Last time I visited this journal, I mentioned Pacifica Radio and how their broadcast of stories from Vietnam via the Christian Science Monitor is influencing my thinking on Vietnam. But KPFA and KPFB aren't the only public radio stations, and others contribute (read "sell") content to them. I'm thinking particularly of that non-mainstream star Bob Fass, of WBAI (New York).
Bob Fass in the WBAI Studio, New York City
I can't get no "useless information"
I do love surprises–intellectual ones, not generally practical jokes. And Fass is full of jokes and japes and surprises. He's the kind of guy who would invite John Cage onto his show and play Cage's "Silence" (4'33") despite the rules against silence on the radio.It's no wonder his show is called "Radio Unnameable," although I had to look up the label, because I just turn on the radio and I guess it's lucky that I tend to turn it on when he's holding forth. Of course, the show is 5 hours long, emanates from the East Coast, and must be time-shifted, because he starts with "Good morning, cabal" at midnight in New York. So, for anyone tuning in from San Francisco after dinner, as I do, it's just there in the evenings weekdays starting at 9. (I miss him when he's off weekends.)
Fass with SNCC member, Abbie Hoffman
"Satisfaction"
What does he do with those 5 hours? Miracles. I think he would get LBJ on if he could. As it is, he satisfies himself with guests such as Abbie Hoffman, Paul Krassner, Richie Havens, Arlo Guthrie, Joni Mitchell, Allen Ginsberg, Frank Zappa, Country Joe, and many more, as well as random people who call in, sometimes more than one caller at once. Isn't that The Fugs playing right now as I write this? It doesn't matter how long or how short you make your song, you can sing it on his show. Someone you know having a bad acid trip? Call his show and he'll put on a psychiatrist to help you get through it unharmed (don't go outside unless you have a short walk to get help!)
FM Radio at Its Best
"He Can't Be a Man"?
Did I forget to mention that we're talking FM radio here? I recently went into a store to buy a new radio when my old one bit the dust. The salesperson who sprang upon me while I was innocently browsing among the machines wanted to sell me an AM/FM radio. I said no, that I intend to never move out of the range of an FM radio station. (And I almost never listen to AM radio.) Of course, like all the best laid plans of mice and men, who knows what will happen. For now, Mel and I are eating the occasional bit of shark meat on our hibachi that we put outside on our tiny porch, with some vegetables & rice cooked inside on the stove where he sometimes has to warm up his head when his pseudomigraines start. And going to see Carol Doda on Broadway, the occasional experimental movie, play and so on. There is so very much to do here in SF besides radio! But yes, I can get "Satisfaction," on the radio and elsewhere.
Speaking of radio, Bob Fass would be right at home at KGJ, our radio revolution!
It's been three years since our last survey of the American music scene. When last we took the pulse of Top 40, music was in a weird in-between stage with a dozen different genres and influences competing for ascendance. What we didn't see back then was the great tidal wave of musical influence that was about to crash on our shores from across the Pond. I think it's safe to say that 1964 was a watershed year, and the pop scene at least can be divided into the eras BBI and ABI…
The British Invasion
The tip of the spear was, of course, The Beatles. The right combination of talent, variety, and infectious tunes, all in a slick gray-suited, mop-topped package, the Fab Four were a hit in the U.S. from the moment they appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show in February '64.
What made The Beatles so compelling was that they had so much to offer. From their surprisingly diverse debut album, to their rocking second album, and on through their movie soundtracks, A Hard Day's Night and Help!, the British quartet had three score songs to enjoy, almost all of them hit-worthy.
And shoulder to shoulder with the boys from Liverpool was a host of other bands: The Dave Clark Five with their hard-hitting Glad All Over and Bits and Pieces, the delightfully varied and somewhat cynical The Kinks with hits ranging fromAll Day and All of the Night to the wistful Sunny Afternoon, the bluesy The Who with their anthemic My Generation, and The Rolling Stones, who certainly provide Satisfaction, Eric Burdom's soulful The Animals, the unusual The Zombies. More recently, The Hollies have impressed with I'm Alive and especially Look through any Window.
