Southern Bookman

Garden & Gun magazine looks at hometown of Charleston

I often resist Garden & Gun magazine, seeing it as a Southern elitist fantasy.

The magazine presents the South as a paradise of resorts, gourmet dining, fascinating cities, craft shops, music and field sports. It leaves out the region's poverty, violence, self-defeating politics and addictions. 

But, as a lapsed Southern gentleman, I find myself succumbing to the magazine. The newest issue, termed February and March, hooked me with a special section on Charleston, the magazine's hometown.

Ignoring the city's slave-market past, Fort Sumter and the Mother Emanuel slayings, the magazine paints an idyllic portrait of the "Holy City." An article discounts reports that the city's famed restaurant scene is beset by over-saturation and declining quality. Other articles that could have been written by the city's tourism bureau tout its historic homes and gracious gardens.

The city's black culture is noted with a mention of Citadel professor Damon Fordham's excellent "Lost Stories of Black Charleston" tour, which unveils historic contributions of black residents in every downtown block.

Fordham, a writer and chronicler of the city's black authors, gives an impressive history of  the origins of George Gershwin's opera "Porgy and Bess" in Charleston writer Dubose Heyward's novel, "Porgy." Heyward authored the opera's libretto, and wrote the lyrics along with Ira Gershwin. Fordham takes the tour past the gentrified location of the opera's Catfish Row.

An in-depth profile of black gay poet Jericho Brown, director of Emory's creative writing program, gives depth to the issue. The compelling article examines Brown's overcoming an unhappy childhood and his commitment to poetry.

The magazine is also flavored by signature columns by Julia Reed and Roy Blount Jr., whose essays distinguish each issue.

Although I'll never like articles on hunting dogs and duck hunting, I suppose my resistance to Garden & Gun is futile and that I'll have to admit that I'm a Southern elitist too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Renee Zellweger shines as the drug-ravaged Judy Garland

Following "The Joker," I continued my binge-watching of Golden Globe-winning acting performances with Renee Zellweger's portrayal of the drug-ravaged Judy Garland in her last performances.

The film "Judy" chronicles Garland's chaotic run at London's Talk of the Town nightclub in early 1969, just months before her death at age 46 from a barbiturates overdose. Initially a triumph, Garland crashed by showing up late to shows and trying to perform while intoxicated. Directed by Rupert Goold and adapted from Peter Quilter's play "The End of the Rainbow," the film, while sentimental and predictable, rises above bio-optic cliches.

Zellweger brilliantly captures Garland's hunger for love and applause, her alternating desire to shun the public spotlight and stand at the center of adulation. Drawing upon her Katy, Texas upbringing, Zellweger shows that Garland remained a small-town girl bewildered by the glare of fame. With all of her show-biz pretensions, Garland kept her down-to-earth personality, engagingly illustrated in the film by her visit to the home of two unknown gay admirers.

Performing famous Garland songs, Zellweger achieves Garland's swings from brilliance to pathos. While Zellweger lacks Garland's range, she hits a few of Garland's high notes, indicating the damage to Garland's voice from years of overwork, sleep deprivation, career reverses and drug and alcohol addiction.

From Zellweger's turn as the ill, emaciated Garland, the film flashes back to when Garland was a young teen cast in MGM's "The Wizard of Oz." Played by Richard Cordery, MGM's Louis B. Mayer manipulates Garland with body-shaming, bullying and calculated displays of affection. Mayer and his odious associates also start Garland on the yellow brick road of addiction, forcing her to take amphetamines to keep her weight down and work grueling hours. Watching Mayer's mind games, I wanted Joaquin Phoenix's Joker to show up and teach him a few lessons.

Darci Shaw gives an earnest, but ultimately unconvincing, performance as the young Garland, who's forbidden by Mayer's stooges to eat a hamburger and french fries on a date with Mickey Rooney, believably portrayed by Gus Barry. MGM concocted a romance between Garland and Rooney, who starred in several "Hey, let's put on a show" films. Instead of the burger, Garland is given uppers. To sleep, she is forced to take downers.

I'm sure books have been written about the making of "Wizard of Oz," but I wondered whether Garland's co-stars Ray Bolger as the Tin Man, Bert Lahr as the Cowardly Lion and Jack Haley as the Tin Man tried to protect Garland. It's likely they were all in thrall to Mayer's studio system.

Jessie Buckley gives a star-making performance as Rosalyn Wilder, the personal assistant who tries to keep Garland sober enough to do her London shows. Royce Pierreson is appealing as Burt Rhodes, leader of the band that tries to keep up with Garland's haphazard song selections.

