Intro
“Given
that external reality is a fiction, the writer's role is almost
superfluous. He does not need to invent the fiction because it is
already there.”
(J. G
BALLARD)
“To the victor go the spoils,” which usually includes getting to write the history of the period. So who were the winners in 1960’s America and could we trust them to write an objective version of events? Well given the conservative status quo was the victor, probably not.
But is there such a thing as an objective historical account or is it all polemics? And what about photographic evidence? The “camera never lies” but doesn’t that depend on where you point it?
It’s often said that if you can remember the sixties, you weren’t there. So who was? Bob Dylan, Sam Cooke, Nina Simone, Joan Baez, Phil Ochs and Don McLean certainly were because the events of that turbulent decade clearly resonate through the lyrics of their songs. And then there were the bands, the Byrds, the Doors, the Beatles and the Stones all picking up on the vibes around them to record the soundscape to the decade.
Therefore my history of America from 1955-75 is related through 30 tracks on a jukebox, songs that helped shape the social and political landscape of the period. It is a work of “faction” where fictional characters interact with real life characters during actual historic events.
At the start of the sixties when Kennedy came to power and Martin Luther King was leader of the civil rights movement young people were confident positive change would follow. It was during this period that Bob Dylan wrote “Blowing in the Wind” which inspired Sam Cooke to write, “One day a change is gonna come.” But there were people in America determined to stop any such change and within a few years the two leaders had been assassinated. Phil Ochs graphically describes this in his song “Crucifixion.”
Throughout the sixties America was increasingly drawn into what was basically a civil war in Vietnam. As the body count on both sides climbed higher the protests got ever louder and one of the rebel chant’s of the period became Country Joe’s song “Feel like I’m Fixin to Die Rag.”
In 1967 there was the “Summer of Love” with its emphasis on “make love not war” backed up by conspicuous consumption of the drug LSD, which, if nothing else spawned a great song in “If you’re going to San Francisco.” The love affair with this hippy idyll would continue for another two years culminating in the Woodstock Festival with its fantastic array of counter culture talent on display. But this honeymoon period came to an abrupt end two years later when a young man was stabbed then kicked to death by Hells Angels at Altamont, just after the Stones had finished playing “Sympathy for the Devil.”
The realisation that America was never going to win in Vietnam probably dawned in 1968 when Charlie Company perpetrated one of the worst atrocities of the war at the village of Mai Lai. Men, women and children were bayoneted and shot in an orgy of violence as American soldiers, frustrated at their inability to locate the enemy, took their anger out on the villagers.
By the end of the decade the war had been brought home to the streets of America with groups like the Black Panthers and the Weather Underground, using the atrocities perpetrated against civilians in Vietnam to excuse their own violent tactics in attempting to bring about radical change in America. And then there were the drug related deaths of three of the biggest stars of the counter culture movement when, in the space of 12 months Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison all departed the stage.
If the start of the decade belonged to the Kennedys and Martin Luther King, the end of the decade belonged to Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger. The idealism of radical youth had been replaced with the cynicism of reactionary old age as the two men conspired to destroy the subversive elements in US society and get out of Vietnam with something resembling a victory. They would become so paranoid in the process that they came to believe the Democrats were the enemy within. This resulted in the Watergate break in and the resignation of Nixon before he could be impeached.
Don McLean in his song “American Pie” graphically illustrates this descent into anarchy and chaos at the beginning of the 70’s which is why it is the final track in my book.
Copyright Dave Mort 2008 Reg. No. 291688
Published by Dave Mort
This book is dedicated to all those who attended pro-civil rights and/or anti-Vietnam war marches, demos or rallies in the 1950s, 60s and 70’s.
Track List
Track1 That’ll be the Day Buddy Holly
(The plane crash that killed Buddy, Big-Bopper and Ritchie Valens)
Track 2 Strange Fruit Billie Holiday
(The rise of the KKK and early days of the civil rights movement)
Track 3 Jailhouse Rock Elvis Presley
(The rise of the Mafia in America)
Track 4 Wonderful World Sam Cooke
(The sit down protests in segregated bars and diners)
Track 5 Blowin’ in the Wind Bob Dylan
(The Bay of Pigs fiasco and the Freedom Riders)
Track 6 A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall Bob Dylan
(The Cuba Missile Crisis)
Track 7 With God on our Side Bob Dylan
(The rise of Martin Luther King and the March on Washington)
Track 8 Birmingham Sunday Joan Baez
(Covers the bombing of a church full of children by the KKK)
Track 9 Crucifixion Phil Ochs
(The assassinations of JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald)
Track 10 A Change is Gonna Come Sam Cooke
(The inauguration of President Johnson and the Civil Rights Act. The Beatles tour America.)
Track 11 Mississippi Goddam Nina Simone
(More murders by the KKK)
Track 12 Eve of Destruction Barry McGuire
(Draft card burnings and other anti-Vietnam war protests.)
Track 13 Like a Rolling Stone Bob Dylan
(Dylan’s perceived change from committed folkie to electric Rock God. The Beatles meet Dylan on their ‘65 tour.)
Track 14 Eight Miles High The Byrds
(The carpet bombing of Vietnam and the use of Agent Orange)
Track 15 Only a Pawn in their Game Bob Dylan
(Examines the many anomalies in the official Warren report into Kennedy’s assassination)
Track 16 San Francisco Scott McKenzie
(The Summer of Love and the Monterey Pop Festival)
Track 17 Fixin to Die Rag Country Joe and the Fish
(The increasing alienation and radicalisation of groups opposed to the Vietnam War)
Track 18 Sympathy for the Devil The Rolling Stones
(The Mai Lai massacre and the increasing politicisation of MLK.)
