Southern Bookman

Barnes & Noble exits the music, video businesses

Visting my neighborhood Barnes & Noble for the first time in months, I was mildly surprised that the store had said goodbye to its music and video businesses.

The once vibrant CD and video section, recently augmented by vinyl's fizzled comeback, had been replaced by shelves bulging with toys, puzzles, games and glitzy gifts. Toys 'R' Us died last year, only to be resurrected at Barnes & Noble.

Gazing upon the shelves packed with Christmas kitsch,  I felt  like Jimmy Stewart's character in "It's a Wonderful Life" when Mr. Potter commercializes the town.

Books were still hanging on, although I wondered why anyone would want to buy the second volume of Gary Giddens' Bing Crosby biography. The hardcovers lying upon the "new arrivals" table seemed enervated..

The new "gifts and collectibles" section had also taken over space formerly occupied by the poetry, drama and music literature sections. I feared that poetry, like jazz, rock and classical music, had also been sacrificed to raging consumerism.

But I found that poetry books had been moved to a new, perhaps larger, section. Alas, the adjacent essays section appeared smaller, and the erstwhile literary criticism section had vanished.

Thank god and Rupi that poets come up with a couple of best sellers here and there. 

In contrast, the long-dying CD business and the zombie return of vinyl were unable to counter the popularity of music streaming. With so much free music, even big stars have to grub for money.

As for the death of video, blame Netflix, Amazon, Youtube, Hula, and so on. The old retail model couldn't withstand the "disruption" of mobile devices.

As struggling B&N raises its bets on kids' amusements, the book business received some good news. Magazine web sites like the Atlantic, Buzz Feed and New York magazine have boosted their coverage of books, the Columbia Journalism Review reported. 

A lot of the new book news gives attention to already popular authors. The sense of discovery of old book-review sections is gone. 

Despite the expanded poetry section, B&N likely will give more space to bestsellers, gimmicky self-help books and business oracles than serious literature. And Amzaon will remain the monster at the dark end of the street.

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering W.J. Cash's "The Mind of the South"

The "Cotton Fields to Skycrapers" exhibit at Charlotte's Levine Museum of the New South has a first-edition copy under glass of W.J. Cash's "The Mind of the South."

Cash's 1941 book, made obsolete by Southern economic development after World War II, was revered by Southern journalists of my generation.

The spirit of the troubled North Carolina newspaperman lives on in efforts by The New York Times,  sociology professors and cable news channels to understand those who support Donald Trump, the type of New York carpetbagger once despised in the South.

An examination of the South's persistent backwardness,  "The Mind of the South" is one of those cult works breathlessly praised by acolytes at bars and parties. Several of my AJC colleagues considered the book a sacred text, and Cash's name was reverentially evoked by poets and novelists at the Sewanee Writers' Conference. Cash's apparent suicide in Mexico adds to his fascination.

The "Cotton Fields to Skyscrapers" exhibit told the story of poor Appalachian people who fled their depleted farms during the Depression to work in textile mills in North Carolina cities. They didn't need to go to a fancy restaurant in Charlotte or Charleston for "farm to table" dining. 

The old mills now serve as condos for the millennials flocking to Charlotte, booming again after the 2008 bank crash. The old-time music, recorded in places like the long destroyed Charlotte Hotel, rises from iPhones tuned to Sportify. Their grandchildren work for international companies, rent out Airbnbs, or drive Ubers.

Cash's old property-stricken South was  blown away in the 1960s, buried under glass and stone skyscrapers in cities like Charlotte and Atlanta. A video at the New South museum shows Charlotte's 1920s landmarks imploding in dark clouds of dust. 

As elections across the South attest, the old white supremacy holds on, clinging with gnarled hands to political power against a new generation of different cultures and lifestyles. 

The Mind of the South remains unformed. Cash's descendants keep trying to define it, all raising the objection, "and yet..."

 

 

 

 

Farewell, Roy Clark

Roy Clark at first gained recognition as a crossover TV personality whose citified country humor and instrumental talent appealed to TV variety show audiences.