Watching Garland's sad demise, I remembered the heart-rending clip of the adolescent Garland singing "You Made Me Love You" while writing a fan letter to Clark Gable. Garland was so young and beautiful. She made the world love her, but that was never enough.

Rediscovering Norman Blake on a gray Sunday afternoon

We usually keep the Christmas tree up through New Year's Day, but this year we took it down early.

Family members gone home, the holiday bustle past, the house felt empty on a dreary Sunday. Searching through my long-neglected CD collection, I found Norman Blake's  album, "Whiskey Before Breakfast."

Listening again to Blake's flat-picking and singing on "Hand Me Down My Walking Cane," "The Girl I Left Behind in Sunny Tennessee," and "Church Street Blues" renewed my faith in old truths and enduring stories.

Blake's virtuoso guitar playing on instrumentals "The Minstrel Boy to the War Has Gone/Ash Grove," "Macon Rag" and "Whiskey Before Breakfast" brightened the day.

As 2019 dwindles and a momentous new year looms, I return to Blake and others who taught my generation the splendor of American musical traditions. Sadly, too many of them died young: Richard Farina, Janis Joplin, Clarence White, Gram Parsons, Duane Allman, Richard Manuel, Levon Helm, Rick Danko.

Blake, Emmylou Harris, Willie Nelson, Ry Cooder and others forge on as another decade comes.

Their music promises that better days will come.

 

 

 

 

 

Wyatt Prunty made Sewanee Writers Conference special

Sewanee Writers Conference founding director Wyatt Prunty is stepping aside after 30 years running the "summer camp for adults" with uncommon grace and professionalism.

Tributes to Wyatt in the Sewanee Review's current issue brought memories of my participation in the first two conferences, funded by a legacy from Tennessee Williams. A noted poet, critic and Sewanee professor, Wyatt made the conference a success from the start.

He was a genial, quiet presence at the conference's many social events. A generous host who kept the conference running smoothly, Wyatt rarely interjected himself into the mingling of poets, novelists, playwrights, agents and publishers. When he did, such as suddenly playing harmonica at a sing-along around the piano, or enlivening a conversation for a sunlit moment with an astute comment or observation before moving on to the next group, participants felt blessed. Those brief interactions made us feel as if he knew and cared about each of us.

The two-week midsummer stay at Sewanee's secluded mountain campus inspired a deep commitment to writing and literature. Sharing breakfast and dinner with luminaries like John Hollander, Howard Nemerov, Tim O'Brien, David Justice, Mona Van Duyn and Robert Stone made us feel part of a literary community. The workshops, individual tutorials and readings raised us to a higher artistic level.

I'll never forget Peter Taylor's courageous reading. Mr. Taylor, still recovering from a stroke, read from one of his marvelous stories. He at times got stuck on a word, but pressed on to the end. I'm honored to say that Mr. Taylor took a liking to me, inviting me to his house in Sewanee for a reception for writing conference faculty members. Talking with him and his wife and wonderful poet, Eleanor Ross Taylor, and intermingling with writers like Ernest Gaines, I thought i had gone to heaven without dying.

The writing conference co-existed with a gathering of high-school musicians. Walking to a workshop or lecture along one of the school's Gothic archways, a writer would come upon a young flutist or violinist practicing. Those brief interludes of music lifted our hearts with the joy and beauty of art.

Before saying farewell to Sewanee, we gathered in the school's magnificent chapel for the young musicians' final concert. They played on each side of us, their Bach and Mozart enveloping us. Such a gift from them as we returned to the world.

Remembering John Lennon

The 39th anniversary of John Lennon's murder passed without much fanfare.

On the night of Dec. 8, 1980, Lennon was returning with his wife, Yoko Ono, to their home at the Dakota Apartments in New York City when Lennon was shot four times in the back by Mark David Chapman. The seriously wounded musician was rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival. The news was first broadcast to a shocked nation by Howard Cosell during a Monday night football game between the Patriots and the Dolphins.

Mark Strong, my friend and colleague at the Columbus Ledger-Enquirer, and I put out a newspaper special section honoring the former co-leader of the Beatles who stirred controversy with his and Yoko's political activism supporting world peace. Ledger-Enquirer advertising and circulation execs objected to us giving such attention to Lennon in a conservative small Southern city, but our executive editor, the legendary Glenn Vaughn, never uttered a word. If I recall correctly, the special section was a big seller.

Looking back, I'm amazed at how much Lennon meant to me and others of our generation. My late friend Loftin and I loved Lennon intensely. We liked Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr, but we saw Lennon, along with Bob Dylan, as the true voices of our generation.

