Tuesday, February 17, 2009

The Rage

They tell me Rage is sweeping the country -- which got me thinking . . .

One of my favorite Bluegrass bands, playing Little Maggie:



Oh, yonder stands little Maggie
With a dram glass in her hand
She's drinkin' away her troubles
She's a-courtin' another man

Last time I saw little Maggie
She was sittin' on the banks of the sea
With a forty-four all around her
And a banjo on her knee

Pretty flowers were made for bloomin'
Pretty stars were made to shine
Pretty women were made for lovin'
Little Maggie was made for mine

Lay down your last gold dollar
Lay down your gold watch and chain
Little Maggie's gonna dance for daddy
Listen to that ol' banjo ring

Go away, go away, little Maggie
Go and do the best you can
I'll get me another woman
You can get you another man

And while thinking about Little Maggie, I got to thinking about the prisoner who told his buddy to "take this hammer, and carry it to the captain -- tell him I'm gone." What most of us would like to tell our boss from time to time, I suppose -- as told by Leadbelly:

Take this hammer, carry it to the captain
Take this hammer, carry it to the captain
Take this hammer, carry it to the captain
Tell him I'm gone
Tell him I'm gone

If he asks you was I runnin'
If he asks you was I runnin'
If he asks you was I runnin'
Tell him I was flyin'
Tell him I was flyin'

If he asks you was I laughin'
If he asks you was I laughin'
If he asks you was I laughin'
Tell him I was cryin'
Tell him I was cryin'

They wanna feed me cornbread and molasses
They wanna feed me cornbread and molasses
They wanna feed me cornbread and molasses
But I got my pride
Well, I got my pride



Then I got to thinking about Little Maggie's cousin, Darlin' Corey, recently deceased, and her boyfriend's efforts to wake her from the grave. A song about capitalism and stock market gambling gone wrong, I suppose, but great poetry nevertheless (which is what we are here for, right?):


Wake up, wake up, Darlin' Corey.
What makes you sleep so sound?
Them revenue officers a'commin'
For to tear your still-house down.

Well the first time I seen Darlin' Corey
She was settin' by the side of the sea,
With a forty-four strapped across her bosom
And a banjo on her knee.

Dig a hole, dig a hole, in the medder
Dig a hole, in the col' col' groun'
Dig a hole, dig a hole in the medder
Goin' ter lay Darlin' Corey down.

The next time I seen Darlin' Corey
She was standin' in the still-house door
With her shoes and stockin's in her han'
An' her feet all over the floor.

Wake up,wake up Darlin Corey.
Quit hangin' roun' my bed.
Hard likker has ruined my body.
Pretty wimmen has killed me mos' dead

Wake up, wake up my darlin';
Go do the best you can.
I've got me another woman;
You can get you another man.

Oh yes, oh yes my darlin'
I'll do the best I can,
But I'll never take my pleasure
With another gamblin' man.

Don' you hear them blue-birds singin'?
Don' you hear that mournful sound?
They're preachin' Corey's funeral
In some lonesome buryin' groun.'

A more traditional version, as performed by Roscoe Holcomb. Can you make out the words?


More by Roscoe Holcomb, beginning with Little Birdie:



Little birdie, little birdie
Come and sing me your song
Got a short time to stay here
And a long time to be gone
Rather be in some dark hollow
Where the sun don't ever shine
Than for you to be another man's darling
And to know that you'd never be mine
Little birdie, little birdie
What makes you fly so high
When you know that my true lover
Is a-waiting in the sky
I'm a long way from old Dixie
And my old Kentucky home
Got no father or mother
No place to call my home
Little birdie, little birdie
What makes your head so red
Well, after all that I been through
It's a wonder I ain't dead
Married woman, married woman
Why don't you settle down
Your heart's like the little birdie's
You're flying all around
Little birdie, little birdie
Won't you sing to me your song
You've caused me lots of trouble
You've caused me to do wrong
Pete Seeger's listening -- and I'm wondering what he's thinking.
For one thing I'm sure he's proud to be bringing the work of this great artist to the public. So he's "presenting" Roscoe Holcomb, and you can see that.

But. At the same time, you can also see in his expression something like what must have gone through Salieri's mind when he heard Mozart: what is the enormous gulf between this man's art and mine? Why will I never be able to come near what he is expressing? What is that profound gap between the direct pipeline to the soul and that which merely represents it? It's not just the poetry, because the same words can be sung by anyone. So what is it?

I'm recalling the great line in Kurosawa's "Seven Samurai," where the master swordsman confronts a young, but inexperienced challenger: "It's so obvious."



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