Plus all the lighter Merseybeat gang, from Gerry and the Pacemakers to the goofy Freddy and the Dreamers, Peter and Gordon to Chad and Jeremy. The utterly gormless yet inexplicably popular Herman's Hermits. Not to mention the more musical theater-type stars like Petula Clark, Dusty Springfield, and Lulu.
Downtown is both upbeat and melancholy at the same time.
All in all, it's been a musical smorgasbord, so delightful that you almost don't mind how many former musical greats got cut off midcareer: who listens to Neil Sedaka or Rick Nelson anymore? And Elvis is barely hanging on.
Domestic Resistance
Nevertheless, the Yanks have both resisted and embraced the invasion. The Beach Boys have kept on plugging away since their 1962 debut with album after album, and they don't seem at all fazed by the foreign influx.
Motown remains King (Queen?) too: Acts like The Supremes, Martha and the Vandellas, The Four Tops, The Impressions, Dionne Warwick, etc. fill the Top 10 as often as any English band.
Sadly, Martha and the Vandellas were shortchanged to promote The Supremes — their Nowhere to Run To is a modern classic.
Walk on By is one of the loveliest songs ever recorded.
If there's anything that marks this era of music, it's how quickly it's changed. As doors open, they also close. 1964 saw the acme and crash of the surf guitar craze. Acts like The Ventures still steadily produce albums, but the rest of the scene has evaporated, again evolving into garage-y endeavors. The Chiffons, The Shirelles, The Ronettes, and many other girl bands have mostly dropped off the radar, Phil Spector's "Wall of Sound" being supplanted by the new raw aesthetic.
Folk to Folk Rock
Since the last wrap-up, folk music swelled to a crescendo and spawned a hybrid child with rock. In 1963, Bob Dylan hit it out of the park with his magnum opus, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. Though he continued in acoustic vein through 1964, by last year he had picked up an electric guitar, rasped his voice a bit more (yes, it was possible), and completely changed his sound. From Like a Rolling Stone to widely covered It's All Over Now Baby Blue, Dylan's harmonica-fused electrica has transformed the radio (whether you like it or not.)
Sure, there are still straight folk acts out there, including Joan Baez, Judy Collins, the superlative Donovan, and the recent Gordon Lightfoot, but rocking folk is where it's at.
To wit, The Byrds released two of the more exciting records last year, featuring the hits Mr. Tamborine Man and Turn, Turn, Turn. Those are good songs, although they have lots of others that I like as well or better. For instance: It's No Use, I'll Feel a Whole Lot Better, and It Won't be Wrong. The group's jangle and close harmony are really appealing, though their Dylan covers tend to be limp.
Then there's the appropriately named We Five whose You Were on My Mind was everywhere (and deservedly so).
Simon and Garfunkel released an acoustic folk album at the end of 1964 that was pretty good but went nowhere. Lorelei and I liked the song, The Sound of Silence, so much that we played it at coffee shops and gigs for a while. Apparently others shared our taste because the song got air play on a lot of college stations, and a Byrds-ified version came out in September, dominating the charts. The duo, which apparently had broken up, got back together to release a new album: The Sounds of Silence (natch). It's quite good, though a bit downbeat, and more than half the songs incorporate electric guitar.
And in the same realm are The Mamas and the Papas and the closely associated Barry McGuire, evolved from the purely folkishy New Christy Minstrels. The M & Ps' California Dreamin' is destined to be an anthem for the decade, and McGuire's controversal Eve of Destruction and his even more goose-bump inducing This Precious Time mark two of the absolute highlights for 1965.
