Freedom of expression is still alive in the good ole US of A in the art realm. I read the other day that Will Smith said our society is experiencing a purge of sorts and that a new age of light will be upon us. I don’t have a clue of what is upon us other than that portions of Ayn Rand’s philosophy has taken control of the wheel. While reading her Virtue of Selfishness, it became clear the first political torchbearer of her, “everybody for themselves being virtuous”, was the 1964 presidential candidate, “the grandson of a peddler”, Barry Goldwater who was endorsed by Rand. The connection to Ronald Reagon is obvious, although Rand did vehemently oppose his reliance on the evangelicals for political clout. President Trump has apparently read a book or two and claims that Rand’s, “Atlas Shrugged”, is one of his favorites. They have all cherry-picked Rand’s philosophy. I reckon that Lenin, Stalin, and Mao did similar to Marx. There may be only one thing in common between Rand and grandson and that is they are tellers of truth. Rand told her own truth and grandson does this as well.
grandson’s music grabs my attention like the rapid-fire sound of a gun going off in the distance. grandson points to many truths that are hard for me to negate. He performs from the heart to the hearts and flow of youth. I suspect that today’s youth that watched the bankers rob us all in 2008 will naturally feel a lot of common truths with grandson. The system has withstood the truths of Joe Hill, Woody Guthrie, Phil Ochs and Tom Morello. Jordan Benjamin has a long row to how to be considered with any of those names, but a teller of truths should never be underestimated when it comes to art that many hearts find relative truth with.
“Good intentions will always be pleaded for every assumption of authority. It is hardly too strong to say that the Constitution was made to guard the people against the dangers of good intentions.”- Daniel Webster
This ole boy from Saskatchewan, Canada is a bullseye to a bow an arrow when it comes to telling a story in a few lines. Lines that flow through baritone chords that pull me back to the record player that my maw-ma gave me for Christmas back when a Ford was President and the radio was the prince to the music industry. When a penny could buy a dozen records from Columbia House with a sign up for mail order. My Dad got in on one of those deals once. So when I got that record player, I had a baker’s dozen of records to choose from. I reckon that one he had to buy at regular price was the last he bought from them. I loved those records. Two of them was Prison recordings from Johnny Cash that wore many needles out. It was not the best idea for letting a seven-year-old boy listen to Cocaine Blues over and over, but it did allow a young boy to fall in love with something that probably saved his life down the road. That something is music and Colter Wall has me missing my maw-ma and that old record player, and I’m as grateful as a Zen master for his cup of tea, for the memories and his music that’s a sparking them.
“We’re to blame because we let them steal,” she told him.
“Let them? We caused ‘em to steal?”
“Yes. We caused them to steal. Penny at a time. Nickel at a time. Dime. A quarter. A dollar. We were easy going. We were good-natured. We didn’t want money just for the sake of having money. We didn’t want other folks’ money If it meant they had to do without. We smiled across their counters a penny at a time. We smiled in through their cages a nickel at a time. We handed a quarter out our front door. We handing them money along the street. We signed our names to their old papers. We didn’t want money, so we didn’t steal money, and we spoiled them, we petted them, and we humored them. We let them steal from us. We knew that they were hooking us. We knew it. We knew when they jacked up their prices. We knew when they cut down on the price of our work. We knew that. We knew they were stealing. We taught them how to steal. We let them. We let them think they they could cheat us because we are just plain old common everyday people. They got the habit.”
“They really got the habit,” Tike said.
“Like dope. Like whiskey. Like tobacco. Like snuff. Like morphine or opium or old smoke of some kind. They got the regular habit of taking us for damned old silly fools.”
House of Earth Woody Guthrie”
― Woody Guthrie, House of Earth