Dan Quayle: Rested, Tanned, and Dumb

The perfect GOP candidate: Dan the Man Quayle

So I’ve been following the Republican “debates,” an act of abuse only slightly less painful than self-flagellation. To call the field “undistinguished” does a disservice to the term “mediocrity.” There are 14 declared candidates, though for some reason the media thinks there are just seven “serious” candidates-Michele Bachman, Newt Gingrich, Jon Huntsman, Ron Paul, Rick Perry, Mitt Romney, and Rick Santorum. Herbert Cain’s shocking win in a Florida straw poll may force the media to call it eight, though nobody with the slightest knowledge of politics would think that Cain, Gingrich, Huntsman, Paul, or Santorum has a better chance of surviving than a Hershey bar on an El Paso sidewalk. Who is Cain? Oh, he’s black. I don’t think so! Newt is yesterday’s fish wrap, Huntsman is an unknown Mormon battling a known Mormon, Paul should be heading the Libertarian ticket, and Santorum would be a jihadist if he wasn’t such a “serious” Christian.

That leaves Bachman, who is as mean as Santorum and certifiably crazy to boot; Perry who is so dim he’s managed to self-destruct in six weeks; and Romney, a Mormon who’d happily call himself a jihadist if he thought they’d vote for him. Remember how the GOP excoriated John Kerry as a “flip flopper?” If I were a Democratic strategist I’d be salivating over the sound bites I could write if Mitt is nominated. (And can’t you just see those fundamentalists who label Mormonism “Satanic” getting real excited about Romney?) Sarah Palin is, of course, the wild card but the forthcoming Joe McGinniss bio of her will expose her as the vacuous self-seeking troll she really is.

Of the second-tier candidates, only one--former Louisiana Governor Buddy Roemer--has any name recognition, and then only for those with long memories as he was ousted in 1991. What a set of doozies the rest are. There’s Fred Karger, a gay activist, who never got the memo that Republicans hate gays. Career flight attendant Tom Miller is definitely lost in the clouds, as is Vern Wuensche, whose platform is that CEOs should be in charge of America. (Who’s the VP candidate, Bernie Madoff?) The field also includes Andy Martin, who launched the Obama-is-a-Kenyan campaign, and Gary Johnson, a man so nondescript I had forgotten he was once governor of New Mexico. My personal favorite is Jimmy McMillan, who looks like a bounty hunter and once ran for office on the Rent is Too Damn High ticket.

If ever there was a race to the bottom, this is it. Give them credit, though; Bachman, Martin, McMillan, Miller, Palin, Paul, Perry, Santorum, and Wuensche recognize that the Stupid Bloc might be the biggest sector of the American electorate. He or she who gets the moronic masses off their asses has a chance to win. And, of course, Mitt Romney is willing to be very, very dumb if you say you like him; Mitt’s just so willing to please. He’s probably taking drooling lessons as I type. But, you know, none of these folks are battle-ready stupid; each carries too much baggage (paid for by campaign contributions in Palin’s case). The GOP needs a uniter, not a divider--someone like Dubya, but he’s ineligible.

Then it struck me--why not Dan Quayle? He could package himself as a prophet and proclaim, “I was dumb before my time.” Wouldn’t a man who said “I made good judgments in the Past. I have made good judgments in the Future...” be perfect to lead 21^st century Dumb Democracy? His supporters wouldn’t know what the hell he meant when he says, “What a waste it is to lose one’s mind. Or not have a mind is wasteful….” But they wouldn’t care! They’d understand when he told them it was time for the “human race to enter the solar system.” Or not. Who cannot love the principles of a man who stood up to Sam Donaldson and asserted, “I stand by all the misstatements I made.” Tell folks that he’s from Indiana, the Hoosier state, and he’ll wrap up white, male, breast-fixation voters who think Hoosiers is the regional name for the Hooters chain. Now that Dan’s older and has lost some of his pretty boy looks his handlers could say that his gray temples give him more gravitas. This would go down well with GOP voters who would say, “Hell, yes, I like a little gravitas on a potatoe.”

Why is the GOP still searching? Its perfect candidate is right before its eyes. I can see the posters: Dan Quayle in 2012. He’s Rested, Tanned, Protestant, and Really, Really Dumb. Mitt Romney might want to sign up for advanced drooling. Better yet; he might want to convert.

