Kindly Disregard This Entry

No, not really. Please to continue.

It's a variation on a quote. You'll get it in a few minutes (with any luck).

Tonight, I saw on facebook a quiz (one of the singularly stupidest things about facebook) to measure one's "Jewishness". You wind up with a score--like 81% Jewish, or 93% Jewish--based on five questions, which just doesn't even make mathematical sense. And that's not even mentioning the fact that one of the questions, regarding how many candles are on a menorah, didn't even have the right answer as one of the choices.

So I've been sitting here thinking, because you know, this is not the first time my Jewishness has been called into question. And I'm thinking that it doesn't matter one whisker if you had a bar or bat mitzvah. It doesn't make any difference if you eat chopped liver or matzoh ball soup. It's irrelevant whether you light candles on Hanukkah or fast on Yom Kippur. What matters is what makes you laugh. Oh. And songs, too.

You see, it is a little known fact that, among my extensive arsenal of lyrics and songs which by the way have little if any known usefulness is a special slot for one Allan Sherman. A whole lot of Allan Sherman (just stickin' with the sour old lady theme here). And, as you know if you know me at all, that library-of-sorts just isn't going anywhere. I'm stuck with it, ready with a mere cue.

If you don't know Allan Sherman or his songs, well, let me just say you have missed out on a valuable piece of Americana. No, knowing "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh" doesn't count. That song has passed into the common parlance, into the knowledge of the masses. Everyone knows it. It doesn't count as knowing Allan Sherman. On the other hand, if you know the date on which the liverwurst was put in the case at the delicatessen store or if you know how tall the martian gal was, you're well on your way. And if you don't, there's still hope for you. You can always hire me for private tutoring. I am also available for parties.

And although I just said it didn't count, Hell0 Muddah, Hello Fadduh (yes, it's Muddah and Fadduh, not Mother and Father. Puleeze.) is really the driving force for this post tonight. Because I'm thinking about camp this summer. I'm thinking about one of Phoebe's friends who is at sleepaway camp this week, about all the kids who are at sleepaway or daycamp this week. And the song is ringing in my head--that's how it always works. They come unbidden, when an association autodials them up in my Neuro-Rolodex (oh god, I'm realizing that people might not know what a Rolodex is anymore either. No, it's not a watch.) and there I am, walking around singing, embarassing my daughter (as I have been recently informed. Yes, it has started already). I am thinking about how I had thought of trying to arrange a riding camp for Phoebe this week. I had thought about whether she should re-enroll at the day camp she attended last summer, the one with the lake and swimming lessons. I am thinking of the swim tags we have for swimming in the unheated town pools and the local reservoirs. I am thinking of summer. And I am sitting here, listening to the thunder, watching the pouring rain. We had 26 days of rain in June. And today, July 1, it was raining harder than ever. How could anyone not think of Allan Sherman?

So, with no further ado, here you go. It might not count, but it's called for.



(psssst. It's October 1st. And 5'2". Just so's you know.)

It Won't Take Long

I dare you.

I dare you to resist the power of this music, of this poet, of this writer, of this soul, of this woman.

I dare you to resist the American cult of popularity. Or at least to analyze it.

I don't care if you don't like folk music. This isn't about entertainment. As I say to my daughter, as maybe you say to yours, it isn't always about what you like. Sometimes, it's about what's good for you, what's important, and what's true. And real. It's about power. Power lost, power stolen, power embodied.

I'm not saying you should listen to it--that's up to you. I'm saying you should know it, like what I wrote about Bob Dylan. At least some of it. One song. Maybe you even do know it, and you just don't know.

I don't care if you are one of the people who think that "women's music" was a phenomenon, an artifact of a more segregated and oppressed time, a thing that is largely in the past (that is, if you've heard of "women's music", despite the fact that it's where Melissa Etheridge came from). I don't care if you think it's whiny, or self-serving, or something that only belongs to and in the homes of old lesbians who have at one time toyed with separatism, who talk too much about feminism (apparently no one has told them that that's all over), who have not shaved their legs or underarms since, oh, say, 1980. I don't care.