We waited breathlessly for each new Beatles album to arrive from England, always at this time of year. After the band's earth-shaking early pop hits, mainly co-written by Lennon and McCartney, the two began diverging into writing separate songs on ever more ambitious albums like "Rubber Soul," "Revolver" and "Sgt. Pepper." Their partnership still shone with brilliance on collaborations like "A Day in the Life," which memorably ended "Sgt. Pepper." Lennon's work turned edgier and more mystical, while McCartney remained more pop-oriented.

While many Beatles fans opposed Lennon's marriage to Yoko, we enjoyed her collaborations with him. We remained enthralled by Lennon's solo career after he broke with the Beatles. Lennon's political activism was a big influence on our worldview. He joined Joe Namath and Muhammad Ali as my main anti-establishment heroes.

A lot of Lennon's antics look silly now. But I will always keep a flame burning for him in my heart. When I hear songs like "Norwegian Wood," "I'm So Tired," "Come Together,"  and "Imagine," I'm transported to my youth.

Happy Thanksgiving

It's time to give thanks for our blessings.

This year has dealt me highs and lows. Here are a few snapshots from my 2019 album.

Eight days in the hospital. I'm thankful for the doctors and nurses who helped me feel better again.

A trip to New York City to see Jeff Daniels' masterful performance as Atticus Finch in Aaron Sorkin's theater adaptation of Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird."

The Miro show at the MOMA, before the museum closed to receive a new look. Miro's stance against Fascism in the 1930s gives us courage to resist Trump and the GOP's assaults on truth and human dignity. I was overwhelmed by Picasso's "Guernica" when I first visited MOMA nearly 50 years ago. I'm looking forward to visiting yet another new MOMA.

Trips to Portugal and Amelia Island, Fla., two places where rivers join the Atlantic Ocean. Both are threatened by rising sea levels and the crush of tourism. Like distant cousins, they are battling to preserve their proud cultures.

The Braves' rush to the pennant. Joe Burrow and the Tigers. Anne-Marie and I getting together with our children Sara, Luke and Ruthie in Nashville, Tenn. Learning to play Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" on the piano.

We'll soon turn the calendar to another year, which looms as one of history's crossroads. The personal decisions of millions will determine whether the nation follows the course of freedom or an American totalitarianism.

No matter what happens, truth and beauty eventually will prevail.

 

Memories of Lisboa and Porto

Young male clerk wearing John Lennon glasses
at Livaria Bertrand, world's oldest bookstore,
stamps my books: Virginie Despentes and Pessoa.

"How did you get here so fast," I ask him
when he's already at the door,
without glasses, as I leave.
"I'm like that," he answers,
his smile like the sun on the Tagus.

Guitarist and trumpet player on the sidewalk.
playing Amy Winehouse songs.
Joyful music by young men in suits;
an old schizo joins their dance.

Smiles of women with dark hair,
the embrace of the female doctor
in her lab coat,
who takes my pulse
and assures me
my heartbeat is OK.

Small children in their school uniforms
at Sanhora do Rosario.
Community center for kids who grow up
wild on Porto's streets.
The director with his stutter
speaks of holiday barbecues,
afternoons playing football
with the young men.

At the nursing home, an old woman
wails in the corner as the elderly priest
awakens in a dusty glow
floating through the windows.
Doors flung open reveal
Christ on his cross, his downcast eyes.

How beautiful their Portuguese voices
searching for English words.
The man with legs bent backwards
begging on the Avenida de Liberdade,
men selling chestnuts on the street,
smoke rising in the light
reflected from the slippery sidewalks
made of yellow tile.

The happiness of old and middle aged men
gathered for lunch, hugs and kisses
cheek to cheek. The rain, changing to sun,
changing to rain, changing to sun,
the rivers, rushing to the Atlantic.

The suave guide John,
handsome as a rock star,
leads us to the castle,
tells how Ulysses founded Lisboa,
Tall pine trees, shaped like arrows,
cork held between our fingers.

Stylish young woman
guides us through
the immigration center.
Solemn faces of refugees
as they wait
in the enormous room.

Walking in the darkness
from the hotel to the airport,
5 a.m. departure.
Old oak trees, broken sidewalk.

As we sit on the bus,
to take us to the plane,
a song fills the space:
"I see fire burning the trees."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Millennials' jibe "OK Boomer" shows nothing new under the sun

Bob Dylan told baby boomers not to trust anyone over 30.

Now, the millennials, who comprise several generations, snarl "OK, Boomer" to us aging postwar babies.

The generational putdown, an Internet sensation, has received rebuttals from New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd and Chicago Tribune columnist Clarence Page.

