From the LP cover:
D.H. Lawrence's "dirty little secret" -- thanks to the foul-mindedness of
Cromwell, Comstock, the bloody "Widder of Windsor" and the Church Militant
(subverted through the ages by randy monks) -- has never really been dirty, nor
little, (Pantragruel's cod was hardly that) nor secret. Rabelais'
kindred sprits were of all tongues and roared out lyrics that liberate.
In this exhilarating album are thirty-three such engaging items: songs,
couplets, limericks, letters of advice and whatnots: thy are all music to the
ear of a free man. To Mr. Pinchface and Miss Pinchtwat, to the
purse-lipped serf, they are a horror to all others, a joy. Molly Bloom
would have found this music
[inside gatefold]
to fuck by especially in the company of Blazes Boylan, Leopol would have
found it enthralling -- in stoking the furnace of his fantasies. Of
course, Joxer would have murmured to Captain Boyle: "A darlin' album, a darlin'
album." Even when sober.
The sources are in some cases not unexpected: Robert Burns, Ben Franklin,
Joyce, Elizabethans, Restoration pop artists and soldiers. But who'd have
thought it of Eugene Field? "Little Boy Blue" may moisten the eye, but
"King David" lubricates elsewhere. Young John Dryden may have memorialized
Cromwell, but Old John merited the laurel wreath if only for his delightful song
-- celebrating the delicate, yet exquisite, tumbling of Sylvia. Thought
Thomas Hardy is best remembered for Jude's intellectual longings and Tess's
troubles, "The Dark Eyed Gentleman" indicates his more gamey nature.
His poem is closer than a kissing cousin to "Foggy, Foggy Dew."
Astonishments and delights are in abundance here.
Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound was 76 proof. Naturally, it was
popular with nice old ladies of the Temperance League; its alcoholic content was
Lydia's "dirty, little secret." The ads, inescapable at the time, featured
a prim ma'am of God-fearing mien. Thus a woman's "complaint" was assuaged
in her getting religiously smashed; Bible and bottle side by side. Was she
aware of the ribald anthem it inspired, sung out by sorority sisters, who
pre-dated Women's Lib?
Familiar and sometimes sacred songs are lovely setups for scatological
lyrics. "Yankee Doodle" is a natural. Unfortunate school-children
have been denied the red, white and blue delight of leaning the latter.
It is strange that the Civil War, source of more songs than any other event
in our history, has produced so few racy ones. Dell Wiley, most prolific
recorder of soldiers' correspondence, has a hunch there were quite a few
improvised up front; the boys hesitated in enlightening the folks back home.
They were a blushing bunch. "John Harrolson" is a howling exception, a
ribald beauty, salvaged by the lead soloist of this album. More of him
anon.
We have Billy Herndon to thank for handing down Lincoln's story of the
flatulent host. It was a matter of farting with aplomb -- or grace under
pressure.
Reasons of one sort or another have been offered for the denial of Poet
Laureateship to Rudyard Kipling. The familiar one ... his bitter "Widder
Of Windsor." (Victoria was a dirty old woman in so many ways.) More to the pint
may have been his authorship of "The Bastard King of England." Even this
celebrant of Empire has his anti-royalist moments. It's a beaut.
Along this line, in World War I and II, when a Tommy grumbled, "Fuck the
king", his buddy was known to reply, "Fuck him? You can't even approach the
bastard." You need not be Mick Jagger to appreciated this song.
Succint and elegant are the works here. They are remembered because
they are so anti-Muzakal. Most important, there is a feeling to the
performances. Reverence.
The bass-baritone, whose orotundity pervades this album, has for many years
been soloist in some of our most distinguished -- shall we say most High ? --
churches. Episcopalian and Presbyterian, of course. His father was a
clergyman. Baptist, of course. His tasts are catholic, of course.
What his thoughts were during those solemn Sunday mornings as he sonorously
rolled out "Oh Lord, Our Help In Ages Past" while formally-clad ushers
were bringing in the sheaves, only he can tell. It is between himself and
God. His performances on this album, both in recitative and in song, are
quite obviously a joyous letting go. His experience with American and
British forces did him no apparent linguistic harm. Nor his wide mastery
of Schubert, Wolf and Schumann lieder. A natural Leporello. Or for
that matter, the Don himself. Oh yeah, there is a little Mozart in his
package, too. Of course.
The other voices are equally equipped, religiously as well as musically.
Members of a celebrated choral group, they have approached the Task with the air
of pilgrims.
What wondrous loves is this
Ho, my Lord, oh my Lord....?
Studs Terkel
Author of HARD TIMES