Yeah. This is preachy. And arrogant. I know. I don't care about that either. Some things are worth fighting for, and when you're fighting, you're not always cajoling and compromising. This is one of my protests.

In the United States, we do not show appropriate reverence to our artists and our poets. Our Great Ones. Every four years or so, we trot one out and they read a poem at an inauguration, and we all say "Wow." Do you know who the current poet laureate of the United States is? Do you know that we have a current poet laureate? Do you know that she's a lesbian? Does it matter? (oh, man, the times they are a-changin')

We smile, and laugh, and nod as we accept the notion of "starving artists", without questioning why those two words need go together. Well, of course a singer-songwriter or a poet or a stone-carver doesn't make much money, as if poverty is a choice of one who is called to their art. Of course? Why?

It bothers me. In the United States, all too often we follow who we are told to follow, we eat what is put in front of us. Yes, even you. Yes, even me. In large part, we do so with willful ignorance of the path. It troubles me that we pay painfully little attention to how those people, that music, that news story, that food, came to be in front of us, how we have quietly been guided to select them. Those who try to talk about it are called names--isn't that the American way--like "cynical", "politically correct", "anarchist", "overanalytical". They're told they think too much or they have too much time on their hands. Of course, that's only until we get sick, or there's violence in our communities, or someone hands us a poem or a CD that changes our lives.

Of course, there's the "right" music, food, writers in any given community--it's not universal. Mary Oliver is a great example of this. Don't get me wrong. I have been moved by some of her poetry, and there are many whose lives she has changed. At the same time, in certain communities (like, say, mine), she is often "the one". The Poet. As if there are not others lesser known who write just as beautifully, as movingly, as painfully, as evocatively. How many people do you know who have spent hours in a poetry book shop or the poetry section of a bookstore, leafing through the books, wondering at the amazing talent (and sometimes the lack of it) on those shelves? Not many, I'd bet. I'm guilty of the same thing, of course. I hear something on the radio, or a friend passes a powerful poem along, and there I am, in line at the local bookstore, buying a copy. I bemoan it in myself as well. Maybe it's laziness?

Here's a question. And, I suppose, an answer. We read books that Oprah tells us to read. Why don't we read books that Audre Lorde told us to read? What accounts for that?

I guess all I'm saying is that we accept things too easily. And in doing so, we miss nuggets of pure gold.

Ferron is one of those nuggets. She is a bonafide genius, a brilliant artist living and working and writing and singing among us for more than 30 years, and damn few know who she is.

Rolling Stone magazine called her a "culture hero" and referred to one of her albums as "a thing of beauty", likening her to Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. "Cowgirl meets Yeats", they said. I don't know about the cowgirl part, but I get what they mean.

In Boston, at one time, she played to an audience of 2000 in the Opera House. The Boston Globe said of her "Someday, they will call Dylan the Ferron of the 60's". Yup.

And so why doesn't everyone know who she is, or know at least one of her songs? Well, I don't need to say it. She has said it herself. Hell, it's been in print. Here's how Ferron explains it:

"I can remember that the New York Times listed Driver as one of the top albums of 1994. Then, the ensuing article was all about Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell. I was on a plane flying home when I first read it. I was so happy, but I couldn't tell the guy in the seat next to me about it because under the photo of me was the caption 'lesbian singer-songwriter.' Neither Dylan nor Mitchell had been identified this way. Perhaps, they felt that I would have taken it as a sign of disrespect if they had not said 'lesbian,' but they didn't understand that this was not what I was selling. I was selling a way of thinking — a way of getting through a knot in your life."

Bingo.

The fact is that we ignore the genius of some and we idolize the genius of others, and the difference has nothing to do with...well, anything. Well, anything other than those silly little things called sexism, racism, and homophobia.

Yeah, it's preachy. I'm kinda angry.

I'm angry that I live in a culture where certain people are "in" and others are "out" and that it bears no particular relevance to their abilities, talents, or genius.