Track 19 Abraham, Martin and John Marvin Gaye
(The assassination of Martin Luther King)
Track20 He Ain’t Heavy, he’s my Brother, The Hollies (The assassination of Robert Kennedy)
Track 21 Street Fighting Man The Rolling Stones
(The week long protests and riots at the Democrat convention in Chicago)
Track 22 Give Peace a Chance Plastic Ono Band
(The inauguration of Nixon and his and Kissinger’s illegal bombing of Cambodia and Laos)
Track 23 Fortunate Son Creedence Clearwater Revival
(The Battle for Hamburger Hill in Vietnam)
Track 24 Helter Skelter The Beatles (The Charles Manson murders)
Track 25 Woodstock Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
(The legendary concert.)
Track 26 Chicago Graham Nash
(The trial of the Chicago 8.)
Track 27 Ohio Neil Young
(The shooting of students demonstrating on the campus of Kent State University, by US State Troopers)
Track 28 What’s Going On Marvin Gaye
(The rise of the Black Panthers and the establishment of COINTELPRO by Nixon/Hoover, which spied on groups opposed to the Vietnam War. Deaths of Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin)
Track 29 Imagine John Lennon
(The trial of William Calley for the massacre at Mai Lai, the rise of the VVAW, Vietnam Veterans against the War led by John Kerry, and the death of Jim Morrison of the Doors)
Track 30 American Pie Don McLean
(The crash of flight 553 from Washington to Chicago. The Watergate scandal which results in Nixon resigning to avoid impeachment)
TRACK 1 – “THAT’LL BE THE DAY
when you say goodbye,”
(Holly/Allison)
Flakes of snow begin to pepper the tarmac as the pilot taxies to the start of the runway. He smiles as the strains of “That’ll be the Day,” waft into the cockpit, the use of a glottal stop at the end of key words immediately identifying the most famous of the three singers in the passenger seats behind him.
Awaiting clearance from the tower he can only watch as the snowflakes get larger so tries to lighten the mood by imitating this signature vocal style. After apologising for his pathetic warbling, he puts on his headset and requests the tower keep him updated on the rapidly deteriorating weather conditions. The headphones crackle with static as an impatient voice requests a flight plan, so he promises to send the relevant details a.s.a.p and opens up the throttle.
Once airborne, he pulls back on the stick and climbs steeply to the required height of 800 feet. He then banks sharply bringing ever darker clouds into view. He curses. In his haste to volunteer to fly these three rock ‘n’ rollers, youthful over confidence has overlooked the fact he hasn’t flown the requisite number of hours using instrumentation alone. He taps the thin glass cover on the altimeter causing the needle to swing wildly, a warning that if the weather doesn’t improve he will be totally dependent on this thin strip of metal.
Realising the pilot still hasn’t filed a flight plan, the controller calls him up again, but there’s no reply. The tower then receives an updated weather alert, which needs to be relayed as quickly as possible, so the voice, shriller this time, repeats its attempt at contact but there’s not even any static, just an eerie silence.
********************
It had been far from silent at the Surf Ballroom, Clear Lake, Iowa, twenty four hours earlier, as February 2nd 1959, marked yet another one night stand on the “Winter Dance Party,” Concert Tour. This gruelling three week schedule was already taking its toll, not that surprising given it was a succession of one-nighters, in twenty three cities across the cold and snowy Mid-West.
But despite the harsh conditions, Charles, Hardin “Buddy” Holley was determined to see it through, as he’d recently married and had a child on the way. And to pile on the pressure, he’d divorced himself from his band, the Crickets and their recording label, and was going it alone.
Realising the tour was going to be a serious challenge, he’d enlisted the help of a couple of old friends. Waylon Jennings was signed up as bassist, with ex-Cricket, Tommy Allsop on drums. Sharing the limelight was a very young Ritchie Valens who’d recently scored a worldwide hit with his interpretation of an old Mexican standard, La Bamba.
Jiles P Richardson, better known as the Big Bopper to his fans, was also performing; an ex-DJ from Texas who’d achieved overnight success the year before with his song Chantilly Lace. And completing this star-studded line up was the warm up act, Dion and the Belmonts
As the tour got underway, Buddy’s fears of the fans rejecting his solo status were proving unfounded. But the extreme cold was not only taking its toll on the performers; it was also freezing the engine of the tour bus, causing constant breakdowns. As the delays increased, tempers frayed, resulting in Buddy finally snapping and chartering a plane for the next leg of the tour. There were two other seats available on the flight, intended for his backing musicians, Waylon and Tommy. However Waylon, realising Big Bopper was not at all well, gave his up, while Tommy flipped a coin with Ritchie Valens for the right to fill the third. He lost the toss and reluctantly handed his ticket to the ill-fated Valens.
As the three left for the aerodrome, I started to write my piece on Buddy’s meteoric rise to fame with his band, the Crickets, but wasn’t to know it was to become his obituary. He’d started performing publicly after watching a concert by Elvis Presley in his hometown of Lubbock, Texas. Buddy obviously realised that Elvis was different. His voice was a true hybrid, a cross between the blues/gospel music the young man had grown up listening to in Memphis and the country music played on the local radio stations.
Buddy must have realised he could never mimic Elvis, so decided to develop his own style by adding a glottal stop at the end of key words. It was to prove a success and his unique sound would soon become as celebrated as his idol. He went on to select his backing band from local musicians, and they were soon getting bookings. And with the release of records like “That’ll be the Day”, “Rave on” and “Not Fade Away,” he, and the Crickets, soon became a worldwide rock ‘n’ roll phenomenon.
