Old Black Men: a review of Fat Albert's open stage for Wednesday, May 11th

            On the evening of Wednesday, May 11^th, I went to the Fat Albert’s Open Stage. When I arrived at the Steelworkers Hall I could see right away that we had been relegated to the small front room near the entrance, so I didn’t have to be directed there by disgruntled security guard. There were six people on the list ahead of me when I signed in.

When Glen Garry arrived I offered to assist him in the set-up. It was the first time I’d helped put the show together from scratch. I mounted the speakers on their tripods; I went to the closet to bring the microphone stands. Glen, Brian Rosen and I did a relay from the soundboard at the front of the room to the stage area at the back. Glen would pass a cord to Brian between the wall and the chairs and Brian would in turn pass it to me. I would unravel each one and toss it to the front. There was a seemingly endless amount of cords and I began to wonder if I was on Candid Camera. I commented, “There sure are a lot of cables for a room that doesn’t even need to be miked!” Brian laughed and responded, “You’re not supposed to mention that!”

I informed Glen that he’d put a lot of old Black men out of work last week. At first he didn’t know what I meant, but then I reminded him of his changing of the lyrics in Steve Goodman’s song, “City of New Orleans” from “freight yards full of old Black men” to “freight yards full of tired old men”. He told me that he’d done that on purpose because he was uncomfortable with the “appropriation of voice” in the original lyrics. I really don’t see how looking out a train window and observing the fact that the freight yards are full of old Black men is by any stretch of the imagination an appropriation of the African American voice. Someone other than a Black person would have to try to convey the perspective of those old Black men in the freight yard for it to be considered by even the strictest standards as an appropriation of voice. The whole concept of appropriation of voice is horseshit anyway. It would mean that a screenwriter from a given culture would be wrong to include a character in a story from outside of his or her own culture. It would be segregation all over again. Glen admitted that he might be oversensitive about the issue. Ya think? Brian overheard our conversation and wanted to know what the original line had been. When I told him, he didn’t see anything wrong with saying “old Black men”, and repeated my thought about a writer describing that which is observed. After some research I’ve found that it was apparently John Denver who first whitewashed the song when he sang “old grey men”. I don’t think that by rendering songs generic we are helping heal any racial tensions. Most people when hearing “old grey men” or “tired old men” will automatically imagine old white guys if they don’t know the original lyrics. But most southern railroad maintenance workers in the United States were African American. To deny that is not being colour blind but rather being just plain blind in the metaphorical sense of ignoring reality.

Glen decided to start the open stage twelve minutes early.

We began, as usual, with Charles Winder, who started playing even before Glen had moved the microphone to his guitar. As I was listening to Charles play, I thought of the percussive step dancing that traditionally accompanies such performances, but I was imagining that, instead of with feet, the percussion could be done by someone popping bubble wrap. When Charles was finished, I asked him the name of the piece. I think that he answered “Solea Soleares”.

Charles’s second piece, though more forcefully played, had slower picking and fingering, and a lingering tonality.

After Charles, came Brian Rosen, who sang the same songs as he’d done the week before. Namely, Robert Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee” and Sir Walter Scott’s “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms”. On the second song he invited a violinist named Tom Hamilton to join in. Tom seemed to know the melody, and though his fiddle was very audible without a microphone, he miked himself anyway for his solo, which seemed like volume overkill to me. His playing was quite good though and he used a few styles of playing, including picking, during his accompaniment.

The next performer was Lillian Kim, who also asked Tom to join her and her tiny guitar, which sounded a bit out of tune to me. Apparently Tom Hamilton is an old member of the fat Albert’s family, as Lillian expressed the sentiment that it was great to have him back. Tom declared that it was great to be back. There was lots of non-verbal singing in Lillian’s first song, but one of the lines was, “I won’t go back to living in a cage …”

From Lillian’s second song – “ … The bed you left was still quite warm, I couldn’t tell cause you looked so worn …”

When it was Dawn’s turn on the open stage, Glen started singing Bob Gaudio and Sandy Linzer’s “Dawn (Go Away)” as recorded by the Four Seasons.

