BOOKS

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THE TRIAL - TOM HAYDON

“Our crime was our identity.”

Reminescent of a Jew talking about Nazi persecution, Tom Hayden tells how he felt during the six months in Julius Hoffman’s Chicago courtroom.

In The Trial, Hayden’s new book, he gives the first complete account of the Chicago Conspiracy Trial and more. “Our crime was that we were beginning to live a new and contagious life-style without official authorization. We were tried for being out of control.”

In his introduction, Hayden says of the trial “It was something out of Kafka’s imagination — six months of living in Judge Hoffman’s neon oven...” Kafka’s book of the same name could have been the fictionalized forerunner of the reality they experienced and presumably why Hayden used the title.

In his easy, rambling style, Hayden not only gives a clear documented account of the infamous trial, but also offers programs for change, explanations of complex problems, and new insights into the movement. It is without bitterness and without rhetoric that he writes, relying more on a common sense evaluation in expressing his views.

That in itself is a refreshing change making the book more enjoyable for those interested in this subject. But in addition, Hayden is the first to make honest admissions about the Conspiracy Seven’s collective and individual faults. Points that neither Abbie Hoffman nor Jerry Rubin ever1 touch upon in their respective literary endeavors.

In his chapter “The Limits of the Conspiracy”, Hayden thrusts recrimination upon himself and fellow “conspirators” for their elitism, egoism, and male chauvinism. These are heavy charges in the Movement.

“Most of these limits stemmed from the fact that the seven of us are white middle-class males, accustomed to power and status in the Movement,” he writes.

“Our male chauvinism, elitism and egoism were merely symtpoms of the original problem — the Movement did not choose us to be their symbols; the press and government did.”

Hayden warns the Movement and potential followers, “We are just the kind of individualists around whom a movement should not be consolidated. We are valuable perhaps as a resource to draw upon, but not as a leadership to unite behind.”

Using the history of events leading up to the trial as a background, Hayden plunges into every aspect of the bizarre proceedings in the courtroom. Convention Week 1968, Bobby Seale, Contempt of Court, The Jury constitute only a few of the chapters. The most enlightening and best documented section proved to be “The Rigging of Justice.”

It is here that he casts needed light on shadowed areas of the trial,

GOLDSTEIN’S GREATEST HITS -PRENTIS HALL - $5.95

This is a “book mostly about rock ‘n’ roll” or at least mostly about Richard Goldstein’s ideas of what rock V roll is about. Which may not be yours or mine, but they are well-written, incredibly so. And, since it is an anthology of pieces . from 1966-1969, this book is the best reflection of the nostalgia of my teenagehood that I have available. especially the silencing of important witnesses. Former Attorney General Ramsey Clark among numerous others was forbidden to take the stand in the interest of “national security” when they had important testimony concerning the Convention and riots.

“Renault Robinson, a Chicago police officer . . . had some of the most explosive testimony which was suppressed. He listened to police chanting ‘Kill, kill, kill,’ in pre-Convention drills, and knew of cases where black patrolmen refused to participate in the bloodletting. After the Convention, he was present at a police ‘victory party’ where a captain stood at attention while his men shouted ‘Seig Heil’ ” Hayden fumes.

At other times the author scrutinizes each of his fellow defendants closely, their personality, their politics, their performance in the courtroom. He says of the Yippies, “Compared to Abbie, Jerry’s image as a Yippie was neither funny nor delightful. It was that of a hostile revolutionary . . . Jerry’s endless needling of the prosecution seemed designed to hurt their feelings, while Abbie was never dislikable . . . Abbie is kind of a contemporary Voltaire who charms the very ruling class he threatens.”

A founder of SDS himself, Hayden criticizes the Weathermen and speaks of them only in the past tense.

“They were not guerrillas swimming like fish among the people; they were more like commandos, fifth columnists, operating behind enemy lines . . . They were not the conscience of their generation, but more like its Id.”

Although relatively soft-spoken, Tom Hayden is a serious revolutionary — all reservations and criticisms aside. He is deeply angered by the problems plagueing this society and the treatment accorded to those like Bobby Seale. He is prompted to call Seale a prisoner of war in a hostile country when discussing the New Haven indictment of the Black Panther.