I'm angry at the violence that is done to our children, to women, to minorities of all stripes, some of which is perpetuated by the absence of their authentic voices in our daily lives. I'm angry that there is a head table, and that asking to have one of yours represented at the head table is presumptuous. I'm angry that people laugh, albeit in recognition and reminiscence, when I say that I go to Ferron's concerts. "Wow! Is she still around? Whoa, that brings back memories. I saw her in 1984!". Me too. Do they say that about Bob Dylan? Bruce Springsteen? Do I laugh when they say they're going to see the Indigo Girls or Tracy Chapman or Ani DiFranco, all of whom were mentored by Ferron? Why, if they loved her in the 80's, have they not continued to support her work?

I'm angry that Ferron has been overlooked.

Which is why I am beyond words about the new documentary about Ferron's life. It's called Girl on a Road (the title of one of her songs), and it is currently making the film festival circuit. If it comes to your town, please go see it. Here is the trailer:



So today, I am praying, even though it's the kind of thing I don't often do. I am praying that this movie does not fade into obscurity. I am praying that it makes it on to public television, as it already did in Canada. I am praying that its audience not be limited to those who are already spellbound. I pray that it will move people to listen to and purchase her music. I pray that she gets the praise and recognition she deserves.

Since I seem to have been ending posts recently with some words on blogging, I suppose the thing to do is to use Ferron's own words, here from an December 2008 interview. I offer them to the fellow bloggers who read here.

"If you write, you have agreed to take longer to think because other people don't have time because they are doing something else. You're taking on a commitment in the same way that a shaman has agreed to take on the illness of the village and ground it. So, in that sense, artists are shamans. They have agreed to reflect and take on the illness of the culture and remind us of what we may have forgotten."

This is why I write.

I'm not really so into Isaac Newton

Okay, so the folk music piece just isn't dying.

It started in the most unlikely of places. With this article.  It is the most invigorating, reassuring, and genuinely honest piece I've read about the march toward equal marriage, and its most recent branch-in-the-road, the Prop 8 decision in California.  There is no way I could have possibly said it better than Mr. Morford, even though it is exactly what I would want to say if I was gonna say something.  Be sure to read it, k?

(Come to think of it, I kinda did say it.  You probably don't know this, but my family was part of a Showtime movie about equal marriage several years back, when Massachusetts made it legal. Okay, so it wasn't really my idea and a little tiny bit against my will, but I was in it anyway.  If you saw it, you may remember my "It's not about us" mini-rant at the end.  That's what I was trying to say. He still said it better.)

 

I mean, I like the videos that have come out, all the ads that illustrate so cleverly how absurd it is that people should get to vote on other people's marriages.  It's a "duh" that for some reason, they don't seem to get in the wonderful if arrogant state of my birth.  But then again, there's quite a bit they don't get, including the idea that it should be kind of hard to change a constitution (at least if it's supposed to mean anything), the idea that California really should be two states, and the idea that being gay, male, rich, and living la vida loca in Los Angeles means that anything you want should pretty much happen automatically (surprise!)  On the other hand, they do get that you shouldn't put heavy or valuable things up on high shelves, especially above where people sit, something that still startles me in Boston, especially in those Italian restaurants in the North End (what's with the North thing, anyway?  North End, North Beach..??), even though there aren't usually earthquakes here.  There could be.  There have been.  Oh.  Wait.  I forgot.  That would be proactive.  Never mind.

But anyways, back to folk music.

As I was reading the article above, I was most struck by three little words:  "You've already lost". And of course, because, well, I'm me, a song started playing in my head.  For those of you that don't know, I have an internal soundtrack.  Actually, I think it's kinda cool.  Sometimes it's faint, and I can barely make it out.  Sometimes it's oblique, and I have to follow a trail of breadcrumbs to find the actual song.  And sometimes it's like I'm standing right next to the speakers in the Winterland Ballroom (if you don't know the reference, you should, this is history we're talkin' about).  

Today was one of the Winterland ones.  Maybe (probably) because it was Dylan. 

