Let'em have it, Johnny

In quasi-honor of this, I’ve concocted some posts that revolve around particular global locales. The first of the bunch, as you might have guessed, is Vietnam. And I promise, I ain’t gonna post a bunch of folky protest songs. Read on and see for yourself.

This first track is by my fellow Arkansan, Johnny Cash.  Titled, “Talking Vietnam Blues,” it’s the closest to being construed as a “protest” song.  It’s an easy, ramblin’ tune that speaks out against aggression and violence, not from a point of piety, but one of a calm passivity.  If one person could toss aside the supposed screen of war as a prideful and glorious expression of masculinity, it’d be Mr. Cash.

While Cash relayed the story of Americans in Vietnam from his own perspective as a performer, Jimmy Cliff takes a more nuanced position in “Vietnam.” While both music and chorus are quite catchy, the song is rather morbid. Around his countless intonations of “Viet-nam,” Cliff relates two short anecdotes relating to a solider in Vietnam. The first is from the perspective of a friend who has received a letter from his pal telling him to make sure he lets everyone know that he’s coming home. The second verse is a telegram received by his mother informing her of his death. When I listen to the track, however, I never seem to realize this. I just bob my head and sing along to the chorus.

Steve Earle is an American institution. He’s had his ups and downs musically. He suffered through addiction and recovery, bouncing back to create stunning music (The Mountain, et al). Then, as George Bush’s reign in office took shape, we all suffered through his endless political haranguing. “Copperhead Road” ranks as one of the greatest songs he has recorded.

The majority of the song deals with runnin’ ‘shine in Tennessee, but its most pointed (and astute) moment comes with the specter of the Vietnam War. John Lee Pettimore kicks off the final verse with this pronouncement:

“I volunteered for the Army on my birthday
They draft the white trash first,’round here anyway”

True, unflinching, and incisive…It’s Earle at his best.

Those Irish eyes are smilin, Jay...

It is estimated that two in five Irish born people were living abroad. This massive migration of souls created a lasting societal impact in Ireland as well as here in America. A large piece of that impact is the musical legacy left behind by these millions of traveling souls.

Though it was indeed penned by an Englishman, Danny Boy is the quintessential Irish ballad.  The beauty of the words have long made it a favorite of mine as well.  Johnny Cash tried his hand at it on the 2002 album, American IV: The Man Comes Around.  While his version of Hurt garnered deserved praise, I have a soft spot in my heart for his take on Danny Boy.

His weathered and torn voice gives the ballad an added depth and poignancy.  And though it came to symbolize the Irish diaspora, the song is a powerful memento of love and longing for all those away from home, no matter where that home may be.

My love for The Band and a certain Belfast Cowboy is worn proudly on my sleeve.  During The Last Waltz concert, Richard Manuel joined up with the man who can’t be mentioned here (silly copyright laws) for a rousing rendition of Tura-Lura Lural (That’s An Irish Lullaby).  Rarely has such a powerful duet been captured on tape.

Much like Danny Boy, this Irish Lullaby is about the inescapable passing of time.  The singer looks back fondly on his mother singing him to sleep with her Irish lullaby.  Hearing that voice come crashing in around the 1:12 mark is one of my favorite things ever recorded.  The duality of his vocal power and grace leaves me in awe every time as he swoops in, singing “Well it’s often, it’s often in dreams I wander…right back, back to that cottage again.”

Set in Baltimore (a once heavily Irish city), The Wire is my favorite show of all time. When a cop dies on The Wire, his fellow officers hold a booze fueled wake at a bar.  The fallen officer is laid out on a table and as booze is consumed, the officer is eulogized (usually by the golden throated Jay Landsman).  As the eulogy comes to a close, they “play the damned song” and, shots in hand, sing along with it.

It’s a hard thing to explain unless you’ve see it, but there is more humanity and companionship in these innocuous barroom wake scenes than most dramas can create in a full season. They are a testament to the quality and craftsmanship of The Wire.

The song in question is by The Pogues, who with their mixed Irish/English background, are a sort of modern manifestation of that Irish Diaspora. This particular track seems to be a sort of flip side to the previous songs that longed for the past. The Body of An American is much more forward thinking, as the subject, though a war casualty who left behind his love, fully embraces his status as a “free born man of the USA.”  It’s one helluva barroom song, Irish or not.