By David Rovics - May 25th, 2008
[3]
I wouldn't want to elevate anybody to inappropriately high heights, but for me, Utah Phillips was a legend.
I
first became familiar with the Utah Phillips phenomenon in the late
80's, when I was in my early twenties, working part-time as a prep cook
at Morningtown in Seattle. I had recently read Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States,
and had been particularly enthralled by the early 20th Century section,
the stories of the Industrial Workers of the World. So it was with
great interest that I first discovered a greasy cassette there in the
kitchen by the stereo, Utah Phillips Sings the Songs and Tells the Stories of the Industrial Workers of the World.
As
a young radical, I had heard lots about the 1960's. There were (and
are) plenty of veterans of the struggles of the 60's alive and well
today. But the wildly tumultuous era of the first two decades of the
20th century is now (and pretty well was then) a thing entirely of
history, with no one living anymore to tell the stories. And while long
after the 60's there will be millions of hours of audio and video
recorded for posterity, of the massive turn-of-the-century movement of
the industrial working class there will be virtually none of that.
To
hear Utah tell the stories of the strikes and the free speech fights,
recounting hilariously the day-to-day tribulations of life in the hobo
jungles and logging camps, singing about the humanity of historical
figures such as Big Bill Haywood, Joe Hill or Elizabeth Gurley Flynn,
was to bring alive an era that at that point only seemed to exist on
paper, not in the reality of the senses. But Utah didn't feel like
someone who was just telling stories from a bygone era -- it was more
like he was a bridge to that era.
Hearing these songs and
stories brought to life by him, I became infected by the idea that if
people just knew this history in all it's beauty and grandeur, they
would find the same hope for humanity and for the possibility for
radical social change that I had just found through Utah.
Thus,
I became a Wobbly singer, too. I began to stand on a street corner on
University Way with a sign beside me that read, "Songs of the Seattle
General Strike of 1919." I mostly sang songs I learned from listening
to Utah's cassette, plus some other IWW songs I found in various
obscure collections of folk music that I came across.
It was a
couple years later that I first really discovered Utah Phillips, the
songwriter. I had by this time immersed myself with great enthusiasm in
the work of many contemporary performers in what gets called the folk
music scene, and had developed a keen appreciation for the varied and
brilliant songwriting of Jim Page and others. Then, in 1991, I came
across Utah's new cassette, I've Got To Know, and soon thereafter heard a copy of a much earlier recording, Good Though.
Whether
he's recounting stories from his own experiences or those of others
doesn't matter. There is no need to know, for in the many hours Utah
spent in his troubled youth talking with old, long-dead veterans of the
rails and the IWW campaigns, a bridge from now to then was formed in
this person, in his pen and in his deep, resonant voice. In Good Though
I heard the distant past breathing and full of life in Utah's own
compositions, just as they breathed in his renditions of older songs.
In I've Got To Know
I heard an eloquent and current voice of opposition to the American
Empire and the bombing of Iraq, rolled together seamlessly with the
voices of deserters, draft dodgers and tax resisters of the previous
century.
In reference to the power of lying propaganda, a friend
of mine used to say it takes ten minutes of truth to counteract 24
hours of lies. But upon first hearing Utah's song, "Yellow Ribbon," it
seemed to me that perhaps that ratio didn't give the power of truth
enough credit. It seemed to me that if the modern soldiers of the
empire would have a chance to hear Utah's monologues there about his
anguish after his time in the Army in Korea, or the breathtakingly
simple depiction of life under the junta in El Salvador in his song
"Rice and Beans," they would just have to quit the military.
Utah
made it clear in word and in deed that steeping yourself in the
tradition was required of any good practitioner of the craft, and I did
my best to follow in his footsteps and do just that. I learned lots of
Utah's songs as well as the old songs he was playing. Making a living
busking in the Boston subways for years, I ran into other folks who
were doing just that, as well as writing great songs, such as Nathan
Phillips (no relation). Nathan was from West Virginia, and did haunting
versions of "The Green Rolling Hills of West Virginia," "Larimer
Street," "All Used Up," and other songs. In different T stops at the
same time, Nathan and I could often be found both singing the songs of
Utah Phillips for the passersby.
Traveling around the US in the
1990's and since then, it seemed that Utah's music had, on a musical
level, had the same kind of impact that Zinn's People's History or somewhat earlier works such as Jeremy Brecher's book, Strike!,
had had in written form -- bringing alive vital history that had been
all but forgotten. With Ani DiFranco's collaboration with Utah, this
became doubly true, seemingly overnight, and this man who had had a
loyal cult following before suddenly had, if not what might be called
popularity, at least a loyal cult following that was now twice as big
as it had been in the pre-Ani era.
I had had the pleasure of
hearing Utah live in concert only once in the early 90's, doing a show
with another great songwriter, Charlie King, in the Boston area. I was
looking forward to hearing him play again around there in 1995, but
what was to be a Utah Phillips concert turned into a benefit for Utah's
medical expenses, when he had to suddenly drastically cut down on his
touring, due to heart problems. I think there were about twenty
different performers doing renditions of Utah Phillips' songs at Club
Passim that night. I did "Yellow Ribbon."
Traveling in the same
circles and putting out CDs on the same record label, it was fairly
inevitable that we'd meet eventually. The first time was several years
ago, if memory serves me, behind the stage at the annual protest
against the School of the Americas in Columbus, Georgia. I think I
successfully avoided seeming too painfully star-struck. Utah was
complaining to me earnestly about how he didn't know what to do at
these protests, didn't feel like he had good protest material. I think
he did just fine, though I can't recall what he did.
Utah lived
in Nevada City, and the last time I was there he came to the community
radio station while I was appearing on a show. This was soon after
Katrina, and I remember singing my song, "New Orleans," and Utah saying
embarrassingly nice things. I was on a little tour with Norman Solomon
speaking and me singing, and we had done an event the night before in
town, which Utah was too tired to attend, if I recall.
Me, Utah,
Norman, and my companion, Reiko, went over to a breakfast place after
the radio show, talked and ate breakfast. Utah did most of the talking,
and I was pleasantly surprised to find that his use of mysterious hobo
colloquialisms and frequent references to obscure historical characters
in twentieth-century American anarchist history was something he did
off stage as well as on.
I've passed near enough to that part of
California many times since then. Called once when I was nearby and he
was out of town, doing a show in Boston. Otherwise I just thought about
calling and dropping by, but didn't take the time. Life was happening,
and taking a day or two off in Nevada City was always something that I
never quite seemed to find the time for. Always figured next time I'll
have more time, I'll call him then. It had been thirteen years since he
found out about his heart problems, and he hadn't kicked the bucket
yet... Of course, now I wish I had taken the time when I had the
chance, and I'm sure there are many other people who feel the same way.
In
any case, for those of us who knew his music, whether from recordings
or concerts, for those of us who knew Utah from his stories on or off
the stage, whether we knew him as that human bridge to the radical
labor movement of yesterday, or as the voice of the modern-day hobos,
or as that funky old guy that Ani did a couple of CDs with, Utah
Phillips will be remembered and treasured by many.
He was
undeniably a sort of musical-political-historical institution in his
own day. He said he was a rumor in his own time. No question, one man's
rumor is another man's legend, but who cares, it's just words anyway.
