Woody winked at me
“You’ll love it”, he said, when he got the two tickets at Christmas. I wasn’t so sure. The ‘it’ in question was a Winter Music Festival, or, to be more precise, a tribute to the life and times of the singer songwriter Woody Guthrie. It was 2012 and the centenary of his birth was being celebrated. So, on a mild January evening I found myself driving along winding country roads in rural Co. Clare towards our destination, Sixmilebridge.
As I entered the venue I really didn’t know what to expect. I glanced around at those present. Age wise I fitted in, but their enthusiasm was palpable. I put on what I hoped was an ‘I’m really enjoying myself face’ and prepared to be entertained. The usual books and posters were scattered around on tables, and a large screen in the corner was showing a film on the life and times of Woody Guthrie.
I turned my attention to the screen and watched the account of the life of the singer. Woodrow Wilson Guthrie was born on July 14th 1912 in Okemah, Oklahoma, U.S.A.
His mother was institutionalised when he was young and this had a profound effect on the whole family.
HIGHLIGHTING
INEQUALITY
He witnessed the boom when oil was found near his home and the poverty and deprivation when it dried up. He experienced the effect of the resultant economic downturn on his community. He rode the trains, illegally, all over the country observing and recording in music and song the inequalities he saw. He developed a rather wry outlook on life.
He joined the merchant navy during the war. Once, when wandering around the ship, he was drawn to the most haunting singing. Following the sound, to his amazement he saw a group of GI’s of the African/ American community, all together below deck singing the blues and spirituals. He was dumbfounded when he found out that they couldn’t join their white colleagues on deck and that the white GI’s were likewise constrained. His reaction was typical when he witnessed injustice of any kind. Grabbing his guitar and with total disregard for the wrath of the authorities that he knew would come, he joined the singers below deck. He must have been a right thorn in the side of authority.
LETTING THE MASK SLIP
I waited for the session to begin. A group of people sat at a table obviously set up for musicians. The MC invited anybody who had a song to feel free to share it, and so the entertainment began. There was a still of Woody on the screen. His thin, intelligent looking face was half in shadow. One eye was closed from the sun, or, maybe from the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He had a workman’s peaked cap on. His other eye was fixed on me, sardonically I think. He had me spotted for the fraud that I was. My false expression hadn’t fooled him for one minute.
The session carried on and I found myself listening to the songs of protest that brought Woody Guthrie to a worldwide audience. In the song ‘Deportees’, I heard the tragic story of the immigrant fruit pickers, who were exploited, and then deported when they were of no further use. When the plane taking them home crashed, killing them all, there was no fuss. After all, they were only deportees.
In the ‘Ludlow Massacre’, I heard how the actions of the National Guard trying to break a strike, resulted in the death of thirteen children. ‘I Ain’t Got No Home’ is about people who couldn’t pay their bills and lost their homes. I found myself thinking these songs may have been written decades ago, but they are just as relevant today.
I was shaken out of my reverie by a slap on the shoulder. “Do you know the words of ‘This Land Is Your Land’? Start singing”. It was the woman beside me. “I don’t know the words” I lie. “You must do, go on”. I smile and shake my head. Not for the first time I envy those who can sing, play music, or recite a poem at the drop of a hat.
And so the evening progressed and I found my mask slipping and being replaced by one of genuine enjoyment. As we got up to leave, I took a final look at the still of Woody on the screen and I swear he winked at me.