Red Heart Falters in Margaret MacArthur Tribute

RED HEART THE TICKER

Your Name in Secret I Would Write

Auger Down Records 008

*

The late Margaret MacArthur (d. 2006) was one of my favorite people. She was a kind, generous soul who found more value in the simple things of life than most folks could get from a pile of gold. In the 1940s the Ozarks-born MacArthur moved to Vermont and began collecting folksongs, both from the archives and from people she discovered in the hills and along the back roads. Her 1962 Folksongs of Vermont is rightly regarded as a Green Mountain treasure.

If ever there was a CD I wanted to love, Your Name in Secret I Would Write is it. The record consists of plus two field recordings Margaret made in 1961, plus ten of her favorite songs. The latter are performed by a duo calling itself (rather cumbersomely in my view) Red Heart the Ticker. It consists of Margaret’s granddaughter, Robin MacArthur, and her husband, Tyler Gibbons. They have a good feel for old-time music but, alas, not for Margaret’s repertoire. When these songs were collected, Margaret made the conscious decision to present them unadorned. She was, in many ways, the last generation of what used to be called “source singers.” Although a handful of performers--Tim Eriksen springs to mind--continue the stark ballad tradition, unless you’ve got pipes like Eriksen’s, it’s hard to engage audiences these days without more polish and a lot more instrumentation than was expected during the Folk Revival.

There are three problems with Your Name. The first is that the album is neither this nor that. When you have old-time material, it works best to be either a conduit or an innovator. I had hopes that Red Heart would be the second, based on the opening track, “Mother’s in the Graveyard,” in which Robin MacArthur’s dry voice intones atop the drone of an Estey pump organ. It’s easily the album’s best track. The experimentation of the opening track quickly became formula, with other instruments taking on the organ role. And here is where the second problem emerges: Robin’s voice has different qualities than Margaret’s. It is, simply, not clear enough to carry stripped-to-the-bones story songs. If we can’t make out the lyrics of a ballad, they mostly become just long songs with inconsequential melodies. The third problem exacerbates the second--the recording is muddy and the balances are off. “Carrion Crow,” for instance, has parts in which residual ringing from the instruments nearly obliterates the vocals.

Some times being a reviewer sucks. I loved Margaret and continue to indulge in love affair with Vermont, whose arts council (along with the NEA) helped underwrite this project. I wanted to tell you that Margaret MacArthur’s torch is being carried by a new generation. But as a reviewer, I have a duty to say that this album simply isn’t very good.

Boo Hoo in Boston Induces No tears Elsewhere

David Ortiz--who is not the problem--contemplates historic Sox collapse.


As a Yankees fan I’m in Dawg Heaven over the Red Sox collapse, officially the biggest choke since hanging was outlawed. If you’re a Sox fan, don’t look for much sympathy outside of New England. All that Red Sox Nation is a load of crap and the Old Towne team is just as hated as the one you like to call the Evil Empire, and it has considerably fewer fans outside the region. (The Yankees have the odd distinction of being both the most-hated and the most-beloved team in the country.) The big question is what next for the Sox. Heads will and should roll for a team that played as if the season began in May and ended in September. As a baseball observer, not a Yankees fan, here are a few things to watch for.

Reports out of Boston say that Terry Francona is on the hot seat. Are you kidding me? There is, simply, no better manager out there with the possible exception of Mike Scoscia of the Angels and he’s going nowhere. Francona isn’t the problem; I’d happily trade Joe Girardi even up for Francona. The anti-Francona nonsense reminds me of those who wanted Bruins’ coach Claude Juline’s head when the eventual Stanley Cup winners went down 0-2 to Montreal in the first round.

