs in plain sight.Baum saw the workman as becoming a part of the machine, literally, but takingthe symbolism much further, the inhuman level of gluttony that comes fromtoday’s moguls and corporations, deemed “persons” by law, are the truer tin-menin our midst.

Times That TryWorkingmen’s Souls

Though they keepreporting that things are looking bright…

The experts all agree:everything’s alright…

There’s nothing leftto protest now, nothing left to fight…

The WTO just leaves me cold and

The IMF keeps me out of the fold,

The World Bank says it’s got it under control but

These are times that try workingmen’s souls.

The Domino workers shovel sugar all day

Breaking their hearts for no overtime pay.

Come in so early, go home so late;

Now they hold the line, South Second Street gate.

Those Domino workers toiled many a year;

Strong, stony-faced, no worse for the wear.

ILA’s tradition is pride

At the sugar plant gate unity’s their guide.

Their corporate overseers make an art out of greed:

Take from the worker all that they need.

Busting the union is a goal of the Right,

But the folks of this union give one hell of a fight.

Some spirits are broken but maintain their stand,

Though one brother’s taken by his own hand.

They’re closing the ranks together as one

And staring down scabs who hide from the sun

So the people have learned to fight back anew,

Taken to the streets, the movement just grew.

Status won’t divide us nor the color of skin;

We’re a Red, green, multi-headed coalition.

We fought in Seattle, fought back in DC

And marched together through New York streets.

It’s a US tradition for the masses, you see;

The Class Struggle started solidarity!

The WTO just leaves me cold and

The IMF keeps me out of the fold,

The World Bank says it’s got it under control but

Now’s the time to break the Right-wing hold.

–April 21, 2000;Brooklyn NY. Originally published in ‘the People’s Weekly World’ at that time.This song was written in honor of the striking workers, membersof the International Longshoreman’s Association, of the Domino Sugar plant inBrooklyn. It was performed at their picket line in April 2000 and at theirmid-town Manhattan rally two months later. The lyric was later changed to berepresentative of a wider swath of struggling workers and in that version itwas sang at numerous events and ultimately recorded on the ‘Revenge of the AtomSpies’ CD (2007) by the composer’s ensemble, the Flames of Discontent.

Song of theTranslucent Liberal

What has become of free speech?

What has become of voice?

Where in hell is the Bill of Rights

In light of lack of choice?

Why do you think with dollars?

Why do you shun dissent?

“Liberal” means nothing now

You speak Establishment.

The greatest fall is from within,

Paranoia is the heart of sin.

Please notify the next of kin:

The spirit’s fading fast.

The greatest fall is from within;

Work the system with a grin.

Please notify the next of kin:

Tenacity won’t last.

You’re speaking of reform now,

High praise to Camelot,

But the place you live in is the land

Of Have and Have-a-Lot.

When did you stop the dreaming?

When did you lose your sight?

When you did you drop all ideals

Of fighting the good fight?

So stop this speaking in sound-bites

And no more hiding mid-way.

You globalize and terrorize

With what you call free trade.

The Democratic Party

Has lost its goals you see.

There’s little now to distance them

From the heartless GOP.

So speak of real reform now,

Let’s socialize this place.

For get missile systems, let’s recondition

Your goddamned means of trade.

The greatest fall is from within,

Paranoia is the heart of sin.

Please notify the next of kin:

The spirit’s fading fast.

The greatest fall is from within;

Work the system with a grin.

Please notify the next of kin:

Tenacity won’t last.

-July 31, 1999, Brooklyn NY. Thissong, performed with a pop-calypso feel (think Trini Lopez) was written duringthe latter part of the Clinton Administration, when the DLC reigned supreme andthe Dems had dropped all allusion of true liberalism. So much of the Left hadhigh hopes, but during his years in the White House Clinton came to embody theaccusation liberals often get hurled at them—phony, plastic,conservative-light. With the dismantling of anti-trust laws (completing the jobReagan had begun) and the creation of the so-called “free trade” agreementswhich saw labor dwindle in this country, much of the hope for any kind of realsocial reform was gone. I struggled hard on this song: even more than feelingrejected by the centrist ways of the Democratic Party, I was sickened by theRepublicans lying in wait; naturally we know now what THAT brought to ourworking people. This song was ultimately recorded on ‘Revenge of the AtomSpies’ (2007), but by then was signaled as a warning to the Dems who’d justretaken the halls of Congress.

41 Echoes That Night

All that glitters is poor man’s sweat;

And life embitters, repays no debt.

Those dreams deferred leave him cold.

Standing alone, he feels exposed.

All that glitters is poor man’s sweat;

Like broad cloud-splitters pain knows no end.

Forty-one echoes that night so dark,

Ricocheted deco, bite of shark.

Ethical bankruptcy

Still can’t deceive me

Empty inside,

Empty inside.

All that glitters is poor man’s sweat.

His freedom lingers on slender thread.

Fists of outrage reclaim the street;

Heed the call-----resist defeat.

--February, 1999, Brooklyn NY.Written while listening to news reports of the police slaughter of AmadouDialo. Diallo was an immigrant worker who was shot 41 times by members of theNYPD anti-crime task force as he stood on the stoop of his Bronx, NY home. Hewas never a suspect and had no criminal history; the injustice rocked all ofNew York City and its ripples were felt globally.

Song Born ofStruggle

Song born of struggle,

Life lived in toil;

Verse sang in peril;

Trumpets sound for thee.

Song born of struggle;

Life lived in toil;

Verse sang in peril;

“Strength in unity!”

Now choose your weapon in

The Class War.

For this struggle is much the same as

The last war.

Sound the call, sound the call

Your strongest arms will be

Your art-form.

So touch the masses as

You reach out through the muses

With a loud shout.

Words of conflict

Turn to blue songs

And the true songs

Shall be yours.

And the true songs

Shall be yours.

-October 6, 1998. Dedicated toall of those used their art as a weapon.

The Jungle – from the song-cycle THEJUNGLE: A Musical Portrait of Life in the Age of AIDS

It’s cold out here in the jungle;

It’s cold out here in the dark.

Can’t fight the fear of the jungle;

Can’t reach the fear in my heart.

In the cool of the night of the jungle.

In the swift urban blight of the jungle.

We must heed flight or flight in the jungle,

In the cold of the dark of the jungle.

-November 22, 1996, BrooklynNY. The Jungle: A Musical Portrait of Life in the Age of AIDS was arather epic piece, a song-cycle for soprano and small chamber ensemble(featuring violin, piano and my own percussion and banjo), which grew from mydirect work as an HIV/AIDS case manager and music therapist. But it also grewfrom my involvement in AIDS activism, something which many in the arts came toas a result of the great losses experienced in the ranks of artists. Thisconcept of “the jungle” grew from the battle for justice for those afflicted,especially those in the earliest years of the fight for treatment and researchfunding, a battle the original activists had to take on alone. During the firstperiod of the illness, then-president Ronald Reagan refused to even utter theword AIDS, let alone deal with the realities and needs of its brutal assault onthose who acquired it. When I composed the Jungle I thought back tovarious matters and issues surrounding HIV/AIDS as well as to the proud butoften broken men and women who were living within its boundaries. The piece waspremiered on December 6, 1996 at the UBU Repertory Theatre on 28^thStreet in Manhattan. The performance was part of ‘the Performance Zone’ annualfestival of new arts.

Outside -– from thesong-cycle THE JUNGLE: A Musical Portrait of Life in the Age of AIDS

Outside, stand alone, feel no pain.

Inside, feel so cold, can’t go home.

No, no…and I’m tired. Oh so…

Feels so good when I cruise the skies,

Like I’m really somewhere.

I prepared to say ‘goodbye’,

Can’t go home now, maybe Monday.

Lost out here;

And I’m tired. Oh so.

-November 22, 1996, BrooklynNY. Another lyric drawn from the song-cycle the Jungle. Again, this was largelywritten based on actual conversations held with clients while I was working ata Lower East Side facility for people with AIDS. This particular piece camealmost wholeheartedly from discussions with a very sick man named Oswaldo whowas bed-bound and only thrived during sessions involving guided imagery withmusic, especially those visualizations involving birds in flight.

Why Recall?- from the song-cycle THEJUNGLE: A Musical Portrait of Life in the Age of AIDS

The after-effect of last night’s medication

Helps me forget, but then I must recall.

The after-effect of my life’s situation…

It’s enough to make me say “damn it all”.

One look about this place and I’m confused;

It all seems so familiar but then I just don’t know.

One look about my face and one can feel my blues.

My friends are all gone. Let me go.

Fleetingly I’m angry; suddenly I’m sad.

Defeatingly I’m sorry; at times I’m still glad.

And when I least expect it things they turn bad.

For then each day I must start again.

There is no effect from all this arbitration.

They’re making decision s for me that I’ll never hear.

I tried to remove the I.V.’s penetration.

Now I’m way past “damn it all”.

When I look inside I still know civilization;

I reach out to touch and I know that I can feel.

My racing thoughts seek out some justification;

Where life leads, I don’t know, but I’m still here.

Where life leads I don’t know, but I’m still here

Fleetingly I’m angry; suddenly I’m sad.

Defeatingly I’m sorry; at times I’m still glad.

And when I least expect it things they turn bad.

For then each day I must start again.

For then I arise and start again.

-August 17, 1995, Brooklyn NY.This song grew from bedside therapy sessions I held with Walter, an elderlyAfrican-American man who was then residing at the AIDS facility where I wasthen employed. Walter was a wonderful, sensitive gentleman who’d led aregret-filled life, one which was guided by the force of substance abuse andsaw the dissolution of his family and a long period of disconnect from hisadult children. In younger days he’d been a jazz saxophonist and the sounds ofLester Young and Charlie Parker carried him through the worst of times duringhis downfall. By the time I came to know him, Walter was experiencing not onlythe physical decline the illness brought but also some serious side-effects tothe still rustic AIDS medications which ultimately proved toxic; Walter came todemonstrate notable mood swings, confusion and even hallucinations and thenneeded to be treated for this condition. As a result, he experienced severalhellish nights filled with distortions—this in accompaniment to his depressionand fear about the illness were nearly debilitating and he later said that oursessions greatly helped his re-emergence into the here and now. The lyric ofthis piece was largely derived from his statements and I put them into ablues-inspired melody which Walter and I later sang together. This piece wasincorporated into the song-cycle THE JUNGLE.

Piaf

Edith Piaf,

Known through all of Europe!

Edith Piaf

Sang to the stars.

Dietrich, Garbo

Were in her eyes.

Regret nothing,

Even the lies.

Edith Piaf,

I remember.

Lonely woman

Deep in a crowd.

Lost in time.

Lost in her mind.

Piaf,

Edith Piaf

Sings to the stars.

-February 22, 1993, BrooklynNY. This lyric was written after its very quirky melody was composed, oneinspired by the sounds of Paris in the 1920s. Though Edith Piaf was not a radicalfigure per se, her large presence in the community of free-spirited artist ofthe day, many of which made powerful statements for social justice, remains aninspiration.

The Fool’s Hymn from the song cycle WINTER ONWEST STREET

Why must I stand and watch those

Far and dear

Fall and then fade away?

It’s a lie when they say

It’s not I who has tasted fate.

Scratch, why did you leave me behind?

I, the fool, must stand by

While the beast marches on, marches on…

So the fool waits and

The fool prays

While he sits idly by.

Idly by.

-October 30, 1992, Brooklyn NY.This piece and the four which follow it are lyrics from the song-cycle andsuite entitled ‘Winter on West Street’, a commentary on HIV/AIDS as I observedit while employed as a case manager in AIDS services. It is a product of itstime in that its content embodies the concerns, fears, hopes, prejudices stillrunning rampant in the period which marked the tenth anniversary of theillness. Many of the lyrics were inspired by conversations I had with clientsas well as care-givers, activists, ombudsman, doctors and nurses. The piece wasnever actually performed live but the instrumental Winter on West Street Suitewas recorded on the album ‘Music Never Heard at the Graystone Ballroom’,credited to John Pietaro and Collected Musicians. The album was due for releaseon the independent Arrest Records label but the company was unable to sustainitself and it fell apart prior to release.

The Savage Din from the song-cycle WINTER ONWEST STREET

Hear the roar of the savage din.

The roar is my wrath, the pain is your sin.

Hear the cries of the beguiled and benign.

You ask: “What for?”,

I respond: “Your time”.

I move in a hush,

The lull of the scream;

I move in a rage;

A slither in dreams.

I move out and seek and

Take what I will.

You push and you pull and

Make room for my kill.

So listen to the roar of the glorious din.

Its monstrous cries are those from within.

Hear not the song of the savage din?

Its music is mine, staged for the shut-in.

So bring out your cardinals to lead in the hymn.

-October 20, 1992, Brooklyn NY.Another selection from Winter on West Street. This song lyric offers a historicreference is the final line: the ‘cardinal’ was New York’s Cardinal O’Connorwho became the target of AIDS activists’ ire.

Foray from the song-cycle WINTER ONWEST STREET

In the night it came;

In day’s light it came

It boldly arrived while we watched,

Never seeing it.

In the night I wait;

In day’s light I wait.

Watch as they come,

come one by one:

Caseworker and doctor,

Protestor and nurse.