I imagined him boarding the plane, behind Ritchie and Bopper, and starting to sing “That’ll be the Day,” as an antidote to his fear of flying. It was one of his favourites and had been inspired by a visit to the cinema with Jerry Allison, his drummer, to see John Wayne in the film “the Searchers.” The song’s title was Wayne’s character’s catchphrase.
********************
Back on the tour bus I cursed the bad weather and pulled the collar of my coat tighter, doing up the top button as the cold air rasped in my throat. We all groaned as the engine of the overworked vehicle started to cough and splutter. I looked over in the direction of the aerodrome and glanced at my watch. The three stars must have taken off by now. Almost on cue, I heard the drone of a small plane overhead and watched as the tail light climbed higher into the inky blackness.
Meanwhile the owner of the Beech Bonanza plane Buddy had chartered was making his way to the tower to get the latest meteorological reports and to check on the progress of his young pilot. Looking up he spotted a red tail light and deduced from its path, it was his plane. He tracked it across the heavens for a few seconds, then stared in horror as the red dot appeared to plummet, followed by a faint glow on the horizon.
He hoped he’d been mistakenly following the trail of a shooting star, but when the glow got brighter he rushed up the steps of the control tower to demand radio contact be made. He was horrified to discover all communication had been lost soon after take off. Realising his young employee was not practiced in the art of flying blind, he raced to the hangar where his other aircraft was housed, jumped into the cockpit, fired up the engine and took off into the gloom.
********************
Looking back on the events of that evening, I think Buddy knew fate had something in store for him. I was writing my critique of what turned out to be Buddy’s final gig, when we received news of the crash. Assuming the tour couldn’t continue I called the editor of the music magazine I was working for to find out what to do next. He told me to get down to the crash site as fast as possible to get some pictures and ascertain what had caused the plane to go down and whether there was any evidence of foul play.
As I loaded my camera gear into the car and headed off down the frozen highway, I concluded the crash was down to the atrocious weather conditions. Although Buddy, Ritchie and Bopper were spearheading the rock ‘n’ roll movement, a youthful expression of rebellion the establishment probably saw as a threat, they were hardly political activists or moral degenerates intent on subverting society. If it had been Pete Seeger or even Elvis Presley on the plane I might have been more suspicious, because after having seen active service in the Korean War, I’d acquired a fascination for all air crashes and their possible causes.
I switched on the radio, just as they were announcing details of the crash and a sombre voice disclosed the fact that Eddie Cochran was supposed to have been on the same tour but because of filming obligations had had to cancel. I thanked heaven for small mercies, because after he’d recorded “Summertime Blues” the year before, he’d also become a firm favourite of my girlfriend and I.
Arriving at the crash site, a stubble field some 5 miles north of Clear Lake Iowa, I proffered my fake Civil Aeronautics Board ID to the sheriff on the access gate. After giving it a cursory glance he returned it and opened up, so I put the card back in the glove compartment with all the other tools of my trade. I then wrestled with the steering wheel as the car slithered its way across the white desert, following the tracks left by the emergency vehicles.
I homed in on the jagged silhouette of the plane’s fuselage standing erect like a tombstone against a barbed wire fence at the North end of the field. I reached the wreckage as the police and firemen were concluding their business and the ambulances had removed the bodies. So at least I wasn’t greeted by the macabre sight of the pilot’s legs dangling out of the top of his ripped open cockpit, as the firemen I spoke to had. They’d managed to cut him loose and he’d been taken away but I could still see where the sparks from their cutting torches had burnt little holes in the ice.
I took some pictures as I wandered towards the pools of claret still spreading across the snow. The bloody scene was testament to the speed the craft had ploughed into the ground, an impact that had entombed the pilot and flung the bodies of Buddy, Bopper and Ritchie across the field. A large brown suitcase with one catch open lay near one patch of scarlet and small travel case lay on its side about eight feet away. After remembering Buddy sometimes carried a firearm, I opened it and discovered it had a false bottom in which a gun could have been secreted which was empty. Deducing from the embossed initials it was Buddy’s, I took photos of the area as I searched for a possible weapon.
Noticing the fire crew had finished I hurried over to take some pictures of the exposed cockpit, and was taking one of the pilot’s seat when I noticed what looked like a bullet hole in the back. Had there been a gun fight on board? My feverish speculation was short lived however, because when I put my finger in the hole I realised that it had been there for many years.
Concluding the crash was a tragic accident; I exited the main gate and caught a final glimpse of the plane wreckage in the rear view mirror, which evoked macabre images of the Korean War eight years earlier.
********************
It was the spring of 1951 and I was an eager young photojournalist embedded with a US Infantry Division pushing its way north eastwards through Korea. We eventually stopped long enough to establish a front line defensive position, which the Generals imaginatively entitled “the no name line.” The infantry then separated out into companies, each allotted one of a chain of hill positions, the largest of which was sadly to become known as “Heartbreak Ridge.”
After receiving orders, my unit started to work its way up the Kari-san pass, to its highest point, while I tagged along behind my buddy, the sarcastic Sgt. Harvey. Picking up my heavy kit and camera gear, I begrudgingly followed him and the line of soldiers now winding their way up the escarpment. It was an arduous and at times hazardous climb, particularly as snow still blanketed the upper slopes. Upon reaching the apex we were ordered to dig in and mount machine gun positions, so we occupied the frozen cracks and crevices as best we could.
After stowing our gear and supplies, I made myself comfortable in my improvised foxhole, cleaned my camera equipment and attempted to light a cigarette, no mean feat in the cutting wind. Taking a huge drag, I unstrapped my guitar from the bottom of my kitbag and started to strum one of the Pete Seeger and the Weaver’s songs I had been practicing.