Given the success of the folk-rock genre, one can expect that the remaining "pure" folk acts may go in a rockish direction. But not necessarily…
Psychedelic
There's a new kind of music surfacing, filled with unusual effects, exotic instruments, and the impact of recreational drug use. For want of a better word, and because this is what several outlets and bands are calling it, the genre is "Psychedelic Rock."
Of all the bands I listen to regularly, probably the one that emblemizes this new style is the London-based The Yardbirds. Originally an uninteresting blues band, with the departure of guitarist Eric Clapton (who left because they stopped playing blues — don't let the door hit you in the a…mplifier on the way out) the band became something really far out. For Your Love, Heart Full of Soul, Still I'm Sad, and especially the latest single, Shapes of Things, are filled with atypical movements, eerie vocals, and just plain weirdness (but good weirdness) that indicates music has long since departed Kansas.
Other bands have begun experimenting with psychedelica, for instance, the formerly folk-rockish The Byrds with their brand new single, Eight Miles High. The frenetic, almost unfocused guitar work, the Indian inspired riffs, and the haunting vocals spell a huge departure from last year's output. The Beatles haven't whole-hog embraced the new style (yet), but the use of sitar on their last album, particularly on Norwegian Wood, is definitely part and parcel with it. I understand even The Beach Boys and The Rolling Stones are flirting with psychelica.
Next you'll tell me these bands are actually partaking! Le gasp!
Where to?
I don't think it's as hard to guess where things will be in 1968 or 1969 compared to how incomprehensible 1966 would have been to 1963 me. I'm guessing music will get weirder and heavier on one side, along a concurrent thread of smoother, poppish stuff. We might see two different radio formats arise by the end of the decade: one devoted to the experimental rock sound and one emphasizing smooth crooning and harmonies.
I sometimes marvel at how much I'm enjoying all of these new sounds. Many folks of my generation still cling to their jazz or even their classical albums and look at the new music as so much junk.
But to my ears, this is what I've been waiting for my whole life. Bring it on!
If you want to hear all of this great music, then tune in to KGJ, our radio station! Nothing but the newest hits!
David Bailey's Box of Pin-Ups was released in 1964 in the United Kingdom but never made its way (officially) across the pond.
Today has gifted me with a much-desired treat: a suite of photographs by the infamous David Bailey titled Box of Pin-Ups. This is a defining collection of photography, and I’m saddened by its lack of accessibility here in the United States. It has taken all year to find such a treasure! Let’s delve, dear readers, into the work of the defining fashion photographer of our time.
From left to right: Reggie, Charlie, and Ronnie Kray. Why is Box of Pin-Ups not available in the United States, you ask? Why, none other than Lord Snowden, of course. He bemoaned the fact that the Kray brothers (above) are subjects of Bailey’s lens. True, the twins Ronnie and Reggie Kray are crime lords in the East End, but history proves time and time again that one’s virtue is not necessarily the trait that defines an era, nor one’s importance in capturing it. History finds both the hero and the villain equally fascinating.
David Bailey is an intriguing example of the working class artist rocketing to fame in the Swinging London scene. Suffering from both dyslexia and dyspraxia, a young Bailey had to seek out creative outlets as he completely and utterly abandoned his schooling. In fact, he left school when he was only fifteen years old, bounced around from job to job, and served in Singapore in the Royal Air Force. It was during this time that he bought his first camera, a Rolleiflex.
The Rolleiflex 2.8E is what I suspect his first camera to have been, released in 1956.
In 1960, a mere year into his career as a photographer, he began working with British Vogue, but it wasn’t until 1962 that he caught my eye. Vogue was beginning to promote younger fashions with a more modern feel, you see, and that work was to be done with a Rolleiflex. The camera is known for capturing movement and spontaneity, a must-have when photographing guerilla-style on the busy, gritty streets of Manhattan. So David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton, the Face of the 60’s herself, were tasked with a bare bones production. No hair or makeup artists. No lighted sets. Just the two of them, the photographer and the model, capturing what Bailey coined “Young Idea Goes West.”