He expects change and places his faith in the youth because as he says, “There is no new silent majority maturing to replace the old ... At best, they (the governing forces) are ruling half a society, — and the aging half at that.”

If you want to know what the media left out or never discovered, if you care to investigate a side never shown before of the Conspiracy, The Trial will show you.

Franz Kafka wasn’t just whistling you know what. It’s not only that the subject matter is occasionally so dated that you are forced to remember that the pieces were written some time ago, though in a number of cases that’s certainly true (Maharishi, Tiny Tim). And it’s not that Goldstein’s style is dated; he was and is easily the most relatable of any of the rock writers.

Cheryl McCall

No, it isn’t style or subject that makes this book dated, it’s its entire manner of approach. We’ve all grown up since then, since the days when the most important event in any of our lives, the most pressing problem, was what the newest jams were and how to relate to them — contextually, of course. We haven’t got time for that any more, the shit’s coming down too hard and too fast.

Greatest Hits captures an era so very well that one is inevitably wound up in missing it, for as long as he’s reading the book and maybe left with the aura of the time for a while after, like a mellow hangover one doesn’t really care to shake because the memories of the night before are far too pleasant. And, like that kind of hangover, those kind of memories are becoming far too rare, far too few and infinitely too far between.

This is something that no one could have written today; Richard Goldstein certainly couldn’t have. The times are different and they require different literature. And Goldstein even chronicles that, he even lays that right out for us to see and understand. In “Love: A Groovy Idea While He Lasted”, the story of the beginning of the end for peace/flower/love hippiedom (or, perhaps, the end itself, the idea died so swiftly) he lays it all right out there for ya, kids. Sit back and remember whatever it is you did and in 1966 or 1967, just think about that for a minute kids and if it don’t depress you, then it sure does depress me. I miss those times, mostly because there was a whole lot more time then and no one I knew was in jail, or if they were they were liable to be out in something less than a decade.

And I miss a whole lot of other things too. I miss the MC5 that Goldstein describes as “Live and whole. They move with the kind of energy long gone from rock, but not forgotten.” I miss the sort of Grande Ballroom scene that Goldstein refers to as “wall-to-wall rapport.” That just doesn’t exist anymore, not anywhere, not with the speed and the skag running rampant on a field of bogus psychedelics and ups and downs and jive bands that don’t give a fuck no more, bands that are pop stars but not people, not the way bands used to be people.

Greatest Hits is, for me, what Ruben and the Jets must be for those a little older; memories of days when things were simpler, slower and easier to deal with. “Back in the 1960s/You made your - own amusements then” as the Incredible String Band would have it. And I’m glad Richard Goldstein did this book because he was the prime chronicler of the rock and roll of those days. And I’m glad he cut off \vhere he did, in late ’68 or ’69. Rock and roll made it that long and Goldstein maintained his interest. He is the very best writer we have and we can only think of what it was like when he was writing frequently (rather than discussing Billy Graham, the preacher, Nixon’s friend, not the preacher, Grace Slick’s friend) in US: The Paperback Magazine.

And he leaves me feeling really sad about what rock and roll has become, he leaves me with the only 1966 sentiment I can leave you with, a comparison of rock and roll with a giraffe:

“I love the giraffe for its color, its coat, and its bobbing neck. I love to watch it run. So I try not to watch when I see it fall, and I see it fall all the time. People like me are good at loving giraffes, but we can’t save them. That’s up to you.” (Village Voice, 1966)

Dave Marsh

THE JOB - INTERVIEWS WITH WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS - DANIEL ODIER - GROVE PRESS:

Like a little sun in cold water poetry answered those who wished to impose a language on us. And it became the great stripping of habits — The thunder of sexual machines fertilizes their creators & the half-dead curtesy. You must know that your doubles are going to kill you because you imitate dogs.

Packing dogs, dog-bosses, dog-professors, dog-cops, short-haired china dogs, silent screams prove that you are just robots, pisshitting and jacking off the Universe — Let’s not talk about those who whine in their iron lungs, they are the servants of pure coincidence — That kind of machinery must be taken apart piece by piece, period — Read The Job.