The strains of “Goodnight Irene,” were soon echoing down the valley, with some of the men joining in the chorus. Sgt Harvey shook his head in despair and implored me to change the tune, using a string of expletives to emphasise the urgency and referring to Seeger as “that commie bastard.” I smiled; I’d heard it all before. Harvey was a dyed in the wool Republican who regarded anyone to the left of Attila the Hun as a probable subversive.
As icy breath wafted the cosy lyrics down the valley, a good mood prevailed as thoughts of far away loved ones melted frozen memory cells. But I did notice that some of the younger men, who’d probably received “Dear John” letters, were singing Leadbelly’s original lyrics, “I’ll get you in my dreams,” as an expression of their bitterness.
Within the hour the sun had disappeared and the temperature plummeted below zero. Cosy memories of home soon dissipated as the spiky frost crept by osmosis to the very heart of the soul. I tried to settle but it was the worst night’s sleep I’d ever experienced, so I rose early and went for a walk to try and get some movement back into my atrophied joints. Crouching down to avoid the biting wind I managed to light a cigarette, which I held inwards towards my palm in a futile attempt to bring some warmth.
As the sun came up I noticed an observation plane pass low over our position heading towards a nearby hill. It returned a few minutes later and dropped a message, which I intercepted, indicating that regiments of Chinese troops were dead ahead and moving towards us. I awoke Harvey and passed the message on, as its bearer flew back over the ridge.
But to our surprise it returned a few moments later with an update stating there were many more enemy divisions heading our way. Even as Harvey was reading this out to the men crawling from their night time roosts, enemy troops had already begun to appear over the ridge and our lookouts were opening fire. We were urged to assemble and man our machine guns as quickly as possible, while I got my cameras positioned.
I heard artillery shells exploding on the rocks below as our troops on the nearby hill opened up with their big guns. The Chinese scattered as the shells rained down and we picked off the stragglers with machine guns. But they were like cockroaches, you swatted one and a hundred more took his place.
As they got closer we came under increasing grenade assault but I carried on filming until a machine post in front of our position exploded. Realising I was needed; I put my camera down, grabbed my rifle and returned fire. But my pathetic contribution counted for nothing and we were soon overwhelmed.
Harvey shouted the order to fall back along the ridge and grabbed his machine gun. I slung my weapon over my shoulder, picked up the camera bag and guitar and followed the rest of our company now racing along the ridge as fast as the heavy equipment would allow.
We were still going hell for leather when we heard the roar of jet engines behind us and instinctively fell flat on our faces onto the icy rock. They swept over heading towards Hill 1051, so assuming the danger had passed we got to our feet and rubbed our tender flesh. But they suddenly wheeled round and flew back.
I initially identified them as USAF F-80 jets and momentarily relaxed, waving at them as they passed. However I sensed something was wrong and turned to follow their flight path in time to see them bank steeply and return. They had now assumed attack formation, and I saw flashes from the leader’s cannon and shells start to explode all around us. I grabbed Harvey, who was cursing and waving his fists in the air, and pulled him into a nearby cleft in the rock. Through the cracks in my fingers which were shielding my stinging eyes, I watched as each plane dropped its napalm shells across the exposed ridge which periodically exploded into balls of flame topped by plumes of black smoke.
Remembering I was paid to record all our military engagements, and realising there was nothing I could do to prevent the attack, I picked up my camera and panned across to the panic stricken soldiers now scattering like headless chickens. But some grouped together, naively trying to attract the pilot’s attention by waving their field jackets in the air. Unfortunately they were positioned like pins in a bowling alley, so all we could do was watch as one by one they became engulfed in flame and fell over the edge of the ridge in their blind panic to escape, screaming and tearing at their clothing.
Meanwhile a furious Harvey had managed to assemble and position his machine gun and was training it on the plane bringing up the rear. Before I could stop him he’d opened fire, screaming obscenities as he raised the gun barrel to vertical and strafed the plane’s underbelly. A few seconds later he too was engulfed in napalm, so I tore off my jacket and started to beat the flames with it. But it only seemed to make things worse as the sticky petroleum gel spattered over his chest and onto my hands.
There then came a mighty crash from the end of the ridge as the F-80 that Harvey had shot up, hit the rocks. I turned for a second to see a fireball and by the time I’d turned back my buddy was beyond help, as his badly burnt torso was now on its back with charred arms outstretched to the heavens.
With no sign of any help on the horizon, I staggered over to the stricken plane to see if I could find the pilot, and didn’t have to go far before coming across his body lying on the icy rocks. From the contortion of his lifeless frame and the large patch of scarlet goo creeping across the permafrost from his skull, he’d obviously tried to eject but had been too low.
Although his face was badly battered by the impact, I was sure he was American from his flying jacket, so knelt down and looked for his dog tag. But I couldn’t find it and burst into tears, as the gruesome sight of Harvey and the state of the pilot were too much for me to take.
Pulling myself together I gingerly took my camera out and, struggling to hold it between charred fingers, took pictures of the fuselage. After satisfying myself it was an F-80 with American markings, I searched the strewn wreckage. I noticed several canisters attached to unopened parachutes, scattered about the area and photographed them. I levered the top off one with my knife. It was full of leaflets written in Korean, which I assumed to be propaganda.
I then spotted another canister with a partially opened chute a few yards away. It was lying on its side and some of its contents had spilled onto the ice. Although it looked like the others there was no sign of any leaflets but a pile of straw impregnated with a black, sticky substance lay nearby.
********************
I came round a few days later in a Mobile Army Surgical Unit with a blinding headache and a bruise on the back of my neck the size of a hen’s egg. Looking down at my heavily bandaged limbs, I realised I’d been burnt very badly, especially my hands which, according to the surgeons, would need skin grafts.