Note the spontaneity of the images and how the fashions from Jaeger and Susan Small are caught in the flurry of New York life. British Vogue’s Lady Clare Rendlesham was reticent to feature this sort of realism in her magazine, which up until this point had focused on the aristocratic high polish of the 1950s.
I was so impressed with the journey of the series, seeing a young woman explore the wiles and wonders of the Big Apple. Truly, New York City is a chaotic and bustling town that is difficult to capture without having been there, walking down the streets at a clip. Bailey’s attention to this chaos is evident in the series, showcasing his mastery of the lens and celebrating his youth and boldness.
Bailey uses reflections in glass display windows and street poles to frame Shrimpton in the chaos of the city, while also capturing the candid reactions of local pedestrians as a way of framing Shrimpton’s role in this journey: a young woman full of wonder and wanderlust that can’t help but gain the attention of those around her.
Box of Pin-Ups is similarly youthful and bold. In fact, I’d venture to say that this is a seminal collection of photographs for more than one reason.
Firstly, a collection of photographs has never been sold in this manner before. It proves to me without a doubt that photographers of our times are cultural flames just like the models, fashion designers, and musicians they capture. I suspect we will see other photographers follow suit in the years and decades to come.
Secondly, the figures captured are not just the stars and starlets of our youth revolution. The collection includes such artists as Cecil Beaton, the famed war photographer, Rudolph Nureyev, the exceptional ballet danseur, and David Puttnam, an advertising executive. Bailey’s Box of Pin Ups captures the provocateurs of our times, the Swinging 60s, regardless of whether they’re already in the spotlight. His collection of movers and shakers is a look inward at the people inspiring our changing times.
From left to right: Cecil Beaton, David Puttnam, and Rudolph Nureyev.
However, the most interesting thing about the collection is actually distilled in the commentary of Francis Wyndham, who has included notes in the collection for each photograph. Wyndham astutely claims that “in the age of Mick Jagger, it is the boys who are the pin-ups.” This statement couldn’t hit the mark any more clearly than in Bailey’s collection. Only four of the subjects, out of thirty-six, are women.
This prompted me to look at the collection with even more sophistication. Bailey states it baldly in the title Box of Pin-Ups and in looking at his figures from that point of view, it’s clear that the male subjects are displaying their fashion choices – ergo their identities – with pride and vigor. This attention to vanity, as it’s often coined, is usually reserved for women’s modeling, fashion, and advertisement.
From left to right: The Beatles member John Lennon and record producer Andrew Oldham. Notice the unapologetic celebration of men's beauty here, in the delicate fanning on John Lennon's eyelashes and the bishop sleeve of Oldham's blouse.
Which invites the question: Has the arrival of sensations such as The Beatles, The Kinks, and Mick Jagger broken open a new era of male complexity? Since the early nineteenth century, men have been relegated to a very narrow range of roles. In fact, there was a concerted effort after the French Revolution to separate our material and social culture by gender: textiles, foods, furniture, colors, patterns, occupations, hobbies, education… And while women have been fighting these conventions for time immemorial, men have been conditioned to endure. Great minds, from Paul Gaugin to Oscar Wilde, have challenged these limitations, no doubt, but they have never been seen as the mainstream. Now, however, I see the potential for these defiant men to change our future. This fever our youth is currently experiencing… I hope it becomes much more than just a passing flu.
Thank you, David Bailey, for framing his answer to my question in the outlines of a beautiful box!
It's been a tumultuous half a year since my last article. In that time, the world of music and activism has grown tremendously. Joan Baez has released a new album with several anti-war songs and has relentlessly protested against the Vietnam war. Ken Kesey has begun his "Acid Test" concert-parties in San Francisco, and the headline band is often the Grateful Dead, formerly known as the Warlocks. Timothy Leary was arrested for pot smuggling – maybe he should've stuck to the more legal LSD. Poll taxes are now illegal, and formerly-obscene racy novel Fanny Hill is now protected by the first amendment and can be freely published. In the midst of all these political and social changes, Time Magazine is asking, "Is God Dead?" raising cries of "blasphemy" from conservative preachers across the nation.