Like Glen Campbell, Clark rose to stardom in Los Angeles with an urbanized country sound that reflected the migration from the farm to the city. Clark, who gained widespread fame as the host of the long-running country-fried hit "Hee-Haw," died this week of pneumonia in Tulsa, Okla.

While Clark's musical performances brought him appearances on 1960s TV variety shows, he also developed a comic personna of the canny Southern bumpkin, similar to those  of Andy Griffith or Jim Nabors. Clark's rubbery facial expressions guaranteed laughs.

Later, Clark reverted more and more to cornpone hillbilly humor as the host of the long-running "Hee Haw," along with the dynamic Bakersfield singer Buck Owens. Clark and Owens' "picking' and grinnin'" routine always made me cringe, as if I were watching the black actor Stephen Fetchit act out black stereotypes in 1930s movies.

While the "Hee-Haw"  act's broad humor was funny enough, it depended on demeaning Southern stereotypes. I was chagrined that such wonderful musical talents as Clark and Owens stooped to such condescending work. Owens apparently hated the bit.

While Clark was funny, his self-deprecating comic act overshadowed his immense talent as a singer and guitar/banjo player. Clark's musical talent compared to Campbell's, and he could have had a similar singing/playing career without the clowning.

Well, people loved "Hee Haw," as white audiences once loved "Amos and Andy."  Such broad, corn-shucking humor was long a staple of country acts. Even Hank Williams had such a comic in his band. Minnie Pearl built a durable career out of country humor. 

Clark had stage presence, and his comedy touched millions. Yet, his delivery of songs like "Yesterday When I Was Young" and his virtuoso instrumental performances made me wish that he'd concentrated on his music.

 

 

Searching for the Charleston roots of "Porgy and Bess"

The "Porgy and Bess" movie soundtrack was one of my favorite albums during my childhood, frequently played on my father's 1960s-vintage cabinet hi-fi.

George Gershwin's "Summertime," "It Ain't Necessarily So," "Bess, You Is My Woman Now" and "There's a Train That's Leavin' Soon for New York" have remained bright in my mind along with songs from another classic musical that brought joy to those long summer afternoons: "My Fair Lady."

While criticized through the years for racial condescension and stereotypes, Gershwin's opera remains a landmark musical achievement, mainly because of its classic songs. After an initial 124 performances on Broadway, the opera has risen in popularity, although a Broadway revival several years ago sputtered. 

The 1959 film version, starring Sidney Poitier and Dorothy Dandridge and directed by Otto Preminger, of all people, was a critical disappointment and quickly pulled from theaters because of the racial controversy and refusal of Southern theaters to book it.

"Porgy and Bess" takes place in Charleston's black community of "Catfish Row" during the 1920s, and I wanted to delve more into the opera's background during a recent trip to the old South Carolina port city.

My wishes were fulfilled by an excellent walking tour of downtown Charleston led by professor, historian and author Damon L. Fordham. With his encyclopedic knowledge of Charleston, Fordham detailed the rich history of virtually every inch of sidewalk covered. Titled a tour of black Charleston,  the experience uncovered the intimate intertwining of black and white culture.

After beginning the tour with a soul-stirring harmonica rendition of "Summertime," Fordham eventually led us to the site of "Catfish Row," where a crippled street vendor named Samuel Smalls peddled his wares from a goat-pulled cart. The white novelist Dubose Heyward used Smalls as a model for the main character in his 1925 novel "Porgy," the basis for the opera. Along with others who've read the book, Fordham praised the novel as a literary work.

Heyward is given co-credit for the opera's libretto with Gershwin. Although he is often credited with writing the lyrics for "Summertime"  and other songs, Gershwin's brother and regular partner Ira Gershwin also receives credit from ASCAP. Stephen Sondheim believes Heyward wrote "Summertime," and praises him for its haunting quality.

Close to Heyward's home, Catfish Row is now an upscale gated residence. Porgy's cries of "devil crab, devil crab" would cause today's wealthy residents to shudder. Fordham pointed out that the area, including nearby East Bay Street, was once the site of rough bars and prostitution until massive gentrification following Hurricane Hugo. Now, the area's tapestry of voices and personalities remains only in the opera and book.