We were in a restaurant, William, Mary & I. And, as a matter of fact we were talking about The Job that had just been bungled in France by a few publisher-pimps — It happened a little before Jack Kerouac’s death.

We drank some vodka at William’s place we were imitating the French literary men.

“William” I said, “I think that the image territory is slightly melancolic.”

“Uh, like I said - Oh! Be quiet, Cluade! ”

We had to find the remains of a French writer in the garbage on 23rd Street, armed with an insecticide bomb, Black Flag or Raid. But Bill says it’s shit not as good as the old method — You know, “Hey! any bugs Lady, Exterminator!” — but I was spraying people at random, the dumbest, that is the healthiest.

The control machine wants us to respect the law, even tho we’re high & weightless. And we don’t want to be high anymore, we want to look beyond their radioactive planet corrupted by the cops.

TIME IS RUNNING OUT THE ASSASSINS ARE HERE.

01’ Bull’s eyes shine like blow torches, piercing, tender, as blue as the pistil of a Sweet William flower, & I see he’s in good spirits.

“We must get cracking with that thing,” he says to Mary, concerning his visions of Jane Burroughs.

“Tongueless & throatless, flowing towards long ago” (you understand?). But he never adds that to what he says. “A substance brought to life in memory, word-signs for virus orders, here is my gun & my E-Meter” — it was written on his forehead. Emotion in a wall of water. Then he assures me that he really saw the following inscription in a Paris pissotiere: J’aime les types vicieux qu’ici montrent la bite.

Burroughs & the muffled explosions of expressions, stories running away, as it was in St. Louis & an identity cooking in Yage, at the frontier.

A guy comes over, an old Englishman as filthy as a comb, sputtering, hammering away breaking our balls.

“The world is evolving, Sir,” he said.

“It’s quite possible, but one must respect the Union rules.”

“Hey Bill, what do ya know! How nice!”

“Hey Bill! Do ya have any kif?”

“Kif? what’s that? A candy? Kif? Really!”

A heavy blue haze surrounds us, the smoke from his Players — “these guys must be on duty” he whispered in my ear — but they were kicked out in a rain of cats & dogs.

“Shake the handle, the razor is inside.”

How many confidential reports do they digest a day? We’ll never know, but The Insect Trust will appreciate it

— Mother Hubbard passes by on an inflatable turd, the Universe’s Massage-Machine has nothing to declare

— A red sob in the jukebox.

“A mexican Special, please, with wine & anchovies” — just the same we wept with boredom before taking them away from their minds — 0 heritage of centuries in the sugar candy tunnel.

“I dispose of sickness, I shoot light whenever I like,” said a young man.

“My friend if I could I would love to tell you, just like that.”

Jimi Hendrix came over for a moment, smiling, calm, very relaxed.

The barkeep comes over, “Mr. Burroughs this, Meester Burroughs that, ah hi ho Meester Burrows” — a puff of artificial silk ended his speech

— the chatter of witnesses floated in the sky — they shook out their sleeves!'

William said he would never live on a farm because the chickens made such a horrible noise.

I left the table for a minute. In the crapper 2 Puerto-Rican spies ask me if I’d like a $100 worth of heroin. I pee. Back at the table I tell this to William.

“You should’ve said: OK, I’ll give ya $200, if you pull the chain, flat foot/”

Inspector J. Lee of the Nova Police shot an iron sun at the pale waiter who collapsed reduced to ashes. We left the Shitola Fric Frac as quickly as possible.

“Pack your fuses, faggot!”

“Let’s get outta here.”

A junk negative under Manhattan’s electric shower. We deposited our black fruit in a beauty bank. Knives attacked vacant lots. We were going to meet Allen. And “directions” beams danced in Bill Gray’s pale eyes.

We had the last drink in his room — Without warning he left the next day

— painters & decorators had invaded the apartment someone had lent him — the dialogue of hallucinating freaks left with the visionary flutes — Savages spilled into the Snow Subway halls — a few days with Bill in the Pink Window

“Regional competition, et pas de commissions,” he wrote from London, a few days later, without laughing.

NY Chelsea Hotel May, '70

by Claside Pelicu Nola Express (UPS)