Over the weeks I became exhausted from the constant pain and the lack of sleep, as graphic scenes of napalm bombs and a crashing plane cauterised my retina. But I couldn’t recall being rescued and was told I’d been found unconscious on the ridge and helicoptered to safety. I realised my tour of duty in Korea had come to an ignominious end when a bevy of white coated medics gathered round the end of my bed, discussing my notes in hushed, serious voices.
As time went by images of the plane crash continued to overwhelm me and, according to the baggy eyed patients in the adjacent beds, I would make noisy references to it in my sleep. I was receiving regular morphine injections to relieve the pain as well as various other intravenous drugs to supposedly help me rest.
After a series of constant nightmares with much tossing and flailing, I received a visit from two men claiming to be from Military Intelligence. They interrogated me about the plane crash I had been alluding to, so I related my account of the friendly fire incident as best as I could. But it was at best hazy, something they exploited very quickly. They cast doubt on it having happened at all, especially as I was the only survivor. They then changed tack, refusing to believe that any American planes had been involved, insinuating they must have been Chinese planes with false US markings. I felt too ill to argue, and implored them to refer to my photographic evidence. They asked where it was, so I requested one of the nurses fetch my camera bag. She appeared confused and went off to find her superiors.
Before she was even out of sight, something told me what the result of her enquiries would be. And it wasn’t long before a blushing, stammering medic was informing my tormentors that I had been found unconscious on the ice, alone with no equipment, except my guitar.
The two men seemed to relax but still had the audacity to quiz me about my political beliefs. They reminded me I had briefly worked for Henry Wallace’s Progressive Party in ‘48, and that I was a fan of Pete Seeger and the Weavers, well known radicals.
They pointed out that Wallace had been opposed to what he saw as Truman’s foreign policy, especially towards Russia and China, then insulted me by asking if I had any communist sympathies. I expressed my indignation vehemently, reminding them that I had just risked life and limb fighting the Chinese only to be nearly killed by friendly fire.
I attempted to explain I was neither an advocate of Russia and China’s totalitarianism nor America’s dog eat dog capitalism, favouring a more egalitarian society; like the British were trying to create with their Welfare State. I gave up when I noticed their eyes glazing over but they thanked me for my cooperation. As they got up to leave their mood hardened again and they warned me that as I had no evidence they were US planes, I should refrain from referring to it as a friendly fire incident, or discussing it in public at all. They emphasised it was far more likely the Chinese had captured some of our aircraft and had orchestrated the whole deception. I tried hard not to look incredulous.
A couple of weeks later I was flown back to America and was soon undergoing skin grafts in a specialist New York Clinic run by the Military. But to my horror and the consternation of my carers, my general health rapidly deteriorated. I lost my hair, my weight dropped alarmingly and I was sick all the time. The doctor was initially at a loss to explain my symptoms, but inferred I may have ingested some toxic material at the crash site in Korea. He then terrified me by implying it might have given me cancer, so I felt somewhat relieved when he changed his diagnosis to Post-Traumatic Stress disorder. I was further reassured, when my hair began to grow back and I stopped feeling nauseous.
********************
Although I constantly requested to be discharged from the clinic, one year after returning to New York I was still a reluctant guest of the military. I was also receiving regular visits from a whole host of white coats, invariably claiming to be psychologists, psychiatrists or trauma counsellors.
I found them all profoundly irritating, but played along as I just wanted to be released with a clean bill of health. With that aim in mind agreed to sign up to a program of hypnosis to see if they could get to the bottom of what had happened to me in Korea. But I soon discovered it wasn’t all I’d signed up to. In addition to the hypnosis sessions I was also administered drugs and subjected to electric shock treatment which brought about apocalyptic visions and massive mood swings. Despite my protestations the medics constantly assured me I was making progress and would soon be discharged.
******************************
During my long convalescence I fell in love with one of my nurses, a not unusual occurrence for injured and vulnerable men. Her name was Lavinia Beaux, a beautiful Afro-American in her mid thirties. She had a body and soul to die for and an amazing record collection, consisting mainly of rhythm and blues discs and jazz recordings by the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan and Billie Holiday.
After I was discharged in late ‘52, we moved into a flat in New York together which the Military had found for us. Once we had settled in, we danced the nights away to our respective record collections, laughing and singing. I was impressed by Lavinia’s knowledge of how many billboard hits were simply white covers of earlier black recordings, and it soon became an after dinner game for us, “Name that rip off in one.” I would play a record by a white artist and she would produce the black original from her collection, but there was plenty of common ground.
A major offender seemed to be ex-DJ, turned crooner, Pat Boone. Lavinia informed me he’d started his career covering r ‘n’ b hits, after the lyrics had been watered down for the benefit of the so called white, moral majority.
On his recording of T Bone Walker’s “Stormy Monday,” the line “drinking wine” had been substituted for “drinking Coca Cola.” On his even worse cover of Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,” instead of sticking to the original line, “boys you don’t know what she do to me,” wholesome Pat had to sing, “little Susie is the girl for me.” Lavinia reckoned Little Richard was ripped off two more times in the mid-fifties, once again by Pat Boone’s record company who had the cheek to release its execrable version of “Long Tall Sally,” only one week after Richard’s.
But things were definitely shaken up for both of us when Elvis Presley burst on the scene. Now here was someone who looked, sounded and moved as an embodiment of the spirit of rock and roll. Lavinia and I were convinced he was the real deal, a crossover artist who had grown up in the South listening to a mixture of blues, gospel and country music. Fortunately these influences were exactly what Sun recording studio boss, Sam Philips, was looking for when the young Elvis sang him two Ink Spot numbers at his audition in 1954. Sam was obviously impressed, especially after hearing Elvis’s version of Roy Brown’s “Good rocking tonight,” and was convinced he had found his “Holy Grail,” a white rocker with a black sound.
