Oh, you railway station... oh, you Pullman train...

Philly Folk Fest 2002 was probably one of those years I really didn't attend too much music on-stage, preferring to stick to the campground and play. But one early afternoon wander into the main stage area provided a thunderclap moment: just beyond the (old) main gate, on the hill over the craft stage, I heard three strong voices, a cappella, ringing out in gorgeous, perfectly tuned harmonies. The song was 'No More Fish, No Fishermen', a serious filk of the 19th century Anglican Christmas hymn 'See Amid the Winter Snow' (though I didnae know it at the time); and the group was Finest Kind. I immediately bought the CD, Heart's Delight, that NMFNF appeared on and listened to the hell out of it over the next... well, always.

Curiously, I had been introduced to the song 'Home in Pasadena' by Michael Cooney his own bad sef; I had sent Michael a fan letter circa 1991 (prompted by his telling of the time, at perhaps the first Philly Folk Fest in the 1960s, he heard Lou Killen perform 'Pleasant and Delightful' and send him a fan letter) and he replied with grateful thanks and a cassette tape that contained the 'Lowlands Shanty' (which I had mentioned particularly in my letter) and two other songs: the round 'Smetana, Dvorak, and Janacek'—which Camp Smegmites promptly filked to 'Smegmata, Haggis, and Cabbages'—and 'Home in Pasadena', a cappella with two other male voices who, at the end of the song, refer to themselves as 'The Massachusetts Hummingbirds'. The song was written in 1923 by Harry Warren with lyrics by Grant Clarke and Edgar Leslie. Its charms are readily apparent. Here's Finest Kind's version:

Home in Pasadena

In other news

I think some of these black & Latino guys might have figured out somehow that I'm white.

Oh well

Photos are definitely out. I just met Steven Blank, official and authorized photog for Blatino Oasis, and he referred me to Joe Hawkins, Chief Assistant to the Assistant Chief, who told me sternly that I was absolutely NOT to take photos. They have all the sanctioned photographers they need, sez he, and then he pooh-poohed the idea of my getting on his official photo crew. Ah well. I shall email him links to my other smut journalism work and let him see the sort of thing I do, which is exactly the sort of thing that Blank does, only maybe a little better. Maybe next year, if I come. Meanwhile, on perfect cue, the very definition of sex just walked by my room with his low-cut jeans riding even lower, below the string of his red jock. *sigh*

Last night I had sex in a hedge maze.

Thick as a Brick, side two

[If you don't know this, you must learn.]

We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional.
God is an overwhelming responsibility.

We walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons.

[unintelligible]

In the clear white circles of morning wonder I take my place with the lord of the hills, and the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured in neat little rows sporting canvas frills. With their jock-straps pinching they slouch to attention whilst queueing for sarnies at the office canteen, saying 'How's your granny?' and 'Good old Ernie, he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win!'

The legends worded in the ancient tribal hymn lie cradled in the seagull's call; and all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.

The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun and signal for the crack of dawn. Light the sun. Light the sun. Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day! [ED for the record? BULLSHIT: it's a question both times, here and below.]

The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun. Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one. Do you believe in the day? The fading hero has returned to the night and fully pregnant with the day, wise men endorse the poet's sight. Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day!

The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun, and signal for the crack of dawn. Light the sun.
Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one. Do you believe in the day? The fading hero has returned to the night and fully pregnant with the day, wise men endorse the poet's sight. Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day!

Let me tell you the tales of your life, of your love and the cut of the knife: the tireless oppression, the wisdom instilled, the desire to kill or be killed. Well, let me sing of the losers who lie in the street as the last bus goes by. The pavements are empty, the gutters run red, while the fool toasts his god in the sky.

So come all ye [ED: wrong] young men who are building castles! Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus. Mark the precise nature of your fear.

Let me help you to pick up your dead as the sins of the father are fed with the blood of the fools and the thoughts of the wise and from the pan under your bed. Let me make you a present of song as the wise man breaks wind and is gone while the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose and the nursery rhyme winds along. [cf. 'Mother Goose' from Aqualung.]

[repeat omitted] See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you and the hour of judgement draweth near. Would you be the fool stood in his suit of armour or the wiser man who rushes clear.

So! Come on ye childhood heroes! Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books, you super-crooks, and show us all the way. Well! Make your will and testament. Won't you? Join your local government. [ETA: bullshit: 'Won't you join your local government?' is as read.] We'll have Superman for president; let Robin save the day. So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday? And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through? They're all resting down in Cornwall writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.

[fruity strings]

OF COURSE
So you ride yourselves over the fields]
and you make all your animal deals
and your wise men don't know how it feels
to be thick as a brick.

[Next up:

Call me up after midnight
Tell me I'm wrong, tell me I'm right
What do you want? What do I get?
Did yo just need the argument?
Well, bad life...]

Lamont

Young enough to have been named for Demond Wilson's character on Sanford and Son*, the most beautiful man in the world just looked at my portfolio and agreed to pose for me. 'Less explicit,' he said, and that's fine, because I could shoot the entire world in his face. And: he lives in Baltimore. I am pleased.

---
* Young'uns, know that this series, which Norman Lear debuted in 1972 on the wave of success from his seminal All in the Family, was the first real black sitcom and still holds up to this day (though much of the writing is silly/stupid, as almost all sitcom writing is).

'Esther, you so ugly I could stick yo face in dough and make gorilla cookies!' —Redd Foxx as Fred Sanford

'Soon as that camera turned off, he gone FUCK that little dawg!' —LaWanda Page, who played Aunt Esther on Sanford and Son, in Shakes the Clown

In other news

Trevore, from Chicago, took me as familiar enough to take me from behind, upon returning to the balcony from which he and his crowd watched this afternoon's festivities, in a mock fucking. I pulled my shorts down to accommodate him, but mock was as far as he wanted.

I like it here.