To aid me and prod me,

To mold me, sans mercy.

No say, no more rights;

No strength, no more fight.

No voice, no dignity.

I’ll have nothing then but…

It will have me.

-September 18, 1992, BrooklynNY

Behind the Wall from the song-cycle WINTER ONWEST STREET

It’s me, they say, behind

Where none can be

But they will stay confined

so none can see.

I see he and he through me.

I am she when no one’s there.

He is me.

I am here; I must be.

My self hurts for no one’s touch.

I look down but feel none such.

All alone while you stand near,

You stand here.

It is clear.

It’s me, they say, behind

Where none can be

But they will stay confined

So none can see.

-May 23, 1992, Brooklyn NY.Both this song and the one which follows were inspired by the same client,Maria, who was demonstrating pronounced effects of AIDS dementia. Herhallucinations involved seeing and hearing people living within her apartment’swalls. I accompanied her to psychiatric ERs on two different occasions.

Wild Eyes from the song-cycle WINTER ONWEST STREET

Wild Eyes are soul-searching

Wild Eyes watching me;

Mild cries,

Somber from questions

Bringing me down.

Wild Eyes roll in passion;

Mild cries

Spoken through wild cries,

Savage now.

Strength must be found.

-May 1, 1992, BrooklynNY. During one of my regular visits to the apartment of a client, Maria, ayoung woman residing on an upper floor of a NYC Housing project, I encountereda powerful dilemma. Maria exhibited paranoia and refused to open the apartmentdoor for me. Her paranoia had been rising and she refused psychiatric help:Maria had been complaining to me on the phone about her hallucinations anddelusions of people living behind her walls and now, fully convinced that thesephantoms were real, had become almost violently paranoid. When she’d barricadedherself in the apartment and told me she had a gun my biggest fear was asuicide attempt as she’d been dysphoric and isolated before this. I notifiedthe city Housing office and they called in the NYC Housing Police who in turnnotified NYPD’s Emergency Services Unit. Within a few minutes the hallwayoutside of Maria’s door was filled with men in blue uniforms and busloads ofESU cops—in military regalia—took charge. The street below was filled with ESUtrucks, fire engines, ambulances and more and more police cars, marked andunmarked. ESU was able to get into her apartment but Maria then barricadedherself in a back bedroom and had broken her windows in a fury, screaming thatshe had a gun and would kill anyone who got near her. ESU made earnest attemptsto talk to her, but she was now unreachable and so they had to bring me intothe apartment to convince her to open the bedroom door. Once she did, theyrushed her, knocking her to the ground and cuffed her immediately. Of coursethere was no gun, just a terrified and angry woman who I had to now accompanyto Kings County’s psych ER. Handcuffed to a gurney Maria stared into my eyes,waiting to be seen by a doctor, now fully distrustful of the system she wasembroiled in.

Are We In America?

Are you an American?

Are we in America?

Are you an American, do you possess the proper spirit and

Uphold certain family values?

Are we in America?

Does it look that way from Bed-Stuy

Or Compton

Or East LA?

Does it look like America from

Appalachia?

Are you an American when you close your eyes?

Are you an American when you look down your street?

What do you see?

This is America,

Land of conquest and freedom,

Monopoly and pauperism,

The have, the have-not, the once-had and the have-never;

The speaker…and the censor.

Is it American to be proud?

Is it more American when we’re not?

This is OUR America: Blinded, silenced, closeted andcrippled.

Are you an American?

Are you anAmerican?

Are We in AMERICA?

-Written sometime around 1990,Brooklyn NY. This poem spoke to the eight years of Reagan (and its continuationvia the Bush Sr. reign) when “patriots” ran about hiding behind flags andrevising slogans like ‘Kill ‘em all and let God sort it out’. During the 1980ssocial service and community programs were slashed to the bone while anoverwhelming number of homeless roamed the streets and occurrences of seniorcitizens eating from garbage cans became increasingly common. Reagan actuallystated that the homeless were homeless simply by choice—this was a nationaldisgrace, a “Let them eat cake” for the good ol’ red, white and blue. Also inthis time, the arts became suspect and a wild censorship shredded funding forthe NEA, shuttering long-standing programs because Reagan and his culturalpit-bull Edwin Meese were fearful that AIDS and gay rights issues were beingvoiced through a national arts endowment. Add to this tax cuts for the wealthy,secretly funded Contra wars, the close alignment of a far-Right with corporateAmerica and Christian fundamentalism, and a frightening deficit which hailedgreed as good and you have the era in a nutshell. Sadly, it sounds all too muchlike what came a generation later! Happily, many a progressive offered appropriatefight-back, many an artist took a bold stand against Reagan’s conservativedogma and his strange bedfellows found on Wall Street and within the so-calledMoral Majority. My poem was written in the heat of much of this and theninspired me to compose a piece of contemporary concert music around it, alsocalled ‘Are We In America?’, which featured a speaker (my wife Laurie Towers),piano (a gifted pianist named Jean Pugni) and a small, select ensemble. Thepiece was recorded for the ill-fated ‘Music Never Heard at the GraystoneBallroom’ disc by John Pietaro and Collected Musicians.

Introducing DISSIDENT ARTS

2012-02-04T13:50:00.001-08:00

The new website www.DissidentArts.com is the official home of both the annual DISSIDENT ARTS FESTIVAL and John's band RADIO NOIR. Stop by for news reports, music and an array of photos too.

Book Review: ROBIN HOOD (Paul Buhle)

2012-01-29T15:10:00.000-08:00

A Folk HeroBefitting the OWS Generation

BookReview by JOHN PIETARO

ROBIN HOOD: People’s Outlaw andForest Hero by Paul Buhle

WithIllustrations by Chris Hutchinson, Gary Dumm and Sharon Rudahl

2011,PM Press Oakland CA

Hoton the heels of the latest wave of dissent comes a centuries-old radical fromdeep within the English wood. Robin Hood may be overlooked as a revolutionarydue to simple over-exposure, but historian Paul Buhle, in demonstrating thereal story of Robin, let’s all of us in on the best-kept secret of theuniversal Left. And the legend only begins with taking from the rich to give tothe poor.

Amidsthis powerful series of graphic histories Buhle offers this socio-biographywhich, though consisting primarily of text, makes creative use of visuals. RobinHood straddles a niche between biography, underground comic and Pythonesquephoto manipulations. This seems about right for a hero that is at once of alost time and of every age. The book opens with a historic overview of thecharacter via quotes from early ballads and the writings of nineteenth centurysocialist and poet William Morris, whose passion for social justice laid inintriguing conflict with his Romantic yearning for an earlier, “simpler” day.This led Morris to the same conclusion as the author of this biography: that ofthe inequity found in both the Middle Ages and their own times; both make greatuse of the past’s symbolism to reflect these injustices. Robin’s 1300s were aperiod of bloody iron-hand rule by an elite class in towering castles. Theforests were then more dense than we can imagine and overflowing with wildlife;the thickets closing out the sky as well as the encroaching Enlightenment.Average citizens tried to rise above the Dark Ages as the king-as-deity enforcedpoverty and starvation, refusing their desperate plea for the plentiful forest game.Soldiers in the king’s service patrolled the forest lanes with deadly intent aswhole families fell into frightening levels of deprivation and nature’s bountywas reserved for only the royal dinner. Something had to give.

Buhlereminds us that the legend of this revolutionary hero grew out of the periodsof conquests as the first millennium came to be, as well as the plagues andpestilence over the next two centuries, the brutal wars and the uprising of1381. Corruption could not simply be found in the ruling class however, but inthe church and the manipulation of faith as a means of power was runningrampant. The peasants were subject to increased cruelty and laborers experiencednew levels of worksite injustice. In the face of the Black Plague and theCrusades, villages deteriorated and the powers that be abandoned those in direneed. The poor were deemed “villains” in 14^th century law. It was left to a handful of men who werepushed to the limit, who’d seen too much and whose families had gone without forfar too long. The people’s underground included skilled bowmen who served notonly to protect the commoners from harm but to brave the armies and tread onroyal hunting ground. Due to brutal reprisal, as we have seen in countlessother rebellions, the freedom fighters took on pseudonyms to protect theiridentity and families. “John the Nameless” must have been a standardrevolutionary moniker as it was featured in the poem of the uprising, ‘PiersPlowman’. An amalgam of these freedom fighters, struggling for survival and theland they were born on, developed into the figure of Robin Hood.

Buhleoffers the reader not only vivid historical content but, true to form of theprogressive historian, a sociological view of Robin’s realization in legend andmedia. It is with Robin’s adaptation in film that we see the myth grow into thepresent. From All-American hero Douglas Fairbanks in silent cinema, we move toErrol Flynn, whom Buhle reminds us developed into one of the strongestanti-fascists and, later, a friend of Fidel Castro. Many of Flynn’s films wereof course written or directed by Hollywood lefties and he carried the icon sowell that he’d continue to be identified with the character. But the Robin Hoodfigure maintained popular through the Cold War and eventual blacklistees suchas Waldo Salt, Robert Rossen and Howard Koch were at the heart of it. By thetime of the Robin Hood television series, a wealth of blacklisted writers steppedup. But Buhle’s overview takes us through the ‘50s and ‘60s and into thepresent day: the green and red struggles, contemporary labor battles and today’sfight for social justice. Welcome to Sherwood! But everywhere is Sherwood. Robinhas occupied both the Wisconsin State House and New York’s Zuccotti Park and he’snot vacating the premises. Even the wicked sheriffs of Madison and Manhattan cannotkeep his spirit out.

--JohnPietaro is a musician, writer and labor organizer from New York City - http://TheCulturalWorker.blogspot.com

OCCUPY MUSICIANS--The Pulse of Revolution

2011-12-30T18:21:00.000-08:00

THE PULSE OF REVOLUTION:

Musicians as Cultural Warriors in theOccupy Movement

By John Pietaro

For as longas there has been dissent, there has been the protest song. In the people’shistory, the fight for social justice has always been accompanied by, inspiredby the voices of outspoken songwriters, the daring harmonies of dissidentcomposers, the passionate cry of radical poets and the compelling news reportsof the topical balladeer. This is the drumbeat of radicalism. Phil Ochs told usthat every headline can be realized as verse just as he cautioned us that, “aprotest song is something you don’t hear on the radio”. But regardless ofpopular acceptance or not, the music of revolution prevails.

One caneasily trace work songs back to the earliest toilers and songs of revoltdirectly to the movements to organize—in each era. Reviewing poetry or balladscomposed on slave ships, within workers’ hovels or concentration camps, or incold urban landscapes, we can not only gain valuable information about earlieruprisings against injustice, but develop a visceral understanding of them.Where progressive history books offer core stories and important dates, topicalart-forms deliver the fervor, the agitation, the struggle of the embattled tosurvive and then to live. Bread androses.

Oftenartists can become overwhelmed by the stressors in their midst. In the US, thecreative community has never had adequate funding or respect, so in times offiscal constraint, we can easily fall victim. Further, audiences during lean yearsfind it easier to simply avoid. Popular culture reflects this in “the feel-goodmovie of the year” or the litany of Top 40 hits that are pure escapism.

After eightyears of Bush and Cheney, with the rise of cowboy capitalism, first-strikeoffenses and a repressive economy, progressives of every shade began to build aprotest movement of ebbs and flows. Many sought out change through the Obamacandidacy. With the promise of the nation’s first African American president,one who’d had a background as a community organizer, countless among us weremoved to rebuild a progressive base. But Obama’s drive toward conciliation withthe forces of reaction for far too long turned many off. The teabaggers wereall over the news and every brand of lunatic flooded the right-wing. Oh, therewere pockets of celebrated rebellion: Wisconsin taught us all. But on the heelsof that amazing takeover, Occupy Wall Street happened. And then nothing was thesame.

In my ownexperience as a musician and a cultural organizer (one moved toward Leftphilosophy as a direct result of the first Reagan term!), I’d long sought outsomething—anything—like OWS. And here came a disparate group with no visibleleader, one that united all facets of the Left, liberalism, and Labor, and notjust the most progressive of unions. Yeah, it turned out to be this generation’sPopular Front. After my first visit to Zuccotti Park, I was drawn to return manytimes, usually carrying a drum. The first time I sat in with the pulsating massof a drum circle, I realized the distance our message could carry. How voluminousthe voice of a determined, unified group! We breathed as one through percussionand this was evidenced by the reactions of the beaming, dancing passerby, oftenwearing designer suits and Italian shoes but sharing in a historic moment withthis band of rad rhythmatists.

Though drumcircles are empowering and an excellent means to build still larger masses,there is a need for musicians of conscience to forge a more cohesiveunit, a cultural arm of OWS. Rather than the occasional folksinger or rapperwriting an anthem for the movement, why couldn’t there be, shouldn’t there be asolid, committed organization which would feed the protest, inspire creativityand then take it out to the wider populace? The Occupy Musicians group (www.occupymusicians.com)is an exciting means toward this goal. Hundreds of signatories and a series ofevents has fortified the organization’s dawning. Now what’s left to do is todraw on the considerable strengths of musicians of conscience; we must agitate,educate and organize through song, through verse, through shout and stomp, throughmusical weaponry.