It was during the height of the rock ‘n’ roll craze in 1956 that I vividly remember dancing to Elvis Presley records with Lavinia. We had bought his first album that March and were playing his versions of Carl Perkins “Blue Suede Shoes” and Little Richard’s “Tutti Fruiti” to death. This was the first time I didn’t hear Lavinia complain about a white cover of one of Little Richard’s songs.
Elvis’s massive success undoubtedly helped pave the way for many black artistes to achieve national prominence, even though their careers had preceded his. But sadly, although Elvis’s recording of “That’s Alright Mama” brought renewed attention to Arthur Crudup and briefly reinvigorated his career, he received no royalties and died penniless.
But as Lavinia was constantly reminding me, being ripped off by the entertainments industry was probably way down the list of things to worry about if you were young, gifted and black. The ongoing struggle for equality and civil rights was obviously more important. If you couldn’t get access on merit to the same schools as whites you were always going to be bottom of the pile.
TRACK 2 - STRANGE FRUIT
“Southern trees bear strange fruit,
blood on the leaves and blood at the root”
(Abel Meeropol)
They swarm in the night, high on cheap liquor and malicious gossip. Rumour is rife in the small town of Marion Indiana that three “Goddam Niggers” have robbed and killed a white factory worker then raped his girlfriend. The three alleged perpetrators are arrested and caged in the cells of the County Courthouse.
They flow through the streets with vengeance in their hearts and hatred in their souls, brandishing crowbars and pick axes, any available piece of metal that can inflict a painful or fatal wound. Their eyes are wild, their words snarled.
Others joined at every junction; swelling the numbers as they converge on the court house to demand the three be handed over. They are met with silence so they search for stones and other missiles with which to emphasise the urgency, then launch them at the dusty window panes. The terrified inmates cower in corners, paralysed with fear.
As 16 year old, James Cameron, stares out through the bars at the baying mob, he can recognise faces of former play mates and locals who recently employed him, polishing their shoes or mowing their lawns. They scowl back at him before attacking the large wooden doors with sledgehammers. He can soon hear the crashing and splintering of wood, as a gaggle of policemen stand idly by, laughing at the men’s feverish exertions.
When the large door is finally battered down, James realises the armed guards inside the courthouse, will not be coming to his rescue. A gang of about fifty then enter the adjacent cell and beat his friend and alleged felon, Thomas Shipp, senseless before dragging his body into the street where the rest can kick him to death.
His shattered body is then dragged by rope up to the window bars of their second victim, Abe Smith, who is given a glimpse of what he is about to receive. The more brutal then fight amongst themselves to get into his cell and by the time his body is dragged out it too has been mutilated beyond recognition with a crowbar sticking out of his caved in chest. Upon hearing his screams for mercy, James curls up into a foetal position and rocks and moans in the corner of his cell.
The two mens’ bodies are trussed up like sides of beef then carried across the courthouse square to a tree, where two ropes are thrown over the strongest bough. With nooses round their necks their limp torsos are hauled up by several muscular men who, from their expressionless faces, might as well be hoisting sails.
Remembering there’s one more to deal with; they turn their attention to the young James Cameron who is dragged, kicking and screaming across the square. But just as the noose is being placed around his neck, a young white woman silences the crowd then explains he’s had nothing to do with the crime. She clears a path back to the jailhouse and takes him back to his cell. According to James, who has been brought up a devout Catholic, Mother Mary has intervened to save him.
The bodies of the two young black men are left swinging in the breeze, their giraffe like necks elongated from their weight on the rope. Their pathetic clothing is torn from their bodies by souvenir hunters as their feet drip with the excrement expelled by their panic stricken bodies. Their naked lower halves are then covered with Klan robes making their dangling frames resemble the crucified Christ.
A carnival atmosphere ensues, with children laughing and frolicking in the surrounding woods, as a cabal of suited and booted white men gather round the dangling corpses, like big game hunters posing with their trophies. A photographer takes snaps of them which he sells for 50 cents each.
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There was one song of Billie Holiday’s in Lavinia’s collection that had always intrigued me. It was called Strange Fruit, and it’s macabre and haunting words fascinated and yet repulsed me, so I decided to do some research.
I discovered the lyrics were based on a real life atrocity, the lynching of Thomas Shipp and Abe Smith in 1937. Jewish teacher, Abel Meeropel, had seen a photograph of it and was so disturbed by the sight of the two torsos dangling from the tree; he wrote a poem named “Strange Fruit,” which he would recite at political meetings and rallies. His words almost alluded to the bodies being part of the life cycle of the tree, the blood having replaced the sap. I managed to obtain a copy of the same photograph and his poem but also read an account of the event by a James Cameron who had miraculously survived the lynching. I was then able to piece together what happened which is told above.
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The vast majority of these atrocities occurred in the Deep South where there was a legacy of hatred and bitterness after the Civil War. Presumably many whites saw the freed slaves as a threat to their livelihoods, with southern states passing Jim Crow segregation laws, ushering in a system of apartheid.
Over the years there were many attempts by the federal courts to overthrow racial segregation in the South, but all were met with violent opposition, especially from the Ku Klux Klan. These white supremacists had created a fascist, terrorist organisation that seemed to grow ever stronger.
To us, the House of Un-American activities had always been too busy ousting reds from under beds to investigate the Klan properly, thereby sending out the subliminal message it was somehow patriotic to harass and abuse blacks. Another possible explanation for their reticence was that the original chairman of the House, Martin Dies, was allegedly friends with many in this terrorist organisation and often spoke at their rallies.