Generations X, Y and Z - what will new generations be called now that the letters have run out? - blame us boomers for climate change, declining economic prospects, Donald Trump and the Eagles. They probably think Dylan can't sing.

Dylan and other Baby Boom heroes were not even Baby Boomers. Dylan, born in 1941, and John Lennon, in 1940, were of the "Silent Generation," which came after the "Greatest Generation," and before the post-war baby explosion. With all of their music and social protest, those rockers weren't very silent.

Once we sang "The Times They Are a Changin'." Now, the younger generation wants us gone. As college football old-timer Lee Corso would say, "hey, not so fast."

In the pre-industrial age, people lived pretty much the same year after year. The generations' experience stayed the same, and people died young. Retroactively, historians branded ages like the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, but Shakespeare, Michelangelo and Voltaire didn't think of themselves as members of defined generations.

Generational conflict goes back to ancient times. Ecclesiastes, in the passage from which Ernest Hemingway found the name for his novel "The Sun Also Rises," warned that "one generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth forever."

Britain in the 19th century began identifying historical periods with the reigns of monarchs: the Victorian Age, the Georgian Age. Literary critics retroactively called Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lord Byron and Charles Lamb the Romantics. Romanticism was also a European movement, including Beethoven and Goethe.

During the 20th century, enormous changes from decade to decade led to the rise of  distinct generations. Those of the Depression Era had different outlooks from those born in the 1950s. Music, fashion, art, culture, and social mores shifted.

The designation of generations emerged after World War I, when Gertrude Stein told Hemingway that he and  his contemporaries were members of a "Lost Generation." Then came the postwar flowering of writers like John Updike, Truman Capote, Robert Lowell and Gore Vidal. New waves of writers, musicians and film stars followed. From Chuck Berry to Katy Perry, the world kept turning.

The Baby Boomers reached a new level of self-consciousness, or bloated self-importance. Talking about my generation, we did bang the drum and blow the horn quite loudly.

Now, the millennials look at us as old duffers.

But remember, kids, a new crop of babies is being born, who will look at you as hopeless.

 

 

 

 

Emmylou Harris shares love, music with Atlanta fans

Emmylou Harris gave adoring fans a generous helping of beloved songs Sunday night in a performance at Atlanta's Symphony Hall.

Now white-haired like many of those in the audience, the 72-year-old Harris kept the love flowing. Her energy remains high, her voice glorious.

Harris upheld the protest-song tradition with a searing anthem about Emmitt Till's murder in Mississippi, and a number honoring a Nashville program that matches foster children with pet animals.

With her band tautly ranging from rockabilly to bluegrass to old-time mountain laments, Harris thrilled the crowd with favorites like "Together Again," "Green Pastures" and "Pancho and Lefty."

She honored her early muse and partner Gram Parsons with "Las Vegas" and "Wheels," leaving Parsons fans longing for a few more songs from "Grevious Angel," "GP" or "The Gilded Palace of Sin."

Along with a heart-tugging encore of her own "Boulder to Birmingham," Harris presented an anthology of American songwriters, from James Taylor to Don Williams. Her signature performance of Billy Joe Shaver's "Old Five and Dimers" mirrored the life experience of the many aging hipsters present.

She closed the show with a rousing cover of Neil Young's "Long May You Run," raising our hopes of carrying on.

Farewell, Nick Tosches

Nick Tosches' death brought memories of rock criticism's golden age.

Tosches, who died Sunday in his beloved New York City at the too young age of 69, brought a pugnacious, free-floating spirit to music writing along with his "noise boys" compatriots Richard Meltzer and Lester Bangs. Like Bangs and Meltzer, Tosches reached dazzling heights, but also crashed spectacularly.

At first writing for gritty small publications, Tosches moved on to music bibles Creem and Rolling Stone. His reputation suffered from reports that he sometimes wrote a review without removing the record from its plastic covering. He was notorious for a Rolling Stone review of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" in which he didn't consider the album's music and confused the band with another group, Black Widow.

Tosches showed impressive research and writing ability with a pioneering book on country's contributions to rock. His"Hellfire: The Jerry Lee Lewis Story," is considered one of the best music biographies. He gained mainstream success with biographies of subjects ranging from Dean Martin to Sonny Liston and built a career as a major magazine writer, contributing to Vanity Fair and other publications.

Going against that popular success, Tosches returned to his experimental roots with novels blasted by critics for their outrageous plots and pretentious writing, according to his New York Times obituary. That path from acclaim to critical disfavor is common is American literature.

Tosches made his reputation at a time when new forms of writing thrilled readers. A new Rolling Stone or Esquire was a major cultural event. Tosches was among those who created a new literature, now long in the past.