9648. TAKE MY HANGING BASKET, pt. six, 1967

TAKE MY HANGING BASKET

- pt. six, 1967 -

In about 1963, LeRoi Jones wrote a book

entitled 'Blues People' which traced the

social history of blacks and downtrodden

southern slave workers, etc., and put it

into their under-structure of blues and

hard-times music. It worked well enough,

and was and is a good read for that sort

of thing. In fact, I probably need another

read of it because it's kind of hazy now.

I've got it around here somewhere. It didn't

specifically lead into jazz or black jazz music,

but it pretty much could have  -  as he came up

and gained credibility in the Beatnik movement,

out of the Navy and his interesting life-story

and adventures, it stayed with me. I watched

him, even in my seminary years, at about that

1963 era  -  keep note of what he'd written,

Dutchman, plays,  all that stuff, and this book

here just mentioned. He had to do with old

NYC, and the jazz movement guys too. Jones

was a pretty credible guy, and people listened.

His wife, at one point anyway, was 'Hettie Jones.'

They ran a small publication, name of which

I forget now, and it became an early 1960's voice

for radicalized poetry, music writing, essay

and drama work. That was back in the old

typewriter days, when self-publishing and

all that bore no resemblance to what it is today.

Things needed to be carefully typed, arranged,

corrected and sorted, taken to the printer, brought

back, collated, folded, and stitched, or stapled or

whatever means was chosen. I used to do that

very same stuff, so I know, It was pretty tedious,

and typewriters, no matter the 'romance' of them

now, were in actuality a real pain in the butt.

Corrections, re-types, type-overs, etc. There were

a hundred different forms of correcto-tapes,

white out, and the rest, or re-type over an error.

It didn't often work, the whole page would need

to be started over, or you'd get to the bottom of

the page, too low, and find the bottom line or

two slipping, looking ridiculous on a low slant.

Tons of frustration. When 'word processors,' as
they were first called, came out, it made a world of
difference  -  not for the quality of the writing, of 
course, no, but for the correcting and the
re-arranging of content and lines.

-

Anyway, he had this book out. The connection,

or the leap, to jazz was pretty big. Word was he

liked jazz anyway but that the dictates of black

militarism has pushed him instead into the

vibrant anger of the dispossessed, so that he

had to take that stance  -  even more than the

representative stance of the be-bop, jazz, and

black 'Negro' movement, within the musical

world. Which at that time was still more subdued

and, actually, more active, but busy with its own

stuff, not so much the 'social activism,' movement.

The jazz guys, by now some five years later, I

guess had learned to live with all this and not 

much was ever really said. I don't think anybody

really much cared, to be honest. All that marching

on this or that location, walk-ins and sit-ins and

teach-ins and that, all that was  -  to them  -  in

effect just not part of their world. It was 'whitey'

stuff, so to speak, even if it was black. The meaning,

in their terms, was that it just didn't count because

it wasn't music and their single-eyed determination

was to work their music out, only,  and to hell with 

the rest. Equality and rights was old white-world 

stuff, where the usual lackeys professed to believe

that any of that really existed, They'd say things

like, 'the time was comin', and soon, but not my

worry.' Pretty cryptic, but that's how they talked.

-

By today's standards these guys were Neanderthals.

And so was I. By any standard  -  the sexism was

rampant, the what's now called 'incorrect' aspect of

everything was everywhere, and no one cared. A

she was always a 'Doll' or somesuch address, and

considered ready, willing, and 'available,' at any

time. There were no stops or limitations. and

they went along too, so, whatever. I wasn't even

a part of this scene, really, but I think back at it

now and realize I never gave a thought to things

that by today's standards would be way out of

bounds. It stands out. 

-

These loft buildings always had a stairwell, of some

sort, usually long and skinny too  -  narrow is the

word, I guess, not skinny, for stairs. And of course

a freight elevator or two, lined with blankets and all, 

to protect things, and used more than the stairs,

which could just be a hazard, or a trysting place

or even a shoot-up nook. The code was, for me 

anyway, if you walk up on something, whatever 

it is you're seeing, you didn't just see it. And

that's that. Then there was the roof, and then there

usually was, of some sort, the basement. That was

utility and storage, electrical boxes sometimes,

heaters and water pumps and heaters again, drains

and sinks, work-bench table, paints, etc. Command

centers for, mostly, daytime utility services and 

maintenance. I never too often got involved, but

stuff was always going on. I still see old buildings

like this today, 17th, 19th street, into the west 20's.

There are still a few great ones up by the w50s,

used for horse care, park wagons, blacksmith stuff.

They still have the ramps and open inner stairs, 

just like of old. But otherwise it's all gone, and 

disappearing fast. Plumber guys now, in the

early morning they line up at one place that's 

a plumbing supply depot, and they load up there

for their day's scheduled work  -  that's right 

next to the horse place. And often there's 

Russian or foreign east-Euro types with their

rental liveries and big black limos, just waiting

around by Clinton Park  -  not the President 

Clinton and family stuff, this is DeWitt Clinton.

They all just wait around, and this mix is pretty

genuine, like you don't get in many other

places. It always brings me back to the jazz

loft stuff; even though it's totally different and 

that's all gone now, but it does anyway. I get

transported, with all these weird people now

hanging around, just as unsavory probably,

yet completely and differently tasked. Worlds

mix and mingle, but maybe only in my brain.

-

I don't really have a beef with the world any

more. Distance has set in; disdain, removal.

Nothing  - as it's put  -  cares for nothing, in

this modern day of paltry desires and needs.