While Gershwin and Heyward now would be accused of cultural appropriation, the opera's songs stand apart as testaments to the human spirit.

In Charleston, history never stops

A middle-aged man says grace at the Francis Marion Hotel's Swamp Fox Restaurant. The two couples at the table grasp hands during the blessing. After their meals, they order peach cobbler and ice cream.

Piano music fills the gracious room: American songbook classics and Paul McCartney's sweeter Beatles love songs. The piano player drifts easily from song to song, embellishing the familiar melodies with virtuoso grace notes and chord stylings.

While the old port city is filled with new restaurants catering to foodie tourists, the Swamp Fox draws locals with traditional Charleston dishes. She-crab soup, first served in 1924. Shrimp and grits. And, something new, boullibasse.

As dusk draws the curtain on another hot and humid autumn day, children from the College of Charleston stroll by on the sidewalk along King Street outside. Tourists hurry to pedicabs, and their young drivers peddle off into the night toward South of Broad or the French Quarter.

Down Calhoun Street, the statue of old John Calhoun stands upon its tall pedestal, glaring toward the peninsula's tip where the Cooper and Ashley rivers join to form the Atlantic, where slave ships from Africa entered the city's harbor with their human cargo. Do any of the carefree children in their cutoffs and T-shirts have any knowledge of the old theorist of slavery and secession?

Further down Calhoun just past Meeting Street rises Emanuel A.M.E. Church, where a vicious young white thug gunned down nine black parishioners at their Wednesday night prayer service just a few years ago. 

The past is not past here Young black men and older women weave baskets and flowers from the marsh grass that beats back and forth at the edge of the tidal rivers that form the city's peninsula. The slavery museum at the old slave market, brought inside before the Civil War when street sales of human beings offended the sensibilities of proper Charleston ladies. Elegant houses and buildings that date back to the 18th century.

The Citadel, where cadets still celebrate their school's first generation of students firing at the Union's Star of the West, months before the Fort Sumter attack that officially began the Civil War.

On a quiet morning at Fort Sumter's ruins, looking at the nearby island from where the South Carolina secessionists' cannonnade cut through the darkness of a springtime morning, it's hard to imagine that four years of war and thousands of deaths began here. The union was saved, slavery ended, but the country's legacy of racism and violence burns on.

At the Citadel, as I watched the young men and women march to and from class in their camouflage uniforms, the old lyric kept returning: "Ain't gonna study war no more, no more, ain't gonna study war no more."

We saw a lot of young children in Charleston. Maybe for them, the old song will come true.

 

 

Pianist Jed Distler, guitarist Miles Okazaki take Thelonious Monk solo

Thelonious Monk's posthumous rise into the pantheon of great American composers continues with two solo recordings of his complete works.

Albums by pianist Jed Distler and guitarist Miles Okazaki are the first solo renditions of Monk's oeuvre, the latest homage to the troubled jazz genius, as reported by New York Times jazz critic Giovanni Russonello.

Rivaling Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong, Monk is known even by those who are not jazz fans. His compositions are frequently performed by a new generation of musicians, as his own albums keep getting rediscovered. While setting standards for jazz, his music transcends the genre. 

Distler told Russonello that Monk might have disliked Distler's reinterpretations of his pieces. Russonello finds that Distler succeeds in his changes, and surmises that the master would have been pleased.

While Distler might have pushed the boundaries, Okazaki's "Work: The Complete Compositions of Thelonious Monk" excite me more. The piano was Monk's instrument, so Distler with all his fresh interpretations stays on Monk's territory. Guitar arrangements of Monk's work are truly ground-breaking.

Russonello singles out one of Okazaki's numbers, in which he plays single notes without chords. That's the kind of creative inventiveness that Monk also would have appreciated.

I'll look forward to comparing Distler and Okazaki's recordings, anticipating that  the Village Vanguard or some other venue will bring Distler and Okazaki together for a shared live  performance.