If you want a scapegoat, a better choice is GM Theo Epstein, who assembled this Yugo and tried to pass it off as a BMW. Theo the Boy Genius is another myth the magnitude of Red Sox Nation. The ’04 team that won was Dan Duquette’s team for the most part, as was the ’07 roster. Theo’s only real slam-dunk signing was Curt Schilling. How did the Daisuke Matsuzaka thing work out? Epstein is also the architect of 2011 signings such as John Lackey, Dan Wheeler, Bobby Jencks, and Carl Crawford. Just as important, he’s the guy who did not sign Victor Martinez or Adrian Beltre, and thought that a washed up Jason Varitek and a never-will-be Jarod Saltalamacchia could hold down the catching corps. He’s also the guy who thinks Marco Scutaro is an everyday shortstop. He’d better be; you heard it first: heir apparent Jose Iglesias will not hit MLB pitching. If you’re looking for help down on the farm, don’t; Theo gutted the system in free agent compensation and ill-advised midseason trades. (Did someone say Erik Bedard?) What the Sox have mostly are guys who’ve worn the “can’t-miss” tag for so long that it’s faded on their Pawtucket uniforms: Kyle Weiland, Michael Bowden, Felix Doubrant…. (I actually think the latter has promise, but the Sox have misused him as a middle reliever instead of back-of-the-rotation starter.)

I’m also hearing that David Ortiz may be non-tendered. My word! What more can that man do for the team? All he did was put up a line of .309, 29 dingers, and 96 RBIs. Do they think that September flash Ryan Lavarnway will duplicate that? He’d have to because few scouts think he’s an everyday catcher. If anyone has earned a Derek Jeter-like contract for past services rendered, it’s Big Papi, who will have no trouble finding work if the Sox cut him.

So who needs to go? You can forget about dumping Crawford; no one will touch that contract. Label him J. D. Drew Redux. Lackey, on the other hand, must go no matter how much of his contract they have to eat. In a rational world the Sox and Yankees would exchange bad contracts--Lackey for A. J. Burnett—in the hope that a change of scenery would get a decent year out of each. My thinking, though, is that he returns to the Angels with the Sox picking up about two-thirds of his salary in exchange for a few middling prospects. Two others who should go are Jed Lowrie and Josh Reddick. Each is a decent player, but Lowrie plays no natural position that’s open and Reddick would fetch a needed second-tier relief pitcher.

Many people call for Jon Papelbon to be dumped, but I think the Sox must squeeze another year or two from Pap because everyone else in the pen except Alfredo Aceves should go. My list includes the overhyped Daniel Bard, who should be traded before everyone in MLB figures out that his pitches are fast, but straight and Scott Proctor- hittable. Unless he’s hiding a cut fastball somewhere, this kid is not a future closer. The rest of the pen is yard sale material, if there’s a buyer. Otherwise, take a good look at next year’s Pawtucket bullpen. My pare-down list includes a sad call: Tim Wakefield is done. Wake is a class act, but all good things must come to an end. (Hatchet man Josh Beckett should have half of Wakefield’s class—among the Sox needs is a catcher who will protect the everyday lineup from tit-for-tat retaliation by reining in Mr. Beanball.)

How much wiggle room the Sox have is disputable. It’s very possible they may need to unveil Nomar Chapter Two and move a very popular player to fix the roster. Jacoby Ellsbury might win the MVP award, so he’s probably untouchable, and GMs will lowball the injured Clay Bucholz. Sox fans will cringe, but Dustin Pedroia is probably the team’s most-tradable commodity.

Elizabeth Warren Explodes Self-Made Myth

The self-made man: a total myth!

Massachusetts U.S. Senate candidate Elizabeth Warren has the rightwing blogosphere quaking in anger (or is it in their hypocritical boots?) for a viral video in which she took a butcher knife to one of the most overfed sacred cows in American history: the Myth of the Self-Made Man. She rightly parsed the considerable difference between self-made and self-serving.

In case you missed it Warren said, “There is nobody in this country who got rich on his own. Nobody. You built a factory out there — good for you. But I want to be clear. You moved your goods to market on the roads the rest of us paid for. You hired workers the rest of us paid to educate. You were safe in your factory because of police forces and fire forces that the rest of us paid for. You didn’t have to worry that marauding bands would come and seize everything at your factory….Now look. You built a factory and it turned into something terrific or a great idea — God Bless! Keep a Big Hunk of it. But part of the underlying social contract is you take a hunk of that and pay forward for the next kid who comes along.”