Time Magazine, April 8 1966, asking the hard questions.
It is at that last point where I wish to begin, because I feel entirely qualified to answer that question: No, God is not dead; God is a female and Her name is Eris, Goddess of Discord.
The Best of All One True Religions
I can say this confidently because I have come into possession of the new scripture for our age, the Principia Discordia, or, How the West Was Lost, "beeing the Officiale Handebooke of the Difcordian Societye and A Beginning Introdyctun to The Erisian Misterees."
Yes, as is common with many of the younger folk involved in today's spiritual movements, I have apparently fallen prey to a religious cult, this one centered around the divine principles of Disorder and Chaos.
The Sacred Chao, drawing on the Taoist "yin and yang" symbolism–a circle divided into the Hodge and Podge, with a Pentagon on the Hodge side and the Golden Apple of Discord on the Podge side.
Principia was written by "Malaclypse (the Younger), Omniscient Polyfather of Virginity-in-gold" and "Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst, Bull Goose of Limbo and Protector of Switzerland" in 1963; they distributed copies made on Jim Garrison's Xerox printer. Garrison is a New Orleans lawyer with a penchant for going after corrupt judges: a laudable goal, but likely a frustrating career choice. I can understand why his office assistants might pray to spirits of Chaos.
The Principia describes what we know of Eris (not much, but that she was worshipped by the ancient Greeks as goddess of strife and discord, and the Romans thereby named her Discordia) and her part in the Myth of the Apple of Discord – a retelling of the Greek myth of the start of the Trojan war. Much of the fable is lost in my copy of the book, alas. Perhaps later editions will contain the complete text.
The Discordian Society purports to provide false but comforting answers to questions like, "why do today's leaders ignore the principles of science and instead embroil us all in totalitarianism and war?" It promotes "unworkable principles of discord" with the intent of providing a workshop for the insane, and thus keeping them out of the mischief they can create as "Presidents, Ambassadors, Priests, Ministers and other Dictators."
I love this book. Five golden apples. Please, seek out a copy at a bookstore near you, or demand to have one provided instead of a bible when you check into a hotel.
The Psychedelic Revolution
No religious movement would be complete without its music, and the music of the Age of Chaos is, in a word, "trippy." As in, it is often accompanied by acid trips, the experience of being under the influence of LSD. Kesey and his Merry Pranksters are at the heart of the psychedelic movement, and the Grateful Dead – formerly the Warlocks – are playing its tunes.
Can YOU pass the Acid Test? Poster for one of Ken Kesey's events. Possibly used as an actual test: if the spiral starts spinning, it's working!
In January, they played at the Filmore in San Francisco. From that set, "Death Don't Have No Mercy" is memorable – somber and poignant. In February, they were at the Ivar Theater and played "I Know You Rider," a traditional folk ballad that's one of their staples. Their version as The Warlocks was heavier on drums, more "rock" and less "folk blues." Their bluesy-rock music with long instrumental sections is the perfect background for Kesey's entirely legal, if a little unorthodox, LSD experiments.
But the Grateful Dead aren't the only ones directing the swirling energies of modern life into something more profound. Joan Baez's newest album, "Farewell, Angelina," includes both the anti-war title song, written by Bob Dylan, and "Sagt Mir Wo Die Blumen Sind" – Pete Seeger's German translation of "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?"
She is in West Germany right now, involved in the Easter peace demonstrations. She and her fellow marchers are trying to get governments around the world to realize that we cannot solve problems caused by poverty, fear, and violence by creating more of all three.
Wherein the Law Is Less of an Ass Than Usual
While we among the lunatic fringe are often at odds with our governments (especially when those governments are dedicating incredible amounts of our tax dollars toward killing people whom we don't want dead), occasionally we get a bright moment, a win for tolerance and a step toward true democracy. This past month, we have had both.