Dawn started with “My Funny Valentine” by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart – “ … Your looks are laughable, unphotographable, yet you’re my favourite work of art … Is your figure less than Greek? Is your mouth a little weak? When you open it to speak, are you smart …”

Her second song was Matt Redman’s “The Heart of Worship”, but she changed the words “worship” and “Jesus” to “music” – “ … a song in itself is not what you require … I’m coming back to the heart of music, and it’s all about you, music …”

Dawn was followed by Ruth Jenkins, with help from both Tom and Glen. The introduction was, “Ruth Jenkins and friends”. I asked, “How come nobody ever plays with their enemies?” but then I added, “Well, maybe the Eagles did.”

Ruth began with “In My Solitude”, which I had previously posted that it was her song, even though before that I’d written that it was penned by Duke Ellington, Eddie DeLange and Irving Mills. She started singing but her microphone wasn’t working so Glen switched it with the vocal mic beside the piano. Ruth gave Glen and Tom each a solo on the song and one of the microphones took a solo of its own with feedback.

When Ruth finished the song, Tom told her that it had been an excellent choice and that he hadn’t heard anyone sing that song for 40 years. “How old are you?” asked Ruth. “Almost 60!” answered Tom.

Her second choice was Ewan MacColl’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” – “ … The first time ever I kissed your mouth, I felt the earth move … like the trembling heart of a captured bird …” Ruth took a harmonica solo, but her microphone went off halfway through the song.

Then came John Reid, who started with an instrumental version of “Greensleeves” as adapted by Mason Williams.

For a second offering, John sang and played Gordon Lightfoot’s “Early Morning Rain”, while Tom, from his seat beside me, quietly sang harmony. Tom is a very upbeat guy.

When John was done, Glen announced that it was time for the feature performers, Mark Yan and Barry Mulcahy. Barry had an electronic accessory to plug in. Glen asked if it was an X-Box and if they could play “Toad”. It took some time to set up for Mark and Barry. At one point Glen stated, “What we have here is a …” Tom said “failure to communicate” before Glen finished his sentence, “cable problem”. Mark, who looks something like a curly headed Captain Kangaroo sat in a chair with his guitar miked, while Barry stood to play his plugged in guitar. The duo alternated lead vocals, which corresponded to songs of each singer’s composition.

Mark told us that he was from Saulte Ste Marie and so his first song was entitled, “Back to the Saulte” – “ … Lakers line up at the pier to take the steel down south …”

Barry introduced their second song by telling us that he had moved house and mislaid a lovely photograph of his parents’ wedding back in Ireland before the war. He said that his song “Armed With Love” was about his parents, who raised seven kids – “ …They faced their task, accepting less … I’m sure the sacrifice was greater than anything I’ll come to know …” Mark played lead on this piece, which had a better melody than the first one.

Back to Mark, he told us that he’d written a series of five songs about his “honey”. Then he wondered, since a series of three was a trilogy, what a series of five would be called. Tom Hamilton, who had already gotten up to share Barry’s microphone, offered that it would be a “quintilogy”. I had to look this up. The correct term is a “pentalogy”. Mark’s song was called “Just As One” – “I am the pale yellow man, You are bright as the sun …” Barry and Tom sang harmony. Tom is extremely versatile and he seems to have the ability to pick up on lyrics and melodies very quickly. Barry took a guitar solo and then Tom had a violin solo.

Mark also took the lead on the fourth song, which he told us he’d named, “Friends of Old” – “ … calling you all to the pow wow of my soul … Remember when our thumbs took us across this land so free …”

Before they did their last song, Mark reminisced about having played at Fat Albert’s back in 1974 with Tony Hanik.

The last song was one of Barry’s, entitled “Stay”. The playing on the intro to the song reminded me of the beginning of “Ventura Highway” as played by America – “ … I’ve been trying so long to put it in a song … It sounds like mumbo jumbo … I can’t seem to make it turn around …”

Mark Yan and Barry Mulcahy are a professional sounding Folk duo that uses fine musicianship and good harmonies to doctor up relatively mediocre songs with heartfelt but not artfully composed lyrics.