I jumped for joy when I heard this if, for no other reason, I’ve been saying this for years. The Loony Right has, of course, accused her of fomenting “class warfare,” an absurd charge she preemptively addresses. Elizabeth Warren isn’t suggesting socialism, folks; she has something far less radical in mind: social contract. Or maybe it’s Biblical. Republicans love to wrap themselves in Scripture, but do any of today’s “faith-based” moralists bother to read Luke 12:28: “Everyone to whom much is given, of him much will be required….” The last politician I recall using this line was John F. Kennedy, and doesn’t that speak volumes about the erosion of the civic ideal in America? There’s class warfare going on, but it’s the war of the rich on the rest. Think I’m exaggerating? Explain to me why it’s a radical idea to eliminate a tax break for Americans making over $200,000 but perfectly okay to allow one to expire that affects only those making under $75,000.

Spare me the pious pronouncements (read unadulterated bullshit) about “job creators,” “rising boats,” and “investment capital.” These are lies we’ve been repeating since the Reagan Rhetorical Revolution of the 1980s. Warren got it right—all job creation depends on a favorable business climate that occurs when social capital intersects with investment capital. Do you think, for example, that the New York Yankees decided to build their new stadium in the bucolic Bronx out of the goodness of their owners’ hearts? Or did a billion dollars of city (and taxpayer- supported) infrastructure improvements and revenue enhancements have something to do with it?

Do people rise from adversity and dramatically improve their lives? Of course they do. I’ve done it myself (though let’s say that the under $75k tax break interests me more than the over $200k). Did I do it entirely on my own? No way. I am a product of sweat equity, but also of public schools, aid to poor families, federal educational grants, taxpayer-supported payrolls, insured mortgage programs, and government funding schemes that allow me to travel to jobs on public roads and burn cheap gasoline. (Take away federal trade policies on petrol and let me know how much driving you can afford!)

The self-made man myth is a misunderstood and pernicious threat to American society. The term has been around since the 17^th century, but its original meaning implied a person enterprising enough to take advantage of society’s opportunities (even if they came in the form of access to free land). Henry Clay is the person who began to bend the meaning toward crass (and mythical) individualism. In an 1832 speech before Congress Clay bragged that in Kentucky, “almost every manufactory known to me is in the hands of enterprising and self-made men who have acquired whatever wealth they possess by patient and diligent labor.” He said it, but he didn’t believe it. The legislative effort for which Clay was best known? He was devoted to a scheme dubbed the “American System,” a call for public dole money to support building canals, carving out new roads, funding the Bank of the United States, assuming state debts, and improving national defense. He also wanted high protective tariffs. In other words, his “self-made men” wanted someone else to pay for their transportation systems, underwrite their loans, guarantee their physical safety, and protect them from competition. Clay called this the American System, but stripped of the sound bite it’s called “federalism.”

So again I say, hurrah for Elizabeth Warren! At last! A Democrat for whom I can cast a vote without a clothespin on my nose! To those who actually still believe in the hoary old self-made myth I say: build your own damn roads, independently fund your own projects, use your Second Amendment right to protect yourself, and do not come crying to Uncle Sam for bailouts if disasters strike or a future Bernie Madoff runs off with your self-made gold.

Jokes, Jokesters, and Michael Graham

Have a good Michael Graham joke? Post it here.

I just read that Boston area shock jock Michael Graham is under fire for a series of dwarf jokes. As it so happens, I have a dwarf friend and have had an encounter with Graham. If this doesn't make me an expert, nothing does!

Among Graham’s “witty” remarks was the observation that he likes dwarf waitresses “because I can leave my dishes on their heads.” Is this funny? To me it ranks pretty far down the clever scale. It is mean and hurtful? Well, sure it is. So too are all of the short jokes I've experienced my entire adult life as a person who, though not a dwarf, am considerably less tall than the average American male, or “lummox,” as I like to call them. My choice of nouns in the previous sentence is meant to be glib, but also to remind us about a basic fact about humor: There is a butt to every joke. With all apologies to you well-intentioned folks who think that we need to be nicer to each other and should only tell jokes in which no one gets hurt, being nicer is a worthy goal, but your second wish is impossible. Take away the butt and there is no joke, no humor. We might as well face facts; the only politically correct jokes are those in which comics use themselves as the butt, or those that pick on white males. As I understand the PC crowd, it's not wrong to make fun of the hegemonic group as one is speaking truth to power. Yeah, right. You just keep telling yourself that!