Because of Lavinia’s first hand experience of racism, she didn’t need reminding that the black population’s life in the South was blighted. Their unemployment rate was double that of whites and they couldn’t send their kids to the same schools, eat in the same restaurants or stay in the same Hotels. And although they made up nearly half the population of the Deep South, only 5% of those old enough were registered to vote, so they effectively lived in a system of apartheid, not dissimilar to that in South Africa. They had also presumably lost faith in the American justice system to alter their plight, given that members of the KKK seemed to be literally getting away with murder.
Billie Holiday’s upbringing seemed indicative of the peripheral life many black families were forced to lead, her grandfather being one of seventeen born to a Virginia slave and a white Irish plantation owner. According to Billie’s accounts of her early career, she was recruited by a brothel, worked as a prostitute and sang for tips in a variety of clubs. And it was while she was working at one such club, Monett’s, penniless and facing eviction, she came to the attention of Columbia talent scout, John Hammond, who went on to produce Bob Dylan. Billy was singing a particularly harrowing version of “Body and Soul,” at the time.
Hammond got her recording sessions with Benny Goodman and work in New York clubs and in 1935 she had her first hits with “What a little Moonlight can do,” and “Miss Brown to You.” And as a reward she received a recording contract from Columbia. In 1936 she worked with saxophonist Lester Young, the man who was to give her the immortal nickname, “Lady Day,” as she sang with a white gardenia in her hair.
Over the next few years she worked with Count Basie and Artie Shaw, becoming the first black artist to sing with an all white band. But she was not allowed to use the front entrance or the same dressing rooms, and eventually had to leave the job due to several unsavoury, racist incidents.
In 1937 Abel showed his poem “Strange Fruit” to Billie during her stint at the Café Society, a Greenwich Village club frequented by liberals and one of the few to welcome Afro-Americans. Billie was so moved by the words she agreed to it being arranged into a song for her. But when it was first performed it proved a mixed blessing, dividing audiences so badly that many club owners forbade her to sing it.
Time Magazine initially dismissed the song as a piece of propaganda, but sixty years later were applauding it as one of the most influential songs of the century. Despite the censorship of some radio stations and most of the media, plus the fact that Columbia record producer John Hammond wouldn’t handle it, Billy managed to convince friend Milt Gabler to eventually release it on the small Commodore label.
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In the mid-fifties Lavinia and I had been to see the film “The Girl can’t help it,” supposedly a showcase for the latest rock ‘n’ roll talent. But we weren’t holding our breath as we’d sat through two other films that claimed to reflect the new music, “Rock around the clock” and “Don’t knock the rock.” The former turned out to be little more than a promo for the dismal Bill Haley and the Comets.
But this time we were more confident as this film featured the music of Fats Domino and Little Richard, who performed the title track. We were pleasantly surprised; the plotline was plausible and amazingly topical, portraying mob characters involved in the slot machine racket at a time when the real life Mafia was being investigated for such activities. Little Richard’s raucous piano had us itching to dance in the aisles, but we were pleased to discover the film also showcased fresh rock ‘n’ roll talent, artists that were soon to become firm favourites of ours.
The first was Eddie Cochran, a young Elvis look a like with an attitude and stance that was to become a template for many future punk rockers. On this, his debut, he performed a stomper called “Twenty Flight Rock,” which definitely had us rocking in our seats, before they were ripped out by young rioters.
Another featured young singer with attitude was Gene Vincent with the catchy “Be Bop a Lula.” Lavinia was certainly bowled over by him, not that I was jealous of course, as I was able to get my own back a short time later when a sultry siren by the name of Julie London hove into view. This woman not only looked a million dollars, but had a fantastic sexy, smoky voice to match. In the film she sang a song called “Cry me a river,” with the sort of sensuality that conjured up all manner of lascivious thoughts.
It was later released as a single and although most of the billboard hits from the mid 1950’s were instantly forgettable, this song definitely stood out from the crowd. But unfortunately, as far as Lavinia and I were concerned, it stood out for the wrong reasons and conjured up macabre images. In her husky voice Julie sang of being lonely and crying a river the whole night through.
Mama Till cried a river; she cried a river when her 15 yr old son, Emmet’s bruised, battered and mutilated body was dragged out of the Tallahatchie River. This was the start of another shameful chapter in American History which, when the full story was revealed, caused such a ground swell of protest that it virtually kick started the Civil Rights Movement and certainly convinced me of the need to join the struggle.
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It’s August 21st 1955 and black teenager, Emmet Till gets on a Greyhound bus in Chicago to visit relatives in Mississippi. His loving mother, realising that the reality for blacks is far worse in the South, warns him to be careful and if provoked to turn the other cheek. Soon after arriving, Emmet goes into a store and allegedly flirts with, and possibly wolf whistles at, the 21 yr. old white girl on the till. The boy is either naïve or doing it for a bet, but whatever the reason for his misguided action, it is to be his last. After hearing about the incident, Emmets’ relatives advise him to get out of town fast.
He obviously didn’t heed the warning because, shortly afterwards, he is dragged out of his uncle’s shack by the girl’s boyfriend and his half brother, who proceed to beat and kick him. When, according to them, Emmet was still unrepentant, these two good ol’ boys drag him to the riverbank, where they force him to strip naked. They then proceed to gouge out his eyes and strangle him with barbed wire, before shooting him in the back of the head. They finally weigh down his body, ironically with a cotton gin and throw it in.
When the poor boy’s rotting corpse is eventually discovered, he can only be identified by the ring his mother has given him. And when the case finally comes to court, the all white jury take just an hour to acquit the two main suspects, claiming that the State has failed to identify the body properly.