And then I got sad.  Really quickly.  Because once this happens, I'm walkin' around everywhere, singing the song, humming the song (I'll have to tell you a funny story about that subconscious humming sometime, or maybe I'll let Phoebe tell you), doodling the words, all kinds of stuff...but mostly singing.   Phoebe said (as she usually does when I sing something incessantly) "Is that one of your songs from chorus?"  And I said "No, this is a song I have known my whole life."  

Here's the thing.  When a song comes on this strong, I not only walk around singing it, but I want so much to sit around and sing it with others (singing in community carries its own amazing power, as I hope you know).  I close my eyes and transport myself to a rally where we are all singing this song together.  Now.  Because of this issue.  Because of this vote.  Because of this article.  I'm wishing that right this very moment.

And that's when I hear the voices (the ones that are a matched set with the rolled eyes).  The ones that say I'm "crunchy" or old or a throwback.  The ones that say "I don't know that song", which just makes me feel like we have failed, I have failed.  Best of all, the ones that say "I'm not really into Dylan."  That's where I fall over.

Not really into Dylan?  What does that mean?  Does it mean they don't like his singing voice?  Join the crowd.  Does it mean they think it's for old people, like their parents or maybe (gulp) their grandparents?  Does it mean that they don't want to be associated in any way with the word "hippie"  (which, btw, I keep seeing young people spell "hippy", which irritates me to no end aside from the fact that being hippy is a whole 'nother thing altogether and also makes me feel like we've missed the boat in history class)?   Does it mean they're too cool for folk music, because all people who like folk music are like the characters in A Mighty Wind?  What does it mean?

Because here's the thing, and if I sound preachy, I gotta say that I just don't care.  Dylan is a genius.  Dylan is an integral part of our history, not only music history, but political history, sociocultural history.  You don't have to like his music, you don't have to buy his recordings, you don't have to go to his concerts, you can be creeped out by how he looks or talks or sings. But he has changed the world, and you should at least know that.  

I'm not so into Dylan?  It's like saying I'm not so into Einstein.  You can like him, you can not like him, but you should know what he did.  It's as simple as that. 

You will be happy to know that I am not, in this space, at this time, going to get into talking about Ferron, who is easily as much of a genius and a world-changer as Dylan (and it's not just me that thinks so).  Another day.  We should all know about her, too, if only as a lesson in how white heterosexual male privilege is alive and well and so fully imbued into our culture that we don't even know it or believe it when we see it.   Okay, right, I'll stop now.

The thing about folk music is that there are a few songs that are iconic.  Songs that we should all be able to sing at a moment's notice, simply because of their ageless ability to match world or political events over and over again.  Let's just say they come in handy.  

Then, when it's one of those times when one of the songs is the perfect fit,  you could show up and sing with me, which would just make me really happy.  

This is one of those times.  If you know it, sing along.

Here's What I Was Gonna Write

I was gonna write about the times we live in.

I was gonna write about freedom and equality and softball and poison ivy.

I was gonna write about the chasm between generations, about gratitude, shoulders, and selective and collective amnesia.

I was gonna write about the paradox of being a Californian in the days following the Supreme Court decision on Prop 8 while celebrating the fifth anniversary of equal marriage as a longtime resident of Massachusetts.

I was gonna write about folk music and about those who snort loudly and roll their eyes at its mention.  I was gonna write about the irreplaceable and holy relevance of folk music in times when change is afoot, and how the reflex of apparent dismissiveness leaves so many cold in the storm, unaware that there are well-worn blankets to wrap around themselves, ones that have the potential to offer powerful warmth and surprising familiarity.

I was gonna write about invisibility and separation and how some things are only noticed in their absence.  And I was gonna write about how that makes me sad.

I was gonna do links and pictures and stories and thoughts and feelings that pulls all of these things into a neat, or not so neat, narrative.  

I was gonna write solely in the present tense, as the most powerful people and the most brilliant writers in my life have assured me that this is the way to write, and I believe them.

I was gonna write it all in pieces, stretching it out across hours, or better yet, days, in the interest of meeting the challenge I have set for myself.

That's what I was gonna write.  Just so you know.