Mourning Aretha, and waiting for fall

August drifts along, headed toward an autumn of hope or despair.

Waiting for the Manafort trial verdict, I saw the news shouted everywhere of Aretha Franklin's death.

Another beautiful person gone in the ugly age of Trump.

My heart soars whenever an Aretha song plays on my '60s satellite radio channel. She was a one-person choir of angels. 

Here in Atlanta, the kids are back in school, too soon. At dawn, a yellow school bus passing by lifts my spirits. 

Trump revokes Brennan's seccurity clearance because of "erratic conduct and behavior." Conduct and behavior! 

The big orange fool accuses Brennan of erratic behavior? Trump should have his security clearance revoked. And the presidency. 

College football comes soon, and I will watch for hours every Saturday. The Urban Meyer and Maryland messes put a pall on the new season. I know it's a wretched, crooked game, exploiting kids for the enrichment of coaches and TV networks, but I'll love it until the day I die.

When is kickoff?

Hoping for a blue wave in the midterm elections, I fear the GOP and Russia will find a way to steal them. Irrational, I know. Here's hoping democracy will prevail.

Yes, I'll follow baseball's playoffs too, although the game is more of an ordeal than pleasure.

With all the alarms over climate change, I'll awake one October morning and go outside to a crisp wind and champagne-colored sky. I'll take a deep breath, believing the world young again.

 

 

A fitting tribute to Roger Miller

Roger Miller's songs and recordings gain luster as the years roll by.

His easy-listening compositions, several of them "novelty" numbers, were underestimated when he arrived in the era of Bob Dylan, Lennon and McCartney and others. 

In retrospect, songs like "Dang Me," "Chug-A-Lug," and "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd" stand as American classics. His witty lyrics and winsome singing give them the depth and texture of the best story-telling. Serious works like "England Swings" register with movie-like imagery. "King of the Road" is one of the great songs.

Texas Monthly writer Christian Wallace in a warm review of a new tribute album to Miller reflects on how his songs have touched his life and their enduring appeal in American culture.

With performances of Miller's hits by Alison Kraus, the Blind Boys of Alabama, Loretta Lynn, Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, Lyle Lovette and Asleep at the Wheel, the album reflects Miller's brilliance.

The album would be memorable for just one number: a performance of "Old Friends" by Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson and Merle Haggard, in one of his last recordings.

Wallace rightly singles out Kacey Musgraves' performance of "Kansas City Star."  Preserving the drollness of Miller's original, Musgraves gives the song her signature flair.

The album displays anew why Miller's songs remain with us.

 

 

Another 1968 landmark: The Byrds' "Sweetheart of the Rodeo"

The Byrds' "Sweetheart of the Rodeo" is yet another influential rock album released in the tragic but creatively fertile year of 1968.

Like the Band's 1968 "Music From Big Pink," the Byrds' album saluted traditional American music. While the Band covered a multitude of genres, "Sweetheart of the Rodeo," released on Aug. 30, 1968, emulated pure country. Both albums shone with covers of Bob Dylan classics.

Byrds stalwarts Roger McGuinn and Chris Hillman are marking the album's 50th anniversary with a tour along with country traditionalist Marty Stuart and his Fabulous Superlatives. 

A feature article by the Los Angeles Times' Randy Lewis previews the tour and gives an excellent retrospective of the album's legacy.

"Sweetheart of the  Rodeo" marks the emergence of one of rock's most influential musicians/songwriters, Gram Parsons, who joined the Byrds after the dismissal of David Crosby and Gene Clark.

Parsons persuaded McGuinn to travel to Nashville to record the album, backed by Music City studio musicians such as Roy (Junior) Husky and steel guitar master Lloyd Green.

Along with Parsons, McGuinn and Hillman, two other seminal musicians played on the album: master guitarist Clarence White and songwriter/banjo player John Hartford. White, Parsons and Hartford are among the rock martyrs who died too young.