This brings me to Graham. He's from the Rush Limbaugh/Ann Coulter/Bill O'Reilly branch of the evolutionary tree. Did he intend his dwarf remarks to be innocent? I doubt it. His shtick is outrage; or more to the point, that's the shock jock genre's shtick. Take away the screaming, the outrage, and the controversy and there is no reason to listen to radio shows such as his. Graham even creates enemies so they can be the butt of his jokes. He is to radio as the National Enquirer is to journalism; that is to say, entertainment, not news or serious political commentary.

I appeared on one of Graham's shows when I was teaching a controversial course on the 1960s. I knew what he wanted to do: make me look like a crazy professor out of touch with mainstream (defined by him as rightwing) values. If you've ever listened to or watched one of those shows, you know the trick: get the guest mad so that he engages in a shouting match with the host, who controls the microphone, the edits, and the ability to continue giving commentary after the guest is cut off. A lathered-up guest can give these folks material for a week. Why people go on these shows and think they can out-do the hosts at their own game is amazing to me; it actually confirms some of the arrogance that's alleged against "elitists," a favored put-down term for anyone with views to the left of Attila. (Apologies to all Huns.) My university, which felt it needed to address some of Graham’s allegations, forced me on the air or I would steered clear of the show. But I decided in advance that I simply would not play Graham's game. I laughed at his attempts at humor--like asking me if I passed out pot before each lecture--treated him with respect, and stayed completely calm. I knew that he hadn’t done any actual research--facts are boring, after all, so I filled in all the non-lurid detail. I even offered to email my syllabus to anyone who wanted it. In short, I made myself into a non-controversial guest; other than a single snarky post-interview comment, I was history as soon as I went off the air. Fine by me! I even got a few emails from Graham fans saying they thought he was out of line. I cherished those, but I also answered them respectfully.

So is Michael Graham a low-life? I don't know the man, but I suspect he probably isn’t. Graham and his ilk outrage those on the left, just as those on the right have spasms when they see Michael Moore or Jon Stewart. In each case, what we're really mad about is American culture. Those folks simply take advantage of what the capitalist market will bear, which makes it pointless to get mad at them. As I said, they're in the entertainment business. We should no more expect revelatory truth from these folks than we should expect a movie to show life as it really is. Don't we tune in to both in part because we seek vicarious thrills rather than the homemade kind? And, really, in a world of Bernie Madoffs, I just can't find within me the anger to think that a Michael Graham is tearing down American society. I try to reserve outrage for real things, not fiction.

Is Michael Graham funny? Not to me and not to my friend, but he has his fans. Should he lampoon dwarves? As my mother would say, pick on someone your own size, but maybe he ran out of professors. But do I want to lead the torch and pitchfork brigade to the radio studio? Nope. I know all of the arguments about how language is linked to power and how dominant groups use it to keep subordinates "in their place." I don't enjoy Graham's dwarf jokes any more than I would a racist joke. But like I said, there's always a butt, or there is no joke. You can get outraged by offensive jokes, but I think a more effective strategy would be to turn the offender into the butt of a counter joke. So fire away. Post your favorite Michael Graham jokes here.

Boubacar Traoré's Contemplative Blues

BOUBACAR TRAORE

Mali Denhou

Luafrica (distributed by Harmonia Mundi)

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Malian bluesman Boubacar Traoré knows that some times a good song take a while to unfold. Although many of the tracks on Mali Denhou open with guitar riffs that most players have to work up to, Traoré lets his songs unfurl at a pace that finds the seam between blues and trance. That effect is aided by a voice that’s more sexy than smooth, and the dreamy accents with which he adorns it.

Although Traoré is the headliner, harmonica wizard Vincent Bucher create such a musical pas de deux that the two often seem an African analog to John Cephas and Phil Wiggins. Traoré’s blues are smoother instrumentally and gentler in content, but he and Bucher know that meaty hooks and dazzling riffs are the soul of a great blues song. They open “Dundôbesse M’Bedouinato” with single glass-like guitar notes. Suddenly Traoré rips off a run, Bucher blows outs a melody line, and balafon artist Fassery Diabaté eases the tune into a groove. Finding the groove is pretty much Traoré’s stock and trade. Each time he rips off an impressive run it’s in the service of setting a contemplative mood. Check out his opening lines of “N’Dianamogo” and what happens next. All of this could get a bit tiresome, but Traoré has the good sense to know when to change the pace a bit. “Mondeou” has a chunky dominant line that would be at home in Chicago blues, but the melody of “Minuit” employs a folky rolling strum that feels like something Woody Guthrie might have played. Then there’s “Fama,” an instrumental that’s a mash between classical Spanish and West African guitar stylings.