[T]he interest of the State, when it comes to voting, is limited to the power to fix qualifications. Wealth, like race, creed, or color, is not germane to one's ability to participate intelligently in the electoral process.
The court noted that the state may decide who is qualified to vote, based on reasonable criteria. States may disagree about the age of adulthood, or which crimes are so terrible that committing one removes a person's right to vote. But states do not have the right to declare soldiers non-residents, nor to apportion representatives differently for urban and rural areas. And now, it is established that "Voter qualifications have no relation to wealth nor to paying or not paying this or any other tax."
Poll tax receipt from Alabama, showing a fee of $3–the price of a pair of sneakers–to vote for the year. Anyone who misplaced their receipt would not be permitted to vote.
No more shutting people out of voting because they're poor… or because their wallet was recently stolen… or because of a fire in their home… or because the receipt got damaged… or because the election official decided it was illegible… or whatever other excuse a district had decided on, as a way to keep anyone who wasn't white and wealthy away from the polls.
More Books to Read
Tom Lehrer fans rejoice! On March 21st, we scored a victory for smut: Cleland's Fanny Hill, also known as Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, originally published in 1749, is now legal to distribute throughout the US. Memoirs vs Massachusetts overturned the ban in Massachussets which followed the ban (and removal thereof) in New York.
The court ruled that the book has obvious literary and historical value, proving that it cannot be held obscene by the Roth test, and that since it is not linked to any illegal activities, there is no justifiable reason to censor it. The no-longer-obscene racy novel is now available to be printed by any publisher that cares to do the typesetting… and is willing to accept the hit to their reputation.
Includes the New York State Supreme Court decision – possibly even Desmond's dissent, which points out that "it describes to the last intimate physical detail numerous instances not only of prostitution but of voyeurism, transvestism, homosexuality, lesbianism, flogging, seduction of a boy, etc., etc."
Speaking of "reputation for publishing the wrong books"… Ace has been soundly castigated for their unauthorized editions of Lord of the Rings. The backlash against Ace was strong enough that they have offered repayment to Tolkien (which he has accepted), and have agreed to stop publishing and not reprint the book. Ballantine is now publishing fully authorized versions that pay royalties, and they are selling as fast as stores can get them.
However, it's likely that, without Ace's bold (and arguably unethical) plan, we would never have seen these books in paperback. Tolkien had initially refused to publish them in "so degenerate a form," and it is likely US publishers declined to republish in hardcover, as they didn't believe a big enough market existed. The hardcover books were a whopping $5.95 each; the Ace paperbacks were 75 cents. Ballantine's paperbacks, which factor royalties into their price, are 95 cents.
The hardcovers sold an estimated 15,000 copies… the paperbacks have sold almost eight times that many in a handful of months. So let's give a cheer for degenerate publishing and hope for a long and happy future of access to forbidden books!
I will never forget that afternoon when I first saw Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
It might have been a weekend, but I spent many evenings after work in North Beach, either going to see The Committee (improv) at 622 Broadway, a movie at an independent moviehouse, or volunteer at the Playhouse theater. So I would often pass his bookstore, walking from my apartment (now at Army and 25th) or taking the cable car. It was still light, in any case. He was surrounded by a crowd, but I had a height advantage from the lay of the land at the off-grid intersection of Columbus and Broadway, and he could see me and I him. It seemed to me that our eyes locked and my world changed. (Cue romantic music.)
Cary Grant, Deborah Kerr in "Affair to Remember"
But not for long. (Music stops abruptly with the sound of a needle scratching a record.) He went off with some people and that was that. End of story. My affair to remember (thank you very much, Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, but no thanks) was with the bookstore and not with the poet. (In any case, I'm now seeing someone, and we're moving in together.)
As for the books, I should admit that I was a virgin when it came to