Using earliercultural movements as models, we can draw on the work of the bards, the songsters,poets, playwrights and journalists of the Industrial Workers of the World. Thisradical internationalist union counted artists in their front line oforganizers. This spawned the likes of Joe Hill; no mean feat! And the SocialistParty in the first decades of the 20^th century also laid the groundwork for later models. It did so with the likes of Jack London and CarlSandburg and by the 1930s founded the Radical Arts Group toward the establishmentof a national cultural program. However it was the Communist Party which, inthe 1930s and ‘40s, successfully founded a cultural commission of widespreadproportions. It not only counted artists such as Paul Robeson, Woody Guthrie, DaltonTrumbo, Hazel Scott and the Almanac Singers in its ranks, but a massive list offellow travelers across the country. Of important note are the arts collectivesunder CP cultural auspices which were both activist bases and educationalseminars for all genres: the John Reed Club, the League of American Writers,the American Artists’ Congress, the Red Dancers, and the Composers Collectiveof New York which produced contemporary classical works that were at least asdaring musically as they were politically!

Thegeneration of folksingers in the 1960s became the very soul of the struggles ofcivil rights and peace. Immortal, moving works were created and tirelessly sangat each rally and march. Folk revival musicians such as Bob Dylan, Odetta, PhilOchs and Joan Baez wrote the anthems that acted as shields against the assaultsof the police and the national guard, as did the songs which had originated insouthern Black churches. Performers like the Freedom Singers made all thedifference in the world when staring down Bull Connor. And the Black ArtsMovement offered creative guidance along with fiery radical sounds to urbancenters. Avant garde jazz figured highly into this scene, as well it should intoday’s movement. Legendary names like Amiri Baraka, the late Sam Rivers, theAACM and Black Arts Group were instrumental, so to speak, in countlessseminars, rallies, gatherings and confrontations. There’s was a music whichcelebrated African culture as it fought for American rights through the mostcreative means.

The Punkmovement often carried with it an anarchist message, or in the least anintolerance for mere compliance. While some aspects of Punk could seemright-wing due to the presence of fascist imagery (to shock) most Punks weredrawn to the Left messages found in the music of the Clash and the fightagainst Reaganism launched by the Dead Kennedys. Punk also turned “DIY” into a freedomcry for all artists. Hip Hop has also stood out as a people’s movement whichhas called on multiple generations to speak out. For every gangsta rapper thereare scores of Hip Hop artists who use their poetry and music as a means ofunity and expression: life and survival in the ghettos, exposing social illsand the need for social change are mainstays. Some rappers are inspired by theBeat poets of the ‘50s, and most are well aware of the radical statements ofGil-Scott Heron. Rappers like Dead Prez and Immortal Technique have focused ona specific kind of topical Hip Hop.

MUSICIANSALIGNED WITH THE OWS MOVEMENT need to make a close study of the history of culturalworkers in building a lasting organization. Occupy Musicians should call oncomposers, improvisers, rappers, singers, songwriters and instrumentalists;there’s a need for pop singers, jazz and contemporary classical musicians, hiphop artists, world music performers, folkies, satirists, rockers, balladeersand punks. We must speak in every language, to every taste, to allow for theunrestrained flow of outreach. And we need to establish a series of awareness-raisingconcerts, to circulate recordings of OWS musicians and offer teach-ins andworkshops to not only insure continuity of current artists but to inspire thegenerations to come. Occupy Musicians can not only offer a soundtrack to OWSbut can drive it with Shock Brigade bands to descend upon rallies and marches. Andto really be thorough, we need to do so in concert with radical poets,performance artists and other cultural workers.

OccupyMusicians can become an integral part of Occupy movements all over the nation,all over the world. And through both concert presentations and social media wecan grow a network that will keep live music relevant even as it carriesactivists to the necessary next level, true social and political change. Upward,onward.

-John Pietaro is a musician, writer (http://TheCulturalWorker.blogspot.com)and activist from Brooklyn NY. He is the leader of Radio NOIR (www.reverbnation.com/radionoir)and the director of the annual Dissident Arts Festival.

LIVE IN CONCERT: Radio NOIR & guests at ABC No Rio

2011-12-24T08:53:00.000-08:00

Here's a concert recording of a rather expanded Radio NOIR line-up performing at the C.O.M.A. experimental music series at ABC No Rio, the celebrated anarchist space in NYC, 12/18/11. John Pietaro (xylophone, frame drums, percussion, spoken word), Javier Hernandez-Miyares (elec guitar), Laurie Towers (electric bass) with guests Frederika Krier (violin) and Rocco John Iacovone (soprano and alto saxophones). Our regular fourth member, clarinetist Quincy Saul, was unavailable for the gig as he was in Durban South Africa reporting on the Climate Conference (a pretty good excuse if I may say!) so we adapted some of our regular material to this line-up and of course added in some new things too. We'd also planned on performing a newly realized version of the brilliant Phil Ochs song, "No Christmas in Kentucky" but unfortunately there was not enough time. Still, this was a notable evening of music-on-the-edge.

Much thanks to the very talented Frederika and Rocco for being a part of this day. For more info on ABC No Rio and the COMA experimental music series curated by Blaise Siwula see www.abcnorio.org

To listen to the recording log on to:

http://soundcloud.com/leftmus/radio-noir-at-abc-no-rio-coma

Selections:

(1) free improv

(2) Langston (Pietaro/Saul)

(3) Pastures of Plenty (Woody Guthrie; arr: Radio NOIR)

(4) the Arbitrator (Iacovone)

(5) Hanns Eisler Speaks: Fantasia in G-Men (prose by Eisler; free improvisation by Radio NOIR)

- http://soundcloud.com/leftmus/radio-noir-at-abc-no-rio-coma

Radio NOIR plays ABC No Rio

2011-12-09T21:05:00.001-08:00

Radio NOIR, the 'dissident swing' combo, will be performing a set of their unique improvisational protest music at noted anarchist performance space ABC No Rio, on Sunday Dec 18, 2011---one of the final concerts in the COMA experimental music series before the space closes its doors for a lengthy remodeling. Works will include reconstructions of Hanns Eisler and Woody Guthrie pieces, plus free improvisation, twisted standards and modernist blues. John Pietaro (xylophone, percussion, voice), Javier Hernandez-Miyares (electric guitar, effects), Laurie Towers (electric bass) and as our clarinetist Quincy Saul is proudly away on important activist business in Durban South Africa, we will be joined by guest saxophonist Rocco John Iacovone among other special guests.

PLUS Blaise Siwula's duet AND an open session!

Sunday Dec 18, 7PM, ABC No Rio 156 Rivington Street, NYC www.abcnorio.org

--www.reverbnation.com/radionoir--

Free Jazz as Cultural Revolution: Karl Berger & The Stone Workshop Orchestra in Review from Inside

2011-12-07T21:18:00.001-08:00

Free Jazz as CulturalRevolution:

Karl Berger & The Stone Workshop Orchestra in Review from Inside

By John Pietaro

The Stone stands quietly and without fanfare at the cornerof Avenue C and East 2nd Street. The club is set in an old store front thatstill bears the markings of pre-gentrified Alphabet City. So unassuming is itthat there’s no sign over its door proclaiming that a new experimental musicspace—one which features the free exchange of art and ideas--has taken backpart of New York otherwise lost to the developers and yuppies. The Lower EastSide , New York’s historic center of alternative arts and struggle, survivedyears of neglect and decay during which it was shunned by a larger society attemptingto cut off its immigrant and poor population just until the ‘hood becamefashionable. And as its boarded-up shops transformed into bistros, it ‘became’the East Village and was sold to the highest bidder. And somehow post-modernsaxophonist John Zorn made a grab to claim some of this prized territory forthe movement. This community --where Beat poetry found its home, where the mostradical of Left activists congregated, where jazz’s loft scene was birthed,where the punk movement began and where the post-punk avant garde coalesced intoNo Wave—has taken back one of its lost corners. There’s cause to celebrate butthe Stone remains the Village’s best-kept secret. And the noise about it onlyseems to occur within.

Having enjoyed memorable performances in LES clubs andgalleries back when there was a healthy scene harboring this kind of music, Iwell remember the once-affordable community and its phalanx of artists, anarchists,addicts, dealers, homeless, Hell’s Angels and poverty-stricken residents. No,they weren’t really good old times because there was too much hurt and yet thearea held a strange beauty that’s long gone. Walking through the door of theStone brings me back almost immediately. The space is tight, intimate. Thelights are dim. The energy is whirling, barely contained in the walls about me.I felt it on my first visit: Musicians flow in, greeting each other with warm,jovial exchanges, laughs, and discussions about a recent tour with this or thatone, the last gig with so-and-so, or baseball scores and small talk. Dresseddown, unpacking their axes these men and women are as unassuming as the clubitself. I walk over the uneven floorboards and find a spot near the back, nextto the drummer and two upright bassists preparing for the evening’s excursion. Istand amidst a mini xylophone or glockenspiel, large and small frame drums,several small hand-held percussives, sometimes a dumbek, and a pair of crowdedracks sporting woodblocks, temple blocks, cowbells and a triangle. Somehow I setit up in a manner that’s workable but not imposing to the tightly-packed band,which ranges from a minimum of 12 members to a more standard number of about 23.The immediacy of those around me seems to extend well beyond the physical.

The compositions are often his own but just as likely penned by theOrnette Coleman or Don Cherry, or other past collaborators. Many are drawn fromthe repertoire of world folk songs (Karl is especially fond of Turkish music). Butit can never be said that there is anything assumed or pre-planned about thisband’s music. There is NEVER a written score and when the band needs to learn ajazz head or other melody, it is simply played at the piano, at times slowlyand repetitively, until the musicians are comfortable with what’s to come. Karloffers some info on the particular mode or the tradition in which the piece wasdeveloped as his hands lightly run over piano keys. The musicians are allveterans and adept at this kind of performance, but Karl’s advice andphilosophical guidance are never taken begrudgingly. “Please let’s remember topay close attention to dynamics in this passage,” Karl is wont to explain as hedemonstrates the importance of the phrasing in a piece. Standing now, he raisesa hand and gently fans it downward: “You can almost leave that last note outcompletely. In fact, I would like some of you to fade the phrase just before itends to really exaggerate the emotion. Deeee-da.Deeee-da”. And the music, alreadyinspired and executed beautifully, comes fully alive. By design, this band isgeared toward the highest level of creativity, and the tools of suchcreativity--free improvisation, on-the-spot composition, modernist harmonies,world rhythms, technical expertise, and latter-day angst—are in constant demandhere.

Throughhis cues the band knows the direction and shape as well as the duration of thenotes to be played---but the specific notes remain our own. He guidesorchestral accents behind the force of a soloist’s excursion, adding to thesoundscape and fierce intensity. Karl then layers one solo over another andcalls on this or that accompaniment—which ultimately is seen as just animportant a voice in the mix and may very well take over the spotlight. Feel is paramount and interpretation isdemanded. Its clearly there in the leader’s eyes each time he becomes engulfedin the tapestry. Leaning back into the sound in a moment of particularly richimprovised harmony, Karl adds: “It took Gil Evans two years to write a chordlike that!”

So what of this orchestra? Since I began this weekly gig inearly September 2011, it has proven itself as a wonderfully expansive vision ofwhat a ‘big band’ could be. The line-up has often shifted in membership with asolid core of regulars and a series of guests who are passing through New Yorkwhile on tour. Each Monday I have seen new faces, heard new accents and reveledin new and exciting musical concepts. The musicians qualify as a united nationsof Free Jazz, among them Karl Berger - Piano and Conducting, Ingrid Sertso -Voice, Thomas Heberer - Trumpet, Brian Groder – Trumpet, Bob Selcoe - Trumpet,Herb Robertson – Trumpet, SteveSwell - Trombone, Rick Parker –Trombone, Avram Fefer - Soprano Sax, Stephen Gauci - Tenor Sax, YoniKretzmer - Tenor Sax, DarrylFoster – Tenor and Soprano Saxes, Esa Pietila - Tenor Sax, Dave Schnug - Alto Sax, MercedesFiguera - Alto Sax, BlaiseSiwula – Alto Sax, Mikko Innanen – Alto Sax, Jason Candler - Alto Sax/AltoClarinet, Bill Ylitalo – Alto Sax, Welf Doerr – Alto Sax, Ricardo Tejero –Clarinet, Michael Lytle -Bass Clarinet, Ken Ya Kawaguchi –Shakuhachi, Sylvain Leroux - Flutes, Peter Buettner – Flutes, FrederikaKrier - Violin, David Bakriges - Violin,Cecile Borche – Violin, Mossa Bildner - Voice, Kenny Wessel - Guitar, HarveyValdes - Guitar, John Ehlis – Mandolin and Guitar, Adam Lane – Bass, HilliardGreene – Bass, Dominic Lash - Bass, Dave Perrott - Bass, Ken Filiano – Bass,Lou Grassi – Drums, Harvey Sorgen - Drums, John Pietaro - Percussion, PhilipFoster – ‘Odds and Ends’. And the many others whose names have escaped me and Ihope to meet again.