There was no justice that day but the case did become a cause celebre when the national media picked up on the story. I got involved in my capacity as a photojournalist and Lavinia as a member of the NAACP, the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People. This organisation provided safe houses for witnesses during the trial. Emmet’s distraught and bitter mother spoke out at the funeral, opening the casket so that the world could see her son’s mutilated corpse.
But I’ll leave the last word on this disgraceful episode to Bob Dylan, a young man who was waiting in the wings to sweep away the complicity and complacency of 50’s America. Incensed by what he’d read and heard of this atrocity, he later wrote the “Ballad of Emmet Till,” the last line of which was aimed at the murderers and read
“You let the human race fall down so goddam low.”
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A short time after the tragic death of Emmet, Lavinia gave up nursing me to work full time for the NAACP. As part of her training she was sent to the Highlander Folk School, just outside Monteagle in Tennessee to study strategies on how to desegregate the South. While she was away I took the time to do some research on the place, and discovered the school had originally been set up by Myles Horton, a white radical, to teach social, political and environmental issues to black and white union officials. But by the mid‘50s it had started to concentrate solely on the civil rights movement.
Lavinia wrote me every day and I soon received a letter explaining that the likes of Pete Seeger and Reverends, Martin Luther King and Ralph Abernathy were regular visitors to the centre. She also informed me that Pete was adapting an old gospel number into a suitable anthem for the cause, to be called “We shall overcome.”
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According to her correspondence, the first person Lavinia met at Highlander was teacher and mentor, Septima Clark. This grey haired, black lady in her late fifties was apparently everyone’s favourite aunt and she warmed to her instantly. She was running an adult literacy program which was teaching elderly black citizens how to fill in official forms and encouraging them to register to vote.
I was immensely proud that my partner should be involved in such a worthy cause and, through her, managed to get permission to visit the centre and take some photographs.
However, the staff gave me suspicious looks everytime I got my camera out, so Lavinia explained that the organisers of the school were convinced it had been infiltrated by FBI informants. Apparently derogatory articles were appearing in local newspapers linking the centre to communist and subversive activity. After hearing their concerns, I made sure I introduced myself and got to know my photographic subjects first before snapping away.
I was hoping to meet Dr. King as I’d read of his recent marriage to Coretta and wanted to congratulate him. The next day he arrived on a visit and I was so bowled over by his presence, I could hardly speak. He was statuesque in build and personality with an electrifying aura around him. Women found him spellbinding and I could tell Lavinia was profoundly moved. But I wasn’t jealous, as he seemed worthy of the adoration. I finally plucked up the courage to shake his hand and congratulate him on his recent betrothal and becoming pastor of the Dexter Avenue Baptist church in Montgomery Alabama. He thanked me and went on to enquire about my background and whether I was sympathetic to the cause. I soon put his mind at ease when I showed him some of my pictures, especially the ones from the funeral of Emmet Till and the ones I’d taken of Lavinia and Septima teaching senior citizens. He seemed impressed and told me about his plans to unite all the Baptist churches in the South in a new organisation to be called the Southern Christian Leadership Conference [SCLC] which would provide non-violent support for the struggle for civil rights.
Dr. King mentioned he had been heavily influenced by the peaceful protests of Mahatma Gandhi, and genuinely believed he could bring about non-violent change in America. I told him that although I admired his sentiments, the people who really controlled America were hardly likely to give up their privileges without a fight, but admitted that the strategy had worked for Gandhi against the British. He smiled, we shook hands and he left, but we were soon to meet again.
Another person Lavinia introduced me to, was a young lady named Rosa Parks, a tailor’s assistant at a department store. She was also a member of the NAACP and a committed Christian. Rosa put me in mind of a school mistress with her hair scraped back in a bun and her glasses, but although she had a girlish demeanour it wasn’t long before I discovered a steely determination underneath.
By late November, the Women’s political council of the NAACP had become involved in a campaign to desegregate the buses down in Alabama. Like most towns in the Deep South the transport system was segregated, blacks having to sit at the back of the bus and give up their seat if a white person wanted it. The council was determined to challenge this entrenched position and was looking for a suitable person to use as a test case in the town of Montgomery, where Dr. King had his ministry.
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It was the end of the working day on the 1st of December 1955 and Rosa Parks was leaving the store where she worked to board her usual bus home. She sat in the black section at the back until the bus was full and the driver asked her to give up her seat for a white man. Rosa refused and was arrested and fined, which unfortunately led to her losing her job.
The NAACP immediately called on blacks to boycott the transport system, so Lavinia and I stayed up all night copying out 35,000 handbills advertising the cause. The next day we distributed them outside the churches and several members of the clergy agreed to speak about the protest to their congregation and the Reverend Ralph Abernathy even helped pass out the leaflets to high school students.
After the success of this initial campaign, the Montgomery Improvement Organisation was formed to coordinate the protests. Reverend Martin Luther King, as pastor of the local church, was elected President and Lavinia joined the board. But apparently, nobody had yet identified the FBI informants that had infiltrated the NAACP and the Highland School and were passing false information to the media. So, as far as mainstream America was concerned, the whole civil rights movement was being orchestrated by communists, a lie that was perpetuated throughout the next decade.
But despite the bad press, the campaign continued and over the following year 17,000 black residents of Montgomery either walked to work or accepted lifts off the small number of black drivers who owned their own cars. Eventually the loss of revenue from the buses and a decision by the Supreme Court in favour of the protesters resulted in the company desegregating the service. So it was an important victory and an important time for us, as we got to hear Dr. King speak in public for the first time.
I will never forget that day as it was one of the finest orations I have ever heard. It was delivered at Holt Street Baptist church in Montgomery on the December of 1955 during the bus boycott. His stirring words are still indelibly printed on my brain and I realised, there and then, this man should run for President. He spoke of