"Sweetheart of the Rodeo" is uneven, not a masterpiece like the Band's Big Pink. The Byrds' departure from folk-inspired psychedelia was a commercial failure, unaccepted by country fans who hated rock music and rock fans who hated country. 

Several songs on the album stand as classics, including the Byrds' cover of Dylan's "You Ain't Going Nowhere." The recordings of traditional songs "I Am a Pilgrim" and the Louvin Brothers' "I Love the Country Life" are not campy or condescending. Parsons truly loved those songs.

Parsons's aching singing on "I Love the Christian Life" is ironic, considering his early death from a drug overdose. His singing survives on that song; other of his vocals on "Sweetheart of the Rodeo" were overdubbed by McGuinn because of a contract dispute with Parsons' previous record label. The album also features a hallmark recording of Parsons' "Hickory Wind."

The original "Cosmic Cowboy" left the band after recording "Sweetheart," teaming with Hillman to form the Flying Burrito Brothers. Before his death, Parsons also recorded two all-time great solo albums, upon which Emmylou Harris gives angelic harmony. Great guitarist James Burton also shapes Parsons' "Return of the Grievious Angel" and the posthumous "GP." 

While Parsons' original songs are among the best of his generation, he and Harris' covers of "Streets of Baltimore" and the Louvins' "Cash on the Barrelhead" are themselves pure country classics. 

Another "Sweetheart" alum, Clarence White, gained fame playing with his family's seminal bluegrass band, "The Kentucky Colonels." An acoustic master, White stands among the era's best guitarists, if not at the top. 

While initially dismissed, "Sweetheart" led to the widespread acceptance of country among rock fans, leading to the late-career success of Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson and other "outlaw country" stars.

Earlier recording "Blonde on Blonde" and "John Wesley Harding" in Nashville, Dylan recorded his country-influenced "Nashville Skyline" in 1969. Influenced by Parsons, who joined them briefly as a guitarist, the Rolling Stones gave their music a country flavor with "Honky Tonk Women" and other songs.

Country star Johnny Cash guided the blending of the country and rock worlds, inviting Dylan to perform on his legendary TV show. Hartford, who wrote the classic "Gentle on My Mind," gained widespread recognition on Cash's Nashville-based show.

Hillman and McGuinn admit "Sweetheart of the Rodeo's" flaws. At its best, the album shows why country music moved Parsons' troubled soul.

The Band's "Music From Big Pink" a true American classic

During the turmoil and confusion of the summer of 1968, a musical album appeared that quietly upheld American pioneer and frontier traditions.

The Band's "Music From Big Pink" arrived with songs that sounded as if recorded by a 19th century group in which Herman Melville, John Brown, Stephen Foster and Stephen Crane played.

In opposition to rock pretentions, the group with its minimalist name had retreated to upstate New York to bond and create music with Bob Dylan, whom they had backed before Dylan suffered a serious motorcycle accident. Dylan painted the primitive artwork on the album's cover. 

As Rolling Stone writer Jordan Runtagh outlines, the retreat from the spotlight led to an album that stood apart from the rock mainstream.

With classics like "The Weight," "Chest Fever," Tears of Rage," and Dylan's "I Shall Be Released," the album's virtuosity shone with echoes of country, Tin Pan Alley,  gospel, vaudeville tunes, jazz, the blues, bluegrass, classical music, and old-time rock and roll.

The voices of Levon Helm, Richard Manuel and Rich Danko sounded like American pioneer prophets and story tellers. They were also consummate musicians.

Manuel's piano evoked frontier bars, roadhouses and New Orleans whorehouses, and Helm's drumming merged Memphis, New Orleans and New York City.

Robbie Robertson's brilliant songwriting and guitar work was another signature. Classically trained Garth Hudson was the group's musical master, with technical innovations and arrangements drawing on sources from Mozart to Chuck Berry.

They would go on to put out another history-soaked classic, "The Band," before entering their own wilderness of rock excessiveness. Then they would say goodbye with the San Francisco concert captured in Martin Scorsese's "The Last Waltz."

As the country fell to pieces in the summer of 1968, "Music From Big Pink" lit a lamp of hope.