This is an impressive release from a Malian legend who has been whipping out masterpieces since the 1960s. It’s all the more dazzling when you realize that there are no studio tricks involved. What you’re hearing is the first take. It’s almost frightening to think of what he’d come up with if he spent a lot of time. But then again, there’s no need to polish an already gleaming gem.

Here's an old number from Traoré.

Magic From West Whately (Wherever That Is)

Impressive music in an unassuming place.

Big or little? What’s the best venue in which to hear music? While not much can compare to the sensory feast and technical glitz of a big arena show, and a Woodstock-like festival can be like stepping into a parallel universe, when it comes down to hearing the music rather than having an “experience,” small is beautiful. I was reminded of this recently by three very intimate concerts in an unlikely venue in an even more unlikely place.

West Whately, Massachusetts could be the poster child for the old New England joke punch line “You can’t get there from here.” There is no there there. If there’s a village “center” I’ve never found it; West Whately is more of a geographic designation for scattered farms and homes that aren’t close enough to other towns to be counted as part of them. But it does sport a 19^th-century wooden church, the West Whatley Chapel. It sits at the end of a pond formed by an earthen dam, woods on one side and a tidy farm on the other. It’s also the site of Watermelon Wednesdays, a June through September concert series organized by a local, Paul Newlin, whose über-friendly black lab is a regular attendee. About a hundred folks gather weekly to sit on folding chairs and hear amazing musicians, many of whom record at nearby Signature Sounds. Think that life has gotten too complicated? Take in one of these concerts and step back in time. Lots of times the musicians don’t even plug in, but even when they do, it’s to the single thin amp that sits on the “stage,” a slightly raised platform where the pulpit once stood. There are no monitors, and the “stage lights” consist of clip-on lamps rigged together with extension cords. The chapel is a literal bats-in-the-belfry place. At intermission the audience goes outside to eat watermelon—free with your $15 ticket--and watch the bats dart out to the pond to feed. (Alas! White fungus disease has decimated their numbers as of late.)

So what kind of music can you hear? Grammy Award winner Laurie Lewis showed up in July with a passel of old-time songs and some fiddle prowess that shows why she’s also won some International Bluegrass Music Association prizes. The California-based Lewis was in her element in a place that could be transported to the Appalachians without culture shock. Her spare show reminded that music is supposed to be about voice and a few instruments—anything more and it’s spectacle.

August was ushered out by some locals who have made waves and have joined forces: Four Toads in a Basket. An odd name I grant you. It came from a (very) failed pick-up line used on Tracy Grammer, one of the “Toads” and a name just about everyone knows from her past partnership with the late, great Dave Carter, and her recent collaborations with the talented Jim Henry, another Toad. Their fellow wart-givers are the golden-voiced Ben Demerath, and producer/musician Dave Chalfant, perhaps best known for his bass guitar work with The Nields. Four Toads was playing just their second show, but they’re already playing as if they’re really enchanted princes and princesses. Or maybe angels in tight four-part harmony. Their work-in-progress repertoire is almost impossible to describe. Suffice it to say that it ranges from traditional songs to The Rolling Stones and they don’t miss many stops in between. Think Michael Jackson is dead? Listen to Demerath cover him before you draw that conclusion!

Several weeks later I went to hear Aoife O’Donovan, who is also the lead singer for Crooked Still and Sometimes Why, and a candidate for the coveted Tina Fey Cute Glasses Award. Her show was the opposite of the Four Toads in that just one voice, O’Donovan’s, was on display in all its sweet, willowy tones reminiscent of a less-nasal Alison Krauss. She appeared with three band members, including Ryan Scott, who wielded a mighty steel body resonator guitar, but true to the West Whately formula the two guitars/bass/drum kit ensemble made a powerful but controlled-volume racket. It was a lovely evening of ambient songs such as “The Burning,” a bit of grit (“Oh Mama”), and one of the best covers of Joni Mitchell’s “Urge for Going” I’ve ever heard.

The season’s almost over, but if you live anywhere nearby you’ll want to check out the Sweetback Sisters on September 28. The rest of you should plan a summer 2012 vacation to West Whately. Just don’t look for brochures at the travel agency.