Gombeen Man
Writing (having) my own column is something I’ve wanted to try for quite a while, never had the termerity to suggest (it being so obviously an ego trip), and have now had foisted upon me. Of course, I find myself with nothing to say. It’s Spring, of course, and there ought to be something in that—at the very least I should be able to pontificate about swinging your leg over a motorcycle and blowing the accumulated ice and cancer out of your guts—but it’s been such a slovenly, stretched-out, tantalizing attempt at a new season that the fresh flush of enthusiasm (and hope for ending winter’s paralysis) has been spent in a series of false starts.
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Gombeen Man
Writing (having) my own column is something I’ve wanted to try for quite a while, never had the termerity to suggest (it being so obviously an ego trip), and have now had foisted upon me. Of course, I find myself with nothing to say.
It’s Spring, of course, and there ought to be something in that—at the very least I should be able to pontificate about swinging your leg over a motorcycle and blowing the accumulated ice and cancer out of your guts—but it’s been such a slovenly, stretched-out, tantalizing attempt at a new season that the fresh flush of enthusiasm (and hope for ending winter’s paralysis) has been spent in a series of false starts.
Or, I could write about country blues. There’ve been a series of new releases by old masters of late, and there seems to be a rebirth of interest in the music (or is that wishful thinking? Do any of you actually listen to the blues ?). Actually the one record I would tout is .Mance Lipscomb, Vol 5 (Arhoolie 1049). I really haven’t heard much of Lipscomb, but I’m tremendously impressed by the vitality of this effort (he was 75 years old April 9). His singing voice is that of a young man, his guitar playing is crisp and effective, and when he speaks on this record it is with a vigorous and saucy wit (“gonna get drunk, white folks!”).
Which reminds me of a sort of theory that Sheldon Annis was proposing to me recently—that for a long time us white folks picked our black entertainers for their harmlessness and lack of virility (“some college kid would come running, declaring that he had found some old fart who could play just like Robert Johnson,” as the way Sheldon characterized the phenomenon). Jimi Hendrix changed all that, according to him. On the other hand, the whole macho Black Identity thing may be a shuck. What is all this about? Mance Lipscomb can be heard to sing “Johnny rode a pony with a bell on his dick.” What? Spring is mating season. Remember that, girls.
I’m still listening to Mance Lipscomb. Now playing is “I’m Looking For My Jesus,” which sounds a lot like “I’m Waiting For My Man,” sort of. God, the mind reels.
This is a fairly low energy attempt at a column. If I don’t think of something pretty quick I may have to rerun some of my old Timothy Leary fantasies.
An interesting thing is how little anyone I know(myself included, overtones to be left unconsidered) has been affected by Paul McCartney leaving the Beatles. For about six months we’ve had what is supposedly John Lennon’s phone number—we’ve never used it, even to find out if it’s really his. Anyway, when we found out about this latest thing I of course thought “OK, I’ll see if I can call John and get some fab exclusive quotes and all,” but somehow I never got around to it, and finally realized I never would. The point, if there is one, seems to be that the Beatles have come to be kind of irrelevent. They appeared, did their incalculably important number, and just kind of dropped out, in their own unique way. Fair enough, and thanks, for everything, but they won’t really be missed anymore, I don’t think. (I really don’t think that I’ve explained muself, but what the fuck.)
Listen, I can’t end this without some gratuitous advice. I have spent the winter in the city, and truly learned to hate it worse than ever. My advice, then, is GET THE FUCK OUT. Not just for a picnic or a weekend or a week or, any kind of “vacation,” but for long enough to learn what the planet is all about. Ecology, the Revolution, it’s all talk, bullshit until you’ve established some kind of personal unity with the whole system, and the only way you can do that is by living in righteous harmony with the planet, letting the unspoiled ecosystem work its magic on your mind and body, bring you around. Now is the time to do it, slide into the planet when the weather’s nice and the system most receptive to new life. Stay as long as you can, let your balance be altered, learn to live in a more natural rythm, and if you find you have to come back and confront the death culture once more, you’ll do it from a position of true strength.
More inside tips on how to live your life next time. Meanwhile, maintain as best you can.
Deday LaRene