After the features, we returned immediately to the open stage, and I was the first one up. As I stood in front of the audience without a microphone, I asked, “Is this thing on?” I started with “Judy”, my translation of Serge Gainsbourg’s “Judith”, and followed that with my own “Memo to the Heart of Insecurity” – “ …Well I can hear you there in surgery pruning the stems of your dreams, while in this lounge I wait with my reality bursting at the seams, well it’s twisting its branches, advancing like an army of crippled dancers, braiding and choking so wildly unabated, yes I sit here aswim in my mangled charm, both silent and contented …” While I was singing there took place a loud conversation between three people near the back, and I found it particularly annoying that our host, Glen Garry, was part of it. When I ran the Orgasmic Alphabet Orgy open stage, I made sure that everyone was quiet during other people’s performances.

Next was Paul Nash, who did a cover of Neil Diamond’s “Solitary Man” – “ … Don’t know that I will but until I can find me a woman who’ll stay and won’t play games behind me, I’ll be what I am, a solitary man…” I noticed that the conversation in the back could still be heard while Paul was amplified by the microphone.

Paul’s second selection was “The Girl of My Best Friend” by Sam Bobrick and Beverly Ross – “ … I want to tell her how I love her so and hold her in my arms, but then what if she got real mad and told him so, I could never face either one again …”

Then, for the first time at Fat Albert’s, was Verne Nicholson. He told us that one of his heroes had died earlier this year, and I was surprised to hear that it was Paul Kantner who had passed away. He did a cover of Kantner’s “Lightning Rose” – “ … After the fall, before the beginning, we build the watchfire every night, we control the water flow, we control the power from fusion … I would sing a song fifty feet long, sweet breezes on pine beaches … I been too long in the green fields of rapture, I been too long without being on the run …”

I asked if Kantner had done that song with the Jefferson Airplane but Verne informed me that it was a Starship song.

Verne’s second piece was one of his own called, “Cabbagetown Princess in Parkdale Clothes” – “I was on the 506 eastbound at Yonge … Stuck on Sorauren I knew … passing Jarvis and Sherbourne … I remember the girl from the end of the line …” I liked the title of the song, but I was confused about how Sorauren ended up in between Yonge and Sherbourne in an eastbound song.

Following Verne was Bob Allen, and while Bob was setting up I took a look at some of the old framed posters that are on the wall in that room of the Steelworkers Building. One of them reads, “Radio Shack turns me off. Don’t shop at Radio Shack”, and the other says, “Don’t play with Irwin Toys. Support the strikers. Boycott Irwin toys”.

It took me a few minutes to track down the Radio Shack story. In 1979 about thirty women who worked in a Radio Shack warehouse in Barrie, Ontario went on strike. Radio Shack was owned by a mega company known as Tandy Corporation. These were the first employees of Tandy to unionize and they joined the United Steelworkers.

The Irwin strike went from June of 1981 and ended January 5, 1982 when Irwin signed a contract with the Steelworkers Union. This was also a factory with mostly female workers. It was the countrywide boycott of Irwin Toys over the 1981 Christmas season that bent Irwin into finally giving in.

Bob Allen played Bob McDill’s “Good Ole Boys Like Me”, with help from Tom and Glen – “ … those Williams boys they still mean a lot to me, Hank and Tennessee … John R. and the Wolfman kept me company by the light of the radio by my bed, with Thomas Wolfe whispering in my head … Learned to talk like the man on the six o’clock news …” Carole Farkash was playing her tambourine out of time behind me.

Bob’s second song was Cowboy Copas’s “Alabam”- “Well I went to a turkey roast down the street, the people down there eat like wild geese, I’m on my way, I’m goin back to Alabam …”

Next was Carole Farkash. As she was getting up behind me, she took hold of the neck of my guitar, which was propped up in the chair next to mine. She asked, “Is this your lady?” I answered, “Well, its name is Oscar, so yes, it’s my lady.” With help as usual from Paul Nash, Carole sang “On the Sunny Side of the Street” by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields. Tom played violin from his chair and dominated Paul’s solo.