The final performance of the StoneWorkshop Orchestra—at least in this incarnation—occurred on December5, during which time the Stone’s inner walls shook under the weight of themusic. Two full concert sets (no workshop for this gig) left the room dank withperspiration and brimming with intensity. Guest soloists, to really drive thepoint home, were legendary avant alto player John Zorn and the brillianttrumpet and slide-trumpet player Steven Bernstein, and the band exploded underand about these two voices of unbridled improvisation. Zorn seeking noattention, remained reserved before putting horn to mouth, but wailed and shookover his instrument like a feverish, davoning rabbi when he played. Theensemble shouted accents as Zorn sonically fought back the depth hovering justabove, drawing from and warding off the wall of music he encountered. From myspot near the back, with a line of winds and strings immediately in front, dualbasses to my right and drums just behind, the room seemed to ascend with Karl’sconducting wizardy guiding the journey. And just then Steven Bernstein hollered acrossthe thicket with a slide trumpet improvisation that should have lifted off theroof, polyrhythmic pulsations falling over the brass call to arms. New visions ofa developed repertoire spoke volumes about the potential for this band. No onecould accept that it would simply end; the rush to find a new site is on withplans being carefully laid for a new residency and a series of otherperformances to continue the mission.

As winter’s chill arrives on the Lower EastSide, the echo of musical liberation descends over the luxury condos and gourmetdelis, declaring the legacy of fearless creativity. And in its resonance, themusic tears away the cloud of conformity and clears the path for furthergenerations of New Music.

-John Pietaro is a musician and writer from Brooklyn, NY. His websitesare http://TheCulturalWorker.blogspot.comand www.reverbnation.com/radionoir

Radio NOIR: "Pastures of Plenty"

2011-11-24T07:14:00.001-08:00

http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/11117233 -

"Pastures of Plenty"

Radio NOIR'S improvisatory, ethereal adaptation of this beautiful Woody Guthrie theme is presented today in strong reflection of Thanksgiving in hard times. Guthrie's ballad of migrant farm workers struggling for dignity is timeless.

Radio NOIR chose to approach this piece in a unique manner which is built upon the Minimalist-influenced xylophone line of John Pietaro and the insistent, grinding bass of Laurie Towers. Javier Hernandez-Miyares' effects-laden guitar builds an incredible atmosphere in which the ensemble lays out a pasture of conflict and struggle for the melodic realization by Quincy Saul's clarinet. After the actual Guthrie melody is heard in full, the quartet stretches out with solo statements built into a sort of collective improv. In the melody's final hearing Hernandez-Miyares' guitar effects build to create a soundscape indicative of a southern textile factory's looms, tying the concept of the field worker into industry, open spaces into a darker, untouchable sky.

"Pastures of Plenty" was produced by Javier Hernandez-Miyares and recorded by Natalie Scarborough at 17 Frost Theatre of the Arts, Brooklyn NY, October 2011 www.17frost.com

Radio NOIR is John Pietaro, xylophone and percussion
Quincy Saul, clarinet
Javier Hernandez-Miyares, electric guitar and effects
Laurie Towers, electric bass

"Dissident swing...radical improv...Art Deco-damaged protest song!"

www.reverbnation.com/radionoir

Obituary of PAUL MOTIAN

2011-11-22T21:47:00.001-08:00

PAUL MOTIAN: In Memoryof the Man Who Made Silence Swing

An Obituary by JohnPietaro

I can still recall when I first became aware of thewonderful subtleties of Paul Motian. I was a college freshman and in checkingout his latest quartet album I had to stop to listen a second time to get it. As drummers go, he stood apartfrom most by simply allowing his instrument to breathe. While Motian lackednothing in technical skill, his approach to the instrument was considerablymore Zen than chops: you just knew that this guy had read Cage’s writings onsilence. At 18, a budding jazz percussionist who practiced constantly in orderto build up speed and endurance, hearing Paul Motian dance over his cymbals asBill Frisell’s guitar moaned gently, I came to know the importance ofreflective playing and the power of space. Motian had made it into an art form.

Paul Motian first came to prominence in the music worldthrough his part in the classic Bill Evans Trio. In this aggregation, neitherhe nor the groundbreaking bassist Scott LaFaro, who died tragically young afterpioneering a melodic bass style, were viewed as “accompanists” by Evans; not bya long shot. The trio were equal partners in the unique brand of jazz theyproduced---some called it cerebral but that’s way too simple to describe thelikes of “Waltz for Debbie”, “Autumn Leaves” or “My Foolish Heart”. Hear thesetracks as chamber music if you’d like but the swing is always there and damnedclear. The music got inside of itself and the drumming grooved it along throughand well beyond introspection. Motian’s use of wire brushes whispered but also snapped,rolled, danced. Shuussshing his way over the most tender of ballads, as Evans’widely spaced intervals resounded above and below, Motian sang with his sizzlecymbal and fluttering hi-hats. And in this late ‘50s-early ‘60s period whendrummers just kept cranking their kits to tighter, higher pitches, Motian wentlow, offering carefully resounding tom-toms and a throbbing bass drum thatserved as a deep heartbeat one moment, a ringing timpani the next. And hisinterplay with LaFaro, he of the whirling melodic flight in place of a standard‘walk’, was an avant garde of its own. Here was a rhythm section that heldequal reign over the trio’s direction and if the bass was welcome to offercounter-point and counter-melody well then so was the drums. Evans’ bandfunctioned, it’s often been said, as three components of one indefatigablemusician.

Such musical passion, however, was not to be contained inone ensemble and Motian, into the 1960s, began working with a variety of othercontemporary jazz artists, particularly “cool school” stalwarts like LeeKonitz. This led him to another lengthy and notable gig with a pianist ofpowerfully creative muse, Paul Bley, who fused composition and freeimprovisation in new and daring ways. The Bley ensemble reached well into FreeJazz and Motian, though retaining respect for space and atmosphere, offered amore animated counterpoint in his playing than he had with Evans. Suddenly thefamily name seemed to indicate real ‘motion’ as bar-lines disappeared beneaththe drummer’s blurring, timeless pulsations and jazz became new all over again.

Motian’s journey, by the close of the ‘60s, helped to bring musicin line with radical politics through the Liberation Music Orchestra led byCharlie Haden and Carla Bley. This large ensemble, in beautifully outspokenterms, shaped protest of the Vietnam War and the Nixon Administration into ahistoric album’s worth of material. Juxtaposing modernist harmonies and free improvinto songs of the Spanish Civil War successfully embedded the Old Left into theNew and to hell with generational gaps. Traditional melodies associated withthat first fight against the fascists paired with compositions by Hanns Eisler/BertoltBrecht as well as Carla Bley brought the day’s injustices into alarming light. Motiancan be effectively heard sporting martial drumming, spiraling through totally abstractrhythms and incorporating series of bells and chimes into his kit. His ridecymbal was relentless, symbolic of the struggle and driving home the solos ofDon Cherry, Dewey Redman, Mike Matler, Rosewell Rudd and Gato Barbieri, among others.

In the 1970s Motian began a long tenure in Keith Jarrett’sband where he seems to have perfected his free improv concepts. More so, theJarrett work was an extension on what he’d achieved with the trios of Evans andBley; perhaps the realization of the piano trio by this time saw the formattaken to its absolute limits, flipped onto its head, and in turn Jarrett happilyaccompanied the drummer on his own debut record date as a leader in 1972. Whilestill engaged in the Jarrett band, Motian began to explore his own conceptsthroughout the decade and by the 1980s came to be known as the leader of one ofthe hippest ensembles in jazz. His own quartets and trios were fluid, with timebeing an implied concept and musicians’ roles in the ensemble always subject tothe artistry of the moment. The band which featured Bill Frisell’s guitar andJoe Lovano’s tenor saxophone allowed for an atmospheric kind of jazz rarelyheard anywhere since the high times of the Bill Evans Trio. Frisell’s use ofthe volume pedal turned his guitar in many ways, into another horn or aseemingly bowed string instrument, but with a hip, eerie kind of electric echo.The lack of a bassist meant that each of the trio needed to take on therole---or no one at all---and the entire order of what a jazz combo should bewas arbitrary.

Paul Motian’s ensembles in the last decades were alwaysfresh and exciting: at times in all-electric groupings, at other pointsperforming his own take on standards in a more common jazz setting (the ‘Broadway’album is a must listen-to) or simply playing free. His illness, myelodysplastic--ablood and bone marrow disorder—saw his touring come to an end in recent yearsbut his band became a fixture at the Village Vanguard, offering visual andaural lessons in compositional drumming to all who flocked to the legendary NewYork club. Motian died at age 80 early this morning, November 21, 2011. Hiscontribution to music’s progress immortalized. Regardless of the notes he mayhave played in the course of any given selection, solo, chorus, indeed measure,Motian made the very silences between them swing, bringing the listener to thenext sound with anticipation. And that is pretty much all a musician can hopefor.

-John Pietaro is a musician and writer from New York City. He leads theensemble Radio NOIR www.reverbnation.com/radionoir.

Radio NOIR, "Langston"

2011-11-20T12:08:00.001-08:00

Radio NOIR: "The Lost Broadcast" E.P.

Radio NOIR is a quartet which wields its own unique brand of dissident swing. Helmed by xylophonist/percussionist John Pietaro and featuring the clarinet of Quincy Saul, the electric guitar of Javier Hernandez-Miyares and the electric bass of Laurie Towers, the band made its debut at the 2011 Dissident Arts Festival (August 13, 2011, the Brecht Forum, NYC). Soon after the members recognized that the artistic as well as socio-political ties that led to the founding of Radio NOIR was indeed a reason to hold the band together. Inspired by the fervent radicalism and sounds of the 1930s as well as the daring post-punk improvisations of downtown NYC, Radio NOIR seeks to build bridges between Left politics and Jazz, radical philosophy and New Music. "The Lost Broadcast", Radio NOIR's 4-song E.P. collection, was recorded live in an all-day marathon session at 17 Frost Theatre of the Arts (Williamsburg, Brooklyn NY) in October 2011. The final document not only includes blazing audio tracks of the band's unique 'dissident swing' but wholly produced videos as well, inclusive of imagery projected onto 17 Frost's three massive screen's positioned around Radio NOIR during the recording process. Note that some of the imagery is comprised of excerpts of the seminal sci-fi/social change film 'Metropolis' by director Fritz Lang. It is not happenstance that Lang's film was directly influenced by his visions of NYC during his initial visit here--- likewise now his work inspires Radio NOIR in their music-activism journey. This E.P. is Radio NOIR's debut recording and one which offers a vivid account of their convictions. Starting from the bitter social unrest of the 1930s, the quartet produce a music which speaks loudly to today's struggles for social and economic justice. Wrapped in the shadows of Depression-era New York, the four titles bridge Hot Jazz to noir novels, ethereal sounds to No Wave, the words of revolutionary composer Hanns Eisler to free improvisation and the music of Woody Guthrie to a restless, relentless kind of swing. The members of Radio NOIR are experienced improvisors, with New Music as well as expansive Jazz and Pop burnt deeply into their repertoires, but always they maintain the still higher goal of the arts as cultural work, a means toward real social change.

Here is the first release from The Lost Broadcast....

"Langston" (John Pietaro/Quincy Saul) - a 'modernist blues' dedicated to Langston Hughes and his revolutionary intellectual cohorts in the Harlem Renaissance. In this chamber Jazz piece which opens in a rather mellow mood, the quartet blows over changes in a C-minor blues form which is extended by a whole-tone section. Quincy Saul's clarinet and John Pietaro's xylophone establish the contrapuntal melodic lines, ultimately racing about each other, as Javier Hernandez-Miyares' electric guitar barks commentary from the sideline and Laurie Towers' bold, unshakeable electric bass holds the entire group together in a manner which actually negates the need for a drummer.

For more info on Radio NOIR please take a moment to stop by our Facebook page as well as our Reverbnation page......

http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/11065687

Karl Berger & The Stone Workshop Orchestra

2011-11-11T14:47:00.000-08:00

Free Jazz as Cultural Revolution:

Karl Berger & The Stone Workshop Orchestra

By John Pietaro

The Stone stands quietly and without fanfare at the corner of Avenue C and East 2nd Street. The club is set in an old store front that still bears the markings of pre-gentrified Alphabet City. So unassuming is it that there’s no sign over its door proclaiming that a new experimental music space—one which features the free exchange of art and ideas--has taken back part of New York otherwise lost to the developers and yuppies. The Lower East Side , New York’s historic center of alternative arts and struggle, survived years of neglect and decay during which it was shunned by a larger society attempting to cut off its immigrant and poor population just until the ‘hood became fashionable. And as its boarded-up shops transformed into bistros, it ‘became’ the East Village and was sold to the highest bidder. And somehow post-modern saxophonist John Zorn made a grab to claim some of this prized territory for the movement. This community --where Beat poetry found its home, where the most radical of Left activists congregated, where jazz’s loft scene was birthed, where the punk movement began and where the post-punk avant garde coalesced into No Wave—has taken back one of its lost corners. There’s cause to celebrate but the Stone remains the Village’s best-kept secret. And the noise about it only seems to occur within.