For their second offering, Carole said that they couldn’t leave without doing their usual Everley Brothers number. This time it was Felice and Boudleaux Bryant’s “Bye Bye Love”. Carole certainly has a good time when she’s up there, singing and moving to the music.

Then came Glen Gary, having borrowed what he described as Paul Nash’s very masculine sounding guitar. He sang and played “House of the Rising Sun” and he played it well, but the only problem is that he sang, “it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy …”

Between songs, Glen told us that he keeps losing his mic and that when it comes back on he gets an electric shock.

Glen finished with Louis Jordon’s “Five Guys Named Moe”.

Around this time, Tom, in imitation of Tom Hanks as Forest Gump, declared, “Life is like a box of chocolates.” I added that life is pretty much like everything. Tom agreed that almost anything could serve as a metaphor for life.

After Glen was Jeff Currie, who started with an instrumental version of George R. Poulton’s “Love Me Tender”.

For his second song, Jeff sang “Rainbow Connection” by Paul Williams and Kenneth Ascher – “Why are there so many songs about rainbows …” Are there? I can’t think of very many. There are definitely more songs about guns than there are about rainbows and probably more about cheeseburgers too.

It was then Peter James’s turn and he went to the piano to do an instrumental piece for which he had no name. Tom Hamilton got up and played along. Peter said that after Glen recorded the piece for him it went viral with two hits, one from him and one from Glen.

Peter’s second song was kind of a boogie-woogie number that was probably called “The Light Switch Blues”. Glen brought a guitar from the back, sat in the front and played along. Ruth Jenkins took one of her harmonicas to the microphone that Tom wasn’t using – “I got the light switch blues, they turn me off and turn me on … The next time you pull that switch baby, I’ll be gone … The next time you want to be a … I’ll be gone.” That was he leaving out the word and not me.

The second to last performer was Elizabeth Knowlton, joined by Tom. She took a moment to tell Tom that it was great to see him back and walking around. Before the end of the night I finally heard that Tom had been recently in the hospital getting a kidney stone removed. Elizabeth sang a song that might have had the title of “Oh Canada” - “I talked to my ancestors and asked them what the hell … Oh Canada … today the teachers, today the doctors … It only cost us our souls …” When she was finished, she commented that things are getting better for First Nations people since she wrote that song. I couldn’t really tell from the lyrics that it was about Native people. 

Elizabeth didn’t give a title for her other song – “They don’t make teachers for people like me, they don’t make healers for people like me … People like me fall behind, people like me fall on their face … They don’t make friends for people like me, they don’t write books for people like me …” Of course, Ruth had a solo in there somewhere.

The last open stager of the night was Audrey, who, with help from Glen, Tom and Ruth, sang Joni Mitchell’s “Circle Game”.

            Audrey closed things down with what she told us was a blessing song – “Somewhere a tree grows in the desert because a cool stream flows below … Water runs deep, branches reach up into the sky and hope is the reason why.”

            While I was helping Glen wind the cables, I told him that he’d gotten the gender wrong on “House of the Rising Sun” when he sang “it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy”. He argued that Eric Burdon had sung “poor boy” but I told him that Eric Burdon had gotten it wrong. I’m sure Glen has listened to Bob Dylan’s first album several times, yet he was surprised when I told him that Dylan sings “House of the Rising Sun” from the viewpoint of a woman. The song is about being a prostitute in a bordello called “The Rising Sun” in New Orleans. Glen argued that men could also be prostitutes. I agreed, but they wouldn’t be prostitutes in a named whorehouse in New Orleans. He countered that they had everything back in those days in New Orleans. I told him that this is a song sung traditionally by women. The problem is that the song uses prison metaphors to describe someone being trapped in a life of prostitution, so if listeners take the imagery at face value it can on the surface come across as a prison song. But no prison would be called “The Rising Sun” either officially or even by nickname.