Having enjoyed memorable performances in LES clubs and galleries back when there was a healthy scene harboring this kind of music, I well remember the once-affordable community and its phalanx of artists, anarchists, addicts, dealers, homeless, Hell’s Angels and poverty-stricken residents. No, they weren’t really good old times because there was too much hurt and yet the area held a strange beauty that’s long gone. Walking through the door of the Stone brings me back almost immediately. The space is tight, intimate. The lights are dim. The energy is whirling, barely contained in the walls about me. I felt it on my first visit: Musicians flow in, greeting each other with warm, jovial exchanges, laughs, and discussions about a recent tour with this or that one, the last gig with so-and-so, or baseball scores and small talk. Dressed down, unpacking their axes these men and women are as unassuming as the club itself. I walk over the uneven floorboards and find a spot near the back, next to the drummer and two upright bassists preparing for the evening’s excursion. I stand amidst a mini xylophone or glockenspiel, large and small frame drums, several small hand-held percussives, sometimes a dumbek, and a pair of crowded racks sporting woodblocks, temple blocks, cowbells and a triangle. Somehow I set it up in a manner that’s workable but not imposing to the tightly-packed band, which ranges from a minimum of 12 members to a more standard number of about 23. The immediacy of those around me seems to extend well beyond the physical.

Karl Berger and Ingrid Sertso enter the room, gently reaching out to the musicians sitting in a two-rowed semi-circle. The band responds in kind, offering greetings, brief bits of humorous tales and other chitchat. But this is not a mere social call. Soon Karl seats himself caddy-corner at the piano and offers some basic ideas as to what the music will be like tonight. In some cases choosing pieces he’s worked on with the Orchestra before, in others, introducing brand new ones without warning, of course. The compositions are often his own but just as likely penned by the Ornette Coleman or Don Cherry, or other past collaborators. Many are drawn from the repertoire of world folk songs (Karl is especially fond of Turkish music). But it can never be said that there is anything assumed or pre-planned about this band’s music. There is NEVER a written score and when the band needs to learn a jazz head or other melody, it is simply played at the piano, at times slowly and repetitively, until the musicians are comfortable with what’s to come. Karl offers some info on the particular mode or the tradition in which the piece was developed as his hands lightly run over piano keys. The musicians are all veterans and adept at this kind of performance, but Karl’s advice and philosophical guidance are never taken begrudgingly. “Please let’s remember to pay close attention to dynamics in this passage,” Karl is wont to explain as he demonstrates the importance of the phrasing in a piece. Standing now, he raises a hand and gently fans it downward: “You can almost leave that last note out completely. In fact, I would like some of you to fade the phrase just before it ends to really exaggerate the emotion. Deeee-da. Deeee-da”. And the music, already inspired and executed beautifully, comes fully alive. By design, this band is geared toward the highest level of creativity, and the tools of such creativity--free improvisation, on-the-spot composition, modernist harmonies, world rhythms, technical expertise, and latter-day angst—are in constant demand here.

The Stone Workshop Orchestra’s sound is born of the moment, founded by the players’ instincts, skill and need to emote----and it’s then organized by Karl’s artful hand and facial expressions. Sculptor-like, he molds and shapes the aural force emanating from this collection of brass, reeds, strings and percussion set before him. Refusing to consider his part in this as conduction (“really, this is not so specific, I just cue and offer guidance, you do the rest…”), Berger none the less has developed an incredible language of his own; never losing sight of the musicians’ individuality, he plays the orchestra. Karl’s unique hand signals--and welcoming eye contact---bring in sections, soloists or the tutti ensemble, and in doing so, establishes range, tempo, volume, timbre and vibe. Through his cues the band knows the direction and shape as well as the duration of the notes to be played---but the specific notes remain our own. He guides orchestral accents behind the force of a soloist’s excursion, adding to the soundscape and fierce intensity. Karl then layers one solo over another and calls on this or that accompaniment—which ultimately is seen as just an important a voice in the mix and may very well take over the spotlight. Feel is paramount and interpretation is demanded.

So what of this orchestra? Since I began this weekly gig, it has proven itself as a wonderfully expansive vision of what a ‘big band’ could be. From early September till this writing, the line-up has shifted in membership with a solid core of regulars and a series of guests who are passing through New York while on tour. Each Monday I have seen new faces, heard new accents and reveled in new and exciting musical concepts. The musicians qualify as a united nations of Free Jazz, among them Karl Berger - Piano and Conducting, Ingrid Sertso - Voice, Thomas Heberer - Trumpet, Brian Groder – Trumpet, Steve Swell - Trombone, Rick Parker –Trombone, Avram Fefer - Soprano Sax, Stephen Gauci - Tenor Sax, Yoni Kretzmer - Tenor Sax, Darryl Foster – Tenor and Soprano Saxes, Esa Pietila - Tenor Sax, Dave Schnug - Alto Sax, Mercedes Figuera - Alto Sax, Blaise Siwula – Alto Sax, Mikko Innanen – Alto Sax, Jason Candler - Alto Sax, Ricardo Tejero – Clarinet, Michael Lytle - Bass Clarinet, Sylvain Leroux - Flutes, Frederika Krier - Violin, David Bakriges - Violin, Cecile Borche – Violin, Mossa Bildner - Voice, Kenny Wessel - Guitar, Harvey Valdes - Guitar, John Ehlis – Mandolin and Guitar, Adam Lane – Bass, Dominic Lash - Bass, Dave Perrott - Bass, Ken Filiano – Bass, Lou Grassi – Drums, Harvey Sorgen - Drums, John Pietaro - Percussion, Philip Foster – ‘Odds and Ends’. And the many others whose names have escaped me and I hope to meet again.

The performances of the Stone Workshop Orchestra now dwindle down and I contemplate this journey, one not only through avant music but the revolutionary art that begat the need for such an ensemble in this place and time. Karl has no intention of letting this band cease, though the end of season at the Stone will arrive on December 5—in the form of a blow-out pair of concerts which will include special guests including John Zorn. As winter’s chill arrives on the Lower East Side, the Orchestra’s shouts of musical liberation descend over the luxury condos and gourmet delis, declaring the legacy of fearless creativity. And in its resonance, the music tears away the cloud of conformity and clears the path for further generations of New Music.

-John Pietaro is a musician and writer from Brooklyn, NY. His websites are http://TheCulturalWorker.blogspot.com and www.reverbnation.com/radionoir

John Lennon, Popular Icon & Revolutionary

2011-10-09T08:16:00.000-07:00

JOHN LENNON, POPULAR ICON AND REVOLUTIONARY

By John Pietaro

Today, Sunday October 9^th, the late John Lennon would have celebrated his seventy-first birthday. A deranged assassin’s bullet in 1980, of course, forever sealed him into a certain age, place and time. The John Lennon of 1980 was a husband and a father and a quite touchable New Yorker who’d just released his first record album in several years. Those who knew him said he was staring down a long, positive road ahead, planning a world tour with Yoko and watching his latest single race up the charts. But none of us who lived through December that year shall forget where we were when we learned of his passing. The loss was not only of a popular icon or a rock star, but also of a man who’d struggled against injustice, war and Nixon and lived to tell the tale. The imprint of John Lennon the revolutionary is also sealed forever in our minds and our hearts.

*****

In 1969, as the Beatles were in the process of going through a slow, painful disintegration, John Lennon began to loudly voice his protest against the Vietnam War and speak out in support of social change, even as he experienced the full wrath of the Nixon Administration’s ire. Lennon’s songs such as “Power to the People”, “Give Peace a Chance”, “Working Class Hero”, “Woman is the Nigger of the World” and especially “Imagine” opened up, for mainstream audiences, new realms of progressive ideals and angry dissidence. Though a ‘legitimate’ rock star, Lennon by the early 1970s could be found performing at large peace rallies and also the benefit concert for anti-war activist John Sinclair’s defense, following the latter’s framed arrest for drug possession. Working closely with the Left-wing radical artist Yoko Ono, his life mate, Lennon replaced his mop-top image with that of a bearded, long-haired, counter-cultural force to be reckoned with. Lennon’s voice in support of Sinclair, Angela Davis and the Attica Prison rioters, as well as time spent in the company of Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin and other members of the Yippies, was of great importance to the movement, adding a credence that lesser-known artists could not have.

Lennon’s endlessly long FBI file clarifies the US government’s belief that he was a political revolutionary, and his eventual ability to secure citizenship and rebuff the forces of reaction which tried desperately to deport him were a testament to the power of the youth culture and the New Left. His crowning achievement of protest art is the album Sometime in New York City, which includes songs about the Attica uprising, the Yippie movement, the case against Angela Davis, the trial of John Sinclair, the struggle for women’s equality, the Black Panthers’ fight for survival, the imperialistic violence in Northern Ireland and other issues of great importance to the political Left-- Old and New.

The rock star’s battles with the Nixon Administration and the agents of J. Edgar Hoover were well-documented in the 2006 documentary ‘The US vs John Lennon’. The film depicts the machinations of Nixon’s increasing paranoia as well as the continued hysteria of the Cold War, a virtual minefield of Rightist reaction for Lennon as he sought citizenship. The underground, arch-Right working with elected officials was a constant threat to any progressive, let alone one of such high notoriety (we’d seen the same happen some twenty years earlier as the neo-fascists closed in on movie actors, writers and directors). Hoover remained closeted, as the case may be, but all-powerful. COINTELPRO was operating at full force and Washington was run by this secret government not seen before in the annals of American history—at least not until Cheney went into hiding in his bunker. Lennon’s songs heard in the film, and also seen in historic performance footage, stand out as deeply relevant to the people’s fight-back.

“Power to the People”, a song from his Plastic Ono Band period, stands out as anthemic. With this piece, Lennon was responding to his own trepidation of just three years before; his Beatles release “Revolution” refused to actually commit to the action of its own title. By 1971, he was more than ready. And while “Power” was a great rallying cry, it went even deeper. This song also addressed the sexism that is often evident in the movement, so it offered empowerment—and exposition--beyond the obvious. Once this song actually went to the pressing plant, there was no turning back for Lennon.

While ‘The US vs John Lennon’ soundtrack includes the usual suspects, so to speak, special attention has been placed on rarely heard numbers. And herein lies the treasure. “Gimme Some Truth”, a Plastic Ono Band number from ’71 is a classically angry protest song though it is slow and deliberate in nature and artfully arranged (including George Harrison’s soaring slide guitar). Surely this selection could be about rebellion from anyone’s perspective, especially that of a teenager. In this sense it’s timeless, yet it’s also very much a timely song, what with the politics Lennon encountered.

“Attica State” is a recording made as Lennon and Yoko Ono performed at the Michigan rally in support of Sinclair. Supported by acoustic guitars and, apparently, a thumping foot, Lennon and Ono sound about as raw as can be expected. Unwelcoming feedback from the sound system creeps up more than once, but this just adds to the immediacy. Lennon is even heard commenting on the stripped-down nature of the performance: “I haven’t done this in years”. Another song from the same concert, “John Sinclair”, offers some specifics on the case of the peace activist. But most important is Lennon’s opening statement to the crowd: “We came here not only to help John, but also to say to all of you that apathy isn’t it. We can do something. Okay, so Flower Power didn’t work—so what? We start again”. With this, Lennon gave acknowledgement to the gorilla in the parlor—the reality that the youth movement did not immediately change the nation’s direction—but in identifying it, he also insisted on the need to maintain the fight. This is the difference between a musician of social commentary and one of social protest.

Also present on the CD is “I Don’t Wanna Be a Soldier Mama, I Don’t Wanna Die” from 1971. Credited to “John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band with the Flux Fiddlers”, here one can appreciate Ono’s effect on Lennon: repetitive motives with an almost droning harmonic structure, improvisations atop that structure, with extra musicians added for an orchestral feel, and emotive vocals all point to Yoko’s own experiments in the Fluxus art movement. 1969’s “Bed Peace” is a brief slice of Lennon and Ono’s campaign of ‘bed-ins for peace’. Most profoundly is the song “Give Peace a Chance”, a work which has since become immortalized due to its use at major anti-war rallies during the Vietnam era and today. As Nixon and Hoover both knew, a globally popular rock star with political awareness is perhaps the most dangerous weapon against the confining, repressive grip of the status quo.

And this message carries beyond the boundaries of time and space.

-John Pietaro is a cultural worker and labor organizer from New York. His website is http://TheCulturalWorker.blogspot.com

-AN EARLIER VERSION OF THIS ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED IN POLITICAL AFFAIRS MAGAZINE ONLINE, NOVEMBER 2009-

Memories of the WTC on the Tenth Anniversary of 9/11

2011-08-31T19:17:00.000-07:00

THE SPACE WHERE THE TOWERS ONCE STOOD:

Memories of the WTC on the Tenth Anniversary of 9/11

By John Pietaro

Feels like a lifetime has passed since then. Well beyond the passage of years, it’s the alteration of the social terrain which was more drastic than we ever could have predicted. 9/11, devastating in so many ways, remains downright surreal for those of us who knew the World Trade Center well. And even more surreal as we stare down the tenth anniversary of that day. Everything but our memories crumbled into rubble on that fateful morning, that which was an otherwise perfect late-summer day. New Yorkers can still recall the gentle breeze and sweet, warm scent in the air before the news reports flooded in. Before everything changed.

Visions of the gleaming Towers, of the spacious Plaza between them, of the rushing elevators and bustling lobbies and pulsing concourse; the shops and train stations, the sub-basements hidden beneath public view; the throngs waiting to visit the Observation Deck, the sparkling Windows on the World soirees, the dizzying view from the roof. And the people whose very lives were intertwined with the machinations of the complex. These all remain vivid, tangible for those of us who walked those halls in another time. Neither hateful terror nor blind vengeance can ever fully disappear the visceral life which rang through the Trade Center. Today, in the thick of anniversary fervor, in the shadow of ongoing global strife and rising unemployment at home, we recall not only 2001’s losses, but the history and culture of what once stood high above downtown Manhattan.

****

IT WAS 1980 and I was a college freshman, majoring in music of all things, struggling to maintain grades and a part-time job. Long tired of my work as a supermarket cashier, I leapt at the chance to apply to a security firm with openings for guards at the World Trade Center. As a Brooklyn boy, the prospect of going to work in an important place like that, filled with dignitaries and visitors from all over the globe, in ‘the City’ no less, seemed just so relevant.

It was a grey, overcast February afternoon which found me on the subway toward Queens, seeking out an application and uniform. Once inside the security agency’s Hillside Avenue office, my eyes scanned the fading paneled walls and aging desk. On the wall behind it was a crested banner which featured the profiled picture of a steely-eyed Spartan warrior brandishing a full head-dress and armor. The man behind the desk looked no less static, seemed no less intense than his warrior brother of another age. He seemed to be one who always wanted to be a cop but could never quite make it. It must have been the height requirement, I thought, standing uncomfortably in the small, close room as he shuffled papers, ignoring me for as long as possible, as a drill sergeant might do with a recruit. Here was the kind of guy who’d dare you to knock a battery off his shoulder. Does he have a framed picture of John Wayne at home? Am I really security officer material? But after reviewing my application and taking my fingerprints he told me to report to the sixth floor security office of One World Trade Center on Saturday. I’d be on the day shift, weekends and holidays. The pay was damned good at the time: $50. per day, so no one could complain. Least of all me; I was saving for a car. As I headed back out to the chilly blue-grey afternoon I examined the uniform’s billowy shirt, clip-on tie (yes, the sort they put on cadavers), navy pants and polyester beige jacket with its own miniature version of the warrior crest. Well, at least it was better than the paper hat and smock back at the supermarket near Coney Island.

On Saturday, it was still sort of dark when I left my house and descended into the subway. The ride took nearly an hour—all local stops—and the car was largely empty, save for other weary early morning travelers and the faceless people crumpled into corner seats. The train stopped right in the Trade Center’s concourse within a small maze of still closed shops, restaurants and food stands featuring glitzy designer clothing and hurtfully expensive dinners. How odd this bustling, crowded space looked with the stores shuttered, the lights dimmed and the only passersby being narcoleptic night workers or the lost and lonely homeless who filled the crevices of each doorway and archway as the city slept. Warmed by discarded newspaper and a hide thickened from scorn, the homeless were a significant presence at the World Trade Center in those Reagan era years, when housing and psychiatric programs slammed shut around them and the rich-poor divide grew to previously unheard of proportions. They were a significant presence, that is, until the lights switched on. Then they were ejected out of the sight of the polite dignitaries, shoppers and visitors.

Make no mistake about it, the Trade Center was a world unto itself. For a while I had a cream assignment—guarding one of the stock market firms which inhabited a couple of the upper floors of building one, the North Tower. This agency would be all over the press come 9/11, having lost so many of its staff on that awful day, but twenty years earlier, it was just another marble-bedecked office filled with very expensive art. On weekends, though, things were quiet and I took the time to do homework, listen to a radio someone had conveniently left, and drink lots of coffee. Sometimes it got so quiet, especially as the holidays approached, that one could get caught up listening to the building sway in the wind. By design, the towers swayed just enough to keep them from being damaged under the harsh winds savagely whipping the open terrain—this in a time when Battery Park City had not yet had a cornerstone laid, the World Financial Center was still an empty muddy lot and World Trade Seven was not even a concept. The wind was so severe that walking the Plaza could be physically harmful on an icy day and the doors on West Street were nearly impossible to pry open. So when I say that you could hear the buildings swaying, this is no exaggeration. Sitting in my dim mausoleum of a post, the creaking, cracking, throbbing sound of the structure bending against the vicious jabs of icy blasts prayed on one’s imagination. What would happen if the Tower snapped---or collapsed? But then you stopped and chuckled about how far-fetched that all seemed.

From such a height, where the cars below looked smaller than toys and none of the sounds of Manhattan were audible, one longed for interactions with others. In such a desolate spot, I came to know the patrolling guards well---they looked for a place to have a rest and I needed the company. There was Lew Horowitz, a retired Brooklyn store owner who began working as a security guard on weekends to supplement his income years before. Just old enough to collect Social Security benefits, he said he’d stay on in his position as a Vertical Patrol Guard until he needed to retire from that job, too. “Vertical” referred to the assignment: he patrolled the stairwells and floors of the area known as Abel 3—floors 78-107 in Tower 1--and could get through his run quick enough to stop in and kibitz with me, especially whenever I made a pot of coffee. Lew enjoyed speaking about the Lower East Side of the old days and he would spin on endlessly with quips and bizarre stories about odd characters I longed to know. Quite the working-class philosopher, he was a tall, sweet, awkward man who seemed to gain real confidence only when he could make you laugh---so he habitually hurled out one-liner after one-liner. When not in mixed company, Lew also engaged in the art of dirty joke telling and tried to absorb any new material to fortify his already brimming repertoire of ‘blue’ humor. He must’ve kept a filthy file back in his little Bay Ridge apartment.

Lew was often in the company of Si Feldman, a still older man who’d worked as a municipal employee for many years but also saw fit to seek out a supplement via weekend security work. Another purveyor of classic old New York humor, Si could spit out Borscht Belt stories, a master story teller who rarely cracked a smile. A rotund, gentle sort when he wasn’t telling raunchy jokes or barking at you, Si had a long association with the Trade Center. Between Lew and Si, the entire history of the complex could be heard, peppered of course with outlandish tales of strange co-workers and oddball happenings. I was amazed to hear that during the construction phase, Security would have to man posts in upper floors before the installation of the ceiling-to-floor window panels. Guards would sit huddled in the center of an open, wind-strewn floor avoiding at all costs the areas which might be frighteningly close to the edge. Those were the wild west days.

They laughed about the actions of other bizarre characters, some of which still worked there when I came along. I can recall Haley, a smallish, stocky man with slicked back grey hair and a bulbous, perennially-red nose. Stories abounded of his odd behavior, particularly on the night shift when few might notice the flask in his back pocket. Haley had crashed the security golf cart into a wall of the Plaza some years prior to my arrival, thus guards were hence forth forbidden to operate any kind of motorized vehicle on premises. No one ever let him forget it, least of all Haley himself, but his was a different take. “They all say I am a drinker cuz I got a red nose, but this here nose ain’t caused by drinkin’”, he implored, “I got a medical condition”. Haley had also fallen several times on WTC property and apparently had sued the Port Authority but retained his job over the decades. I imagined the Port bosses wishing he’d just go away. “They can never get rid a me---I got dem by the short hairs”, he would proudly proclaim.

There was also a night shift supervisor named Coughlin who was a tall, dour man with a dry wit who one Saturday night attempted to actually heist a safe out of the Observation Deck. He’d arranged for someone in maintenance to wait in a basement level as he and another accomplice lowered the filled safe down the freight elevator shaft on a chain. Someone apparently spilt the beans and Coughlin ended up lowering the safe to the police waiting below and was arrested immediately. The next morning we entered command post expecting to see Coughlin, as per usual, getting ready to go home, but instead found a sub who didn’t need a lot of persuading to relay the facts of the late-night escapade hours before. This could be a strange place.

Ah, who could forget Larry Heinz? Here was a wonderfully social man who’d lived a fascinating life, filled with poetry and literature and music. He also spoke French fluently and shared his knowledge of disparate facts continuously, but in a mild, soft-spoken manner. Larry lived in Greenwich Village for many years, but had also spent some years residing in Paris and Morocco where he managed Jazz clubs, thus his wealth of knowledge extended into brilliance when he discussed John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk and other giants. But then he also offered tidbits such as, “Do you know the technical difference between a hobo, a bum and a tramp?” I feel the need now to carry on the tradition and offer Larry’s explanation that a hobo travels seeking work, a tramp travels and sometimes seeks work, and a bum stays local and never seeks it. Perhaps this can be viewed as politically incorrect, but I guess there is a pecking order in every social strata. Of course, spending some significant time in the concourse during early mornings, I did come to know some of the homeless and there were lots of travelers among them. Harmonica Harry stayed for a couple of weeks, serenading visitors from his corner with an open box and a sign out front which read ‘Music For Trade’. Harry explained that life had just gotten in the way and he was unable to stop and settle down; he also had never been able to stay sober long enough to finish school. But his music kept him going and often brought new people into his life. His charming, folksy performances remain with me. I guess parts of Harry did settle in somewhere.

Another old-timer of the security force was Roy Turner, who’d survived his tenure as weekday supervisor for years and years. A former Golden Glove boxer, he stood all of 5’ 4” tall but had a shoulders span to match his height. By the time I’d come to know him Turner was well into his 60s and his loss of teeth was apparent, but he maintained a thick head of silvery hair. A voice like a grinding wheel and a vocabulary which could only be described as classic New York, Turner spat out verbal jabs with the velocity of his right-hook in the ring; a cut-up but a serious boss, too. Until he’d obviously crossed one of the brass who took him down in a vicious manner: Turner descended from the supervisor’s desk to a lobby post which put him smack into the throngs of mid-week passersby; there was no hiding. Turner had no choice but to grin and bear it as his sick wife also depended upon his salary. We saw him often on weekends after that, always available for overtime, always hungry.

The old-timers were aware, too, of the divide which had existed between security officers who were white and those who were African-American. It seems that while the complex was still under construction, the security contractor hired two “classes” of guards—class A and class B, each who’d received a pay scale appropriate to their designation. But in this case the B really stood for “Black”. For some years in the 1970s, Lew, Si and the other whites worked for a higher amount than did the guards of color, up until the union came into the picture and demanded equal pay for equal work. By then, the tier system was done away with but some of the older Black guards remained suspicious. They were a mixed group of African-Americans and those originating in various parts of the Caribbean. Many were from Guyana and, in British fashion, preferred to be known not by their first names, but in the formal surname manner—Mr. Peabody, Mr. Palmer, Mr. Heffington, and Mr. Robertson among them. These gentlemen were dignified in their approach, with an appreciation for the arts and the ladies, and with a keen awareness of their surroundings. Mr. Heffington had been a police officer back in Guyana, moving up the ranks to Lieutenant before immigrating to New York and landing in one of those initial B-guard positions. Standing on post in one of the complex’s lobbies, he always stood taller than most and wore his uniform clean and starched.

I had the chance to move to the Vertical Patrol assignments, walking the halls and stairwells of both Towers, examining the silent weekend world close-up. At the time Tower Two was largely filled with New York State agencies and on Friday evenings when they closed up, the floors went dark and vacuum-empty. Tower Two’s sectors known as Baker Two (floors 44-77) and Baker 3 (floors 78-106) were especially lonely places, with floor after floor of utter darkness. And the winding halls had no windows, thereby shutting out all signs of life around you. The security company never had enough working flashlights so one got used to bringing his own. Turning a corner down a pitch-dark hallway was like entering the inner sanctum. We had radios but often they broke down and were subject to going out of range, so you felt alone. I recall waving my flashlight back and forth, desperately trying to fill the blackness with some semblance of light, but this only made you think you saw ominous movement in the shadows. Reaching out for doorknobs in the blinding dark, trying to make sure the offices were secured, one’s hand glided over the walls and hoped to never find a crouching psychopath waiting to pounce. It all seems bizarre with the passage of time, but there in the sealed-in blackness, listening to the grinding sway of the building, it was much too real.

Weekend security officers had whole other lives Monday through Friday, so come Saturday morning we could be cranky and short of patience with each other, at times the public too. Stuck with the economic need to be there, many of us hadn’t had a weekend off in years. Shortly after I began my job, I was able to bring my girlfriend Laurie---now my wife---into the fold. If we could not have weekends free, at least we were both in it together After braving a variety of posts, Laurie became our shift’s Security Dispatcher—a “6-3” in WTC lingo-- which really made her second in command to the shift Supervisor, the “6-2”. She was an excellent 6-3, handling in-coming transmissions over the radio from security officers with problems and Port Authority operations brass with issues. She made up the schedules, answered phones, would trouble-shoot as needed and ran role call when the boss could not be there. She needed to be in at the crack of dawn, so by this time I’d made enough to get my first car---a rattly, steel grey 1976 Chevette---so we drove in together. Home is where the heart is.

Our boss, Ray, was a man who’d become a dear friend. He’d worked there in security for a long time and would eventually work his way up to a Port Authority operations supervisor job. He was a stern, dark-skinned man with enough height and depth of voice that many on staff avoided his glare at all costs, but we came to see Ray as a giving, caring guy with a wicked, hysterical sense of humor. He had a deep appreciation for film and we visited with him and his wife Angela to watch the latest video-discs he’d purchased (Ray was on the cutting edge of technology!). As often happens, after Laurie and I left the Trade Center we had only intermittent contact with Ray. We were deeply thankful, however, to learn that he’d received a transfer out of the WTC almost immediately before the 9/11 attacks. But a few others we knew had not been so lucky. They remain with us almost as myth, elevated through the fading years and tragedy. Among them were Lee, a large Chinese-American mechanic with a huge smile, thick accent and warm greeting. On weekends he could often be found hanging out with freight elevator operator Fernandez (yes, Army-like, people were often known only by last names) or maintenance men Sanchez and Alvalino. Often they were dodging the Port operations supervisor Russo, a harsh, abrupt man who hunted problem employees like a shark. But I was told that when the building went down he was last seen running back in to help with rescues. His remains were never quite found.

During the majority of my run at the World Trade Center, I held the assignment of “6-4”, Key-Run. This meant that I carried the majority of the keys to the complex on a series of jailer-like rings weighing my belt down. I was quite skinny back then so the pants always hung a bit and my belt was working over-time. I opened locked doors when they needed to be opened, secured others, activated elevators and escalators at the start of my shift and did a patrol of the concourse’s stores. I opened up the outside garage ramps, located out on West Street and Barkley Street, and also took calls from the operations and security supervisors for a variety of issues. When a problem with an elevator occurred, they called me to check it out and start another one as needed. The purple-carpeted lobbies of both buildings were lined with shining, silver elevators which briskly took passengers up to the Sky Lobbies at floor 78 with a pop of the ears and a slight nausea to the stomach, the quickest way up. On weekends we kept just a couple of these elevators running, in eye-range of the guard assigned to the post nearby. On several occasions, trying to hurriedly get a car down from 78 to an angry group waiting in lobby, I found myself stuck in an elevator which crawled all the way down in its “inspect” mode, moving in slow motion for what seemed like an eternity. As I sat trapped, calls from annoyed Port bosses would be coming in and the jobs left to do would pile up. “Where the hell is the 6-4?!”.

The guy who held this post before me was another good friend, Malachi Hart, Mal for short. He was an intellectual young man who, like most of us, was only at the WTC for the short term, but was industrious enough to move up from regular guard to Vertical to 6-4 in a brief period of time. He began to date Mia, a pretty lady who worked in the Trade Center’s Observation Deck, and they became quite the item. Today these two remain married, living on the West Coast and their children are fast approaching the age we were when we all met. But back then he was striving for something big to happen and felt he would begin his ascent right there. Soon, he was offered a chance to be at the helm of the afternoon shift. When Mal climbed up, so did I, moving into his 6-4 position with ease. But he had a harder time getting the old job out of his system than most would assume. A few minutes before he began his first tour as 6-2 he heard a call on the radio from the Operations dispatcher, “6-4, 6-4, report down to the Police Desk”. I was still on duty though in no mood for yet another run down to the B-1 level just before getting off from my own day-shift tour. As I grumbled over this in my customary way, I noticed that suddenly Mal was gone with the wind, running down to take the call. “Mal, what the hell are you doing, acting as both Key-Run and Supervisor at the same time??”, I later asked him, incredulously. “Oh, leave it alone!”, he insisted, terribly embarrassed to admit that he’d jumped up in response to the 6-4 call as if on auto-pilot, forgetting for the moment that he’d moved on to bigger and better things. Ray caught word of this and threw his head back, releasing deep bellows of laughter all over Mal’s shine. Over the next months, comedy routines to ward off long, boring hours were based on this scene and the legend grew through quite childish but creative adaption.

A few years later, Mal and Mia left the Trade Center together, after buying a new car and laying plans for their relocation to California. It was his dream, a sunlit haven far removed from his life in Bedford-Stuyversant; the land of milk and honey was where he envisioned making his fortune. Excitedly they drove across country, wishing to see all of the small places out there they’d only dreamt of. He later explained that their adventure turned sour when the couple, tiring and in need of a rest stop, headed into some tiny, non-descript southern village and grew cold as they saw two truckfuls of locals who felt a little more like Klansmen than our friends, both people of color, should feel comfortable with. Mal pulled to a slow stop in order to ask about a hotel or a restaurant and one of the young men in a crew cut stared into his eyes with hatred and asked, “What do you people want around theeeeese parts??” as the rest laughed viciously. Wisely, Mal took the car into a wide U-turn and taking full advantage of the vehicle’s fuel-injected technology. Even months later he said that he still felt the cold sweat on the back of his neck when recollecting what could have happened. But somehow, he maintained his sense of humor.

Some of the operations brass could also demonstrate the all-important sense of humor, like Barry Petrocelli who used the radio airwaves as a portal for dry humor. Calm in any situation, Barry knew his job well and relaxed everyone else with a laugh. And we enjoyed the company of another operations supervisor, Mick Evigan, a warm voiced detective-like character who loved talking about music and drama. A purveyor of the arts hidden beneath a classic “NYPD Blue” exterior, Mick always lent a hand to the staff beneath him. Best of all, he never made anyone feel that their station was of less importance than his own. Even his cohort, angry old Lou Russo, demonstrated a softer side at points: I can still recall him rushing out onto West Street to participate in ‘Hands Across America’ that Sunday afternoon in May ‘86, clutching the hands of those at either side with eyes closed for the momentous fifteen minute interlude. But then there was Rob DeForn, a short, paunchy, easily agitated guy with untrusting eyes, the textbook Napoleon Complex case study. DeForn could only be recalled as a despot and every guard knew his wrath. We would trade DeForn war stories and several of the security and maintenance staff fully expected him to get jumped in the parking garage some night on his way home, left broken in a dumpster. A guy like DeForn, of course, was nowhere near the complex when trouble ensued. While, he may have been the worst of the worst, he was not unique in such a setting. More than a few of the characters one encountered in our weekend world-within-the-world could be harsh, desperately snarling at all who came near them. They were the ones who walked the sullen halls alone.

As Key-Run I came into intimate contact with all areas of the WTC complex, from its sub-basement bowels up through the veins and arteries of its floors and stairwells. And one time in 1987 even to the roof of Tower One, normally only visited by the rare antenna technician: Tower One’s roof had no fence, no enclosed deck as did the South Tower. The occasion, forever burnt into my memory, was in preparation for the unveiling of the just refurbished Statue of Liberty; the scaffolding was now coming down to present a polished, torch-bearing beauty to a waiting public. At the same time, the nation was celebrating the bicentennial of the Constitution, so a huge fete was planned. A phalanx of ships were to fill the harbor that July 4^th, a gigantic fireworks display was to illuminate the sky above the Trade Center and New York was going to play host to an Independence Day like none before.

The week prior, the complex was already in high security mode and the operations and security staff were working with police and emergency services toward a safe, festive coming weekend. I was called up to the roof of Tower One, where I had never been allowed to go before, to open up a caged-in electronics closet for the Port guys up there. Helicopters were scheduled to lower huge searchlights onto the roof, to light the ships down in the harbor during the big celebration. For me, getting up to that level was no easy feat; one had to have a special key obtained from the Police Desk and be buzzed-in by the operations office simultaneous to turning the key. As the roof door opened up, a flood of sunlight momentarily pushed me back: here was the very roof of the 110^th floor on a clear, bright summer afternoon. It took my breath away. I located the supervisor and handed him the key he needed. “Mike, can I hang around a moment? I have never been here before”. “Yeah, sure, John, go ahead. Everyone else is here”, he shrugged, nodding toward the throng of cops, firemen and EMTs who were sitting along the edge of the roof, looking over in awe. I have always suffered from a fear of heights, truth be told, but it only kicks in when I am insecure, where I feel I may actually fall. So, here was a chance to look over the edge of the World Trade Center, from a view free of any kind of guard-rail, window or fencing. My worst nightmare, maybe, but one which was too tempting to pass up.

I moved over, precariously, to where the emergency personnel were sitting. The edge of the building was equipped with a sort of window-seat feature: a platform area one could be caught in in the event of a powerful wind; it was designed to prevent you from actually falling over the edge of the building. But on that day, it served as a box seat for the first responders who were mesmerized by the rare view. I came near the edge and then crawled on my bottom to this balcony above the city, gripping the tar anxiously as I inched my way over. I held my breath as I moved from the roof itself into this safety platform, squeezing the lip as I painfully looked over. It was what the view must have been like from Mt. Olympus. Here’s why these guys were staring out with the calmest look on their faces I’d ever seen. We were out in the open, but well above the fray. The Good Year blimp floated below us, as did a couple of prop planes. We were sitting above even the clouds. Here’s the place where the sky met the steel girders and everything was right all around.

Laurie and I got married in June of 1988 and, moving onto our careers, we said goodbye to our weekend jobs, our many WTC friends and the enemies, too. The latter were easy to walk away from but the former posed a challenge. Over the next few years, we spoke regularly of these folks, the good and the bad, as they became a part of our historic fabric. We enjoyed our free weekends. And then I suddenly found myself out of work in 1993, floundering as one does when a job ends and Unemployment Benefits become a fact of life. The weekends bled into the weekdays and I longed to find a job. Driving over the Manhattan Bridge one February evening that year, the traffic became ensnarled in an impenetrable mass of honking car-horns as the throngs spilled out into Chinatown. Police maintained the streets and every approach was blocked---the World Trade Center had been bombed by a van filled with explosives. It had entered the complex through the Barkley Street Ramp that afternoon. The reports came out that the basement parking garage was destroyed and so was part of the lobby of Building One. My heart grew cold—did everyone get out okay? It had been almost 5 years since we’d visited the site but we still knew all the players. No answer at Ray’s house that night but we got through the next day. His wife Angela said that Ray WAS there in his office in basement Level 2 when the bomb exploded, but he was okay. I spoke to Ray and he said that the blast had literally sent him flying, yet he sustained no injuries. But the place was a mess. As I was out of work I was glad to learn that they were looking for experienced security guards, especially those with a knowledge of the complex and I surely had this. So I signed up.

My first day back was eye-opening, to be sure. The concourse stank of burnt ash and soot coated the walls and the air in front of you. The complex, now closed to the public, was one massive crime scene, with locked gates and police tape sealing off many areas. I walked up to the makeshift command post and showed them the new ID I had been issued, as well as the security pass one needed to get anywhere. The regs now called for different color passes for different zones, different sectors, and the halls were crawling with ATF and FBI agents. Where an Alexander’s department store once thrived was now the Operations center and the guards had traded their jackets and ties for navy blue jumpsuits with ‘Security’ splashed across the back.

The heat was off, so I wore my coat beneath the jumpsuit during the mandatory 12-hour shifts. We were asked to bring our own flashlights and had to contend with a severe shortage of radios. Each guard was now on continuous Vertical Patrol, securing the vulnerable stairwells mostly, and a contingent of supervisors were flown in from around the country to lead special clean-up crews. Burning embers reddened our eyes and irritated our lungs and a gaping crater occupied much of what had been a gleaming lobby. It extended down several basement levels, looking ominously like the gate of damnation, smothered in brimstone. I was assigned to a special Vertical sector each day, without a radio so largely out of contact from any other human. We were watching for intruders and bomb-throwers, but God knows what we would do if we encountered them, sans communication or weaponry. The shifts were long, lonesome and cold and so I carried a couple of books with me to read during short breaks. Sitting in dimly lit stairwells, I got through two novels I’d always wanted to read, Frankenstein and 1984, both tales of utter isolation. I guess I am a glutton for punishment, but the need for some kind of culture had to be responded to under such harsh conditions. Two or three months later I was able to get back to work in my own field at the time (mental health, ironically enough) and my recent experiences in the Trade Center began to meld with those of the years prior. The newer visions, faces and stories added to the legend, the one that lives apart from the everyday, to be called upon when old friends have a chance meeting.

And so I gave little thought to it all for some eight years until that bright September morning with the memorable breeze. That’s when it all came back. As I drove to work, to a hospital in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I experienced an initial numbness at the radio announcer’s insane report of a plane striking one of the Towers. God, I thought, how in hell could they manage to hit that? Racing thoughts of old friends suddenly came to surface when the DJ broke in again: “Uuhhh, we just got another report…”. And then nothing was the same.

****

Tens years hence, the stench of charred memories are dissipated but the gaping hole remains. The space where the Towers once stood is not the only emptiness we’ve come to know. The loss of lives and lifestyles met the encroachment of civil liberties and the rise of suspicion. The war which erupted in the wake of the attacks, accompanied by opportunistic fear-mongering, rages on widely, globally, taking more lives and eating away a pained economy. Now, the folklore of the Trade Center evaporates into the mythology of 9/11. Visiting the site now, one is hard-pressed to recall where the buildings actually reined once so tall and strong.

Fading into plans for this year’s gala anniversary is the vision of the first anniversary of the attacks, circa long-gone 2002. We still felt the numbness then, looking out onto what was. Laurie and I walked the Brooklyn Heights Promenade that night and lower Manhattan peered back like a living, glowing organism. That’s a special memory in and of itself: as Brooklynites strolled silently, facing a Manhattan island which would forever remain altered, two glorious beams of light reached up ward, claiming and extolling our weekends from so long ago.

A Report on the Dissident Arts Festival 2011 from Inside

2011-08-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

THE ART OF REVOLUTION:

A Report on the Dissident Arts Festival 2011 from Inside

by John Pietaro, August 14, 2011

The Sunday morning rain still taps away at my window as I sit contemplating the radical sounds and visions still ringing within. Gray skies today are no match for the leftover vibrancy from last night; just put on accent on the left.

While this was the sixth Dissident Arts Festival, and the second in Manhattan, its gathering seemed decidedly new and brash. Beyond the walls of Greenwich Village’s Brecht Forum stood a city filled with economic uncertainty. Police barricades along West Street could not contain the striking Communications Workers and Electrical Workers who were staring down monopoly capital just a few blocks away, in the shadow of where the World Trade Center once stood. Grifters, grafters and stray teabaggers haunt the outer edges of major media, straw polls and even our home turf seeking blame and profit in all the wrong places. These are tenuous times, times that cry out for an infusion of inspiration and expression.

In 2006 the Dissident Arts Festival came to be in light of and in spite of the Bush Administration. That first year we offered a forum up in Beacon NY for cultural workers of every stripe to sing, to orate, to recite and improvise, and the people came. Pete Seeger and Malachy McCourt (then running on the Green ticket in the NYS governor’s race) were among the best-known names but every performer and speaker carried the weight of establish the nation’s only annual protest arts festival. In the years that followed, the Beacon-based event offered tributes to Paul Robeson and Woody Guthrie, Bertolt Brecht and Phil Ochs, spoke out against war and corruption, talked about social change and social ills and acted as a sounding board for that Hudson Valley community and the friends who traveled far and wide to be a part it-- for at least one day.

In 2010, when my wife and musical partner Laurie Towers and I moved back to Brooklyn after living up in Beacon for several years, the Festival of course followed. Last year was the Fest’s Manhattan debut and what better place than the Brecht Forum. We had a good turn-out and some amazing performers and the strong desire for serious, serious growth. Planning this year’s Fest began almost a year ago. Poet Steve Bloom came aboard and agreed to stand as Poetry Director, which took a load off of me and allowed me to focus on organizing the other aspects of the event. I saw the potential for Festival 2011 and by working closely with many performers and the good folks at the Brecht Forum, we now have good evidence of the power of the arts as a weapon of social change….

The Dissident Arts Festival 2011 began, fittingly enough, with a screening of the incredible film ‘SALT OF THE EARTH’. Conceived and directed by Hollywood 10 member Herbert Bieberman, the story concerns a real-life strike by a local of the International Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers, CIO—a radical union led by Communist Party members which defended the rights of miners and mill workers with a thoroughly egalitarian approach; many of its members were Mexican immigrants and the union fought hard for true equality in the workplace.

Bieberman, under brutal attack by HUAC, reached out to writer Michael Wilson, also a blacklistee, to create the framework for the miners’ story. Paul Jarrico, yes another blacklisted film artist, served as producer and the three brought several professional actors down to a site in New Mexico to begin filming with a cast made up largely of the miners and their families. No major studio would touch it and the film workers unions (SAG, IATSE, DGA) forbade their members from any involvement. Will Geer, who’d been a close associate of the CP and a loud activist for years already, knew he was walking the blacklist line but saw the need to become a part of this and signed on to play the sheriff (he must’ve eaten this up as he rarely if ever played villains). Mexican-born actor Rosaura Revueltas played the powerful lead role up until just before filming ended and she was forcibly deported by a frightened government hell-bent on ceasing production. The film only survived by being smuggled out of the state and finalized in post-production in secrecy.

Yesterday’s screening of ‘SALT OF THE EARTH’ served to inspire the Festival house. With so much attention on the strength of solidarity, if time had allowed I would have gotten some workers from the Verizon strike to come out and speak as well! But we were able to persuade the brilliant film maker KEVIN KEATING to become a part of the Fest for a second year in a row. Keating, who’d been cinematographer of ‘Harlan County USA’ and directed his own ‘Giuliani Time’, focused his discussion not so much on the art but the action----he offered even some burnt-out activists a new spark as he threaded together the visions of a 1950s multi-cultural, gender-equal strike with global rise-ups happening around the world right now.

The concert began in the 6 o’clock hour with THE GWEN LASTER ENSEMBLE (Gwen - violin/piano/voice, Monet-flute, Gary Fitz-percussion) working in tandem with a short indie film, ‘Divine Sparks’, by Imogene Drummond, about the transformative power of creativity. The Ensemble’s ethereal soundscapes and discordant New Music blended beautifully with the film’s imagery and narration and the audience seemed deeply embedded in it.

As the evening progressed, the music, true to form, traded the spotlight happily with poetry. STEVE BLOOM took the mic for the first time of the eve to not only introduce this segment but shared some of his own moving works with us. Steve’s poetry seems to easily straddle the styles of proletarian literature and daring spoken work of today. He was heard later in the evening too, always inspiring others to take pen to paper in a conscious attempt to change the world with poetry. He then brought out MARY ELLEN SANGER to recite her own socially-conscious pieces, some of which were based on her time living in Oaxaca, Mexico and incorporate both English and Spanish-language phrases. Mary Ellen too made more than one appearance over the course of the evening, greatly appreciated by this crowd hungry for wisdom between verses, activism in each phrase.

JUDY GORMAN has been a welcome presence at rallies for many years, sharing her music and insight with activist-audiences in several countries. She was also a wonderful presence at that very first Dissident Arts Fest in 2006 and made a huge impact at this one too. Judy taps into the folksong library but adds new spins to sacred protest standards that shake the cobwebs off and bring the audience together in rhythm. Her version of the Almanac Singers’ “Talking Union” bridges rap with old talking blues and her take on Woody’s “I Ain’t Got No Home” brought Guthrie to Joni Mitchell!

UPSURGE! came all the way from San Francisco to bring the crowd to its feet. Led by jazz poets Raymond Nat Turner and Zigi Lowenberg, the ensemble presented a finely confounded emulsion of modern jazz and spoken word, at once recalling the Beat poets, John Coltrane, Gill Scott-Heron and Amiri Baraka. The end result could serve to bring the Hip Hop generation straight to jazz! They have performed their call-to-arms smorgasbord of sound at multiple progressive gatherings in recent years and if they can arrange to travel across country each summer, they’d be a welcome part of future Dissident Arts Festivals. Ensemble members included Tony Jones on tenor saxophone, Rudi Mwongozi on piano, Bryce Sebastian on upright bass and Larry Johnson on drums (a very hip shining kit of Gretsch drums, I might add).

Next up was poet and singer-songwriter JACKIE SHEELER who performed two of her punk-influenced politically adept acoustic-guitar driven songs and then an expressive poem about aging in our society. Jackie notably wears her heart on her sleeve and her colorfully radical tattoos and mode of dress gave the Fest a much-needed punk jolt; we need to bring on more vestiges of the punk rock movement which also remains near to my own hear---I was happy to offer Jackie some percussion accompaniment on one of her more rhythmic songs. It’s not hard to hear the echoes of Patti Smith and CBGB in her performance.

THE NYC METRO RAGING GRANNIES filled the stage area next and taking it with a vengeance! This gathering of radical ‘women of a certain age’ included Corrine Willinger, Mercy Van Vleck and Sunny Armer, among a bunch of others and leader/accompanist Pamela Drake on guitar. The women brandished ‘Union Now!’ signs and sang several pieces which often newly radicalized old, formerly trusted melodies, to the delight of all. No, there was no need for polite patronizing: these ladies sang with verve and a strong sense of harmony all the while displaying their flowered bonnets!

Spoken word artist SARA GOUDARZI came on next. Originally from Tehran, Sara’s works included pieces about her childhood in Iran and offered a gentle but firm insight into the struggles of the Middle East and her people on these shores. Never raising her voice above a soft, conversational tone (she didn’t need to), the poet offered some wonderful examples of why she’s been so widely published.

My new band RADIO NOIR enjoyed its debut performance this night as well. Radio Noir plays what I like to call ‘Art Deco-damaged protest song’ or perhaps ‘1930s-tinged avant jazz’. In any event the line-up includes a wonderful young clarinetist Quincy Saul (a protégé of Fred Ho and increasingly busy musician, activist and author in his own right), Javier Hernandez-Miyares on electric guitar (Javier is a director at the 17 Frost performance space in Williamsburg, a producer, and prolific guitarist whom I first worked with over 25 years ago) and my much better half, Laurie Towers on electric bass (Laurie’s take on the bass guitar is akin to that of a lead guitarist in most settings, easily bridging jazz with R&B and rock). Radio Noir affords me the opportunity to feature my main instrument, the xylophone, one that is often completely overlooked in jazz music post-1935! I play xylophone with 4 mallets, something usually seen only with vibraphone and marimba, moving between the role of soloist and accompanist. To wonderful response, we performed Brecht/Eisler’s “Song of the United Front” (I also sang a couple of verses), an original modernist blues called “Langston”, a rather spacious take on Woody Guthrie’s “Pastures of Plenty”, a free improv over Hanns Eisler’s statement against HUAC (“Fantasia in G-Men”) and closed with a unique reading of the standard “Temptation”.

DAVE LIPPMAN, celebrated political satirist, had the audience in stitches as he portrayed the ‘Bard of Bankers’ and tore a new one for the transglobal capitalists and lost tea party minions equally. His punchy, comedic songs called attention to so many issues in such rapid succession that I lost count. Basking in the glow of his Bush-inspired, insipid characters, Lippman laughs at the conservative heartland even as he looks deep into the core of us all. As he set out to do, he kept the Festival “fairly unbalanced” in the best possible way.

The celebrated activist poet ANGELO VERGA offered the final spoken word performance and as always his was a powerful note to close that genre on. Angelo founded the ‘3 Poets 4 Peace’ in anticipation of the Iraq war and has been a presence in progressive and/or literary circles for many years. In his works, one can find a vision of life in New York that brings to mind the great Gotham writers of decades passed even as he conjures the state of affairs in today’s news. The lineage of John Reed, Mike Gold and Langston Hughes is well preserved in Angelo and many of the poets heard at this year’s Festival.

The Fest closed out with an aural eruption, the post-modern jazz ensemble SECRET ARCHITECTURE. I encountered this group, in their full quintet line-up, performing at Roulette for a special celebration of John Cage’s Musicircus about 3 months ago and immediately approached leaders Zach Mangan (drumkit) and Fraser Campbell (tenor saxophone). Last night they appeared as a whirlwind of a trio, with bassist Julian Smith, making up for lost sounds without ever breaking a sweat. A monstrously creative, communicative band, they use no written music, relying instead on previously composed vignettes that are masterfully woven together with musical cues and the occasional bit of eye contact. Drummer Zangan’s blurring chops, agitated ghost notes and penchant for tribal rhythms wrapped around Smith’s bold, barking and sliding bass lines and together they provided a brilliant foundation for the tenor of Campbell. The three successfully called on the Coltrane’s inspiration but one undoubtedly heard the 1960s Sonny Rollins trio in there and the spirit of jazz tomorrow! I sat listening but always in anticipation of another gig in which I would love to see this band paired with my own.

Perhaps the revolution may not be televised but one can easily imagine fomenting rage and action with the combined forces of dissentful free jazz, revolutionary word, angry ballads, radical modernist harmonies, dissident dance and theatre, realist and surrealist film and the model of a century of revolutionary cultural workers who came before us to try to change the world. In paraphrase of a Brecht piece, ‘Daily Worker’ journalist and noted proletarian novelist Mike Gold wrote a column for many years which called on artists to take to the barricades in the social struggles of his day; he entitled his column “Change the World—It Needs It” . As much as it needed it then, the world desperately needs radical change today. Now. We are on the verge of a new agitation, a new awakening, a new inspiration that cultural workers must embrace and grow if we are to ever have the organization---the large majority of progressives---to take leadership and truly change the world. And no movement for such change has ever been sustained in the absence of revolutionary art. Dissident Art.

Dissident Arts Festival Celebrates the Radical Left (from "Downtown Express")

2011-08-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

From "Downtown Express", "The Villager" and "The East Villager" newspapers, New York City:

Dissident Arts Festival celebrates the radical Left

August 10, 2011

BY LILY BOUVIER | “The arts are a weapon for social change!” — urges Lower Manhattan’s “Dissident Arts Festival.” In the name of social justice, dissidents and cultural workers will gather for this evening of progressive poetry, music and film — in celebration of radical Left culture (and in solidarity with the struggles of workers and the globally oppressed).

This year’s sixth annual festival will begin with a screening of long-blacklisted labor film “Salt of the Earth” (followed by discussion by film artist Kevin Keating). Then, musical performances from radical poetry/jazz ensemble Upsurge!, post-modern jazz band Secret Architecture, 1930s-meets-contemporary-improv band Radio Noir, jazz violinist and vocalist Gwen Laster, singer/songwriter Judy Gorman and labor/peace choir The NYC Metro Ragin’ Grannies. Political satirist Dave Lippman and poets Steve Bloom, Jackie Sheeler, Angelo Verga, Rashidah Ismaili, Robert Gibbons and Sara Goudarzi will also take the stage. Folk-protest songs, improvisation and contemporary composition will tear down boundaries and bend rules — calling dissidents to take action.

At the Brecht Forum, center of Left education and culture (451 West St., btw. Bank & Bethune Sts.). Aug. 13, 4-11pm. Sliding scale admission: $6/$10/$15 (free for Brecht Forum subscribers). For info and a schedule of events, call 212-242-4201 or visit brechtforum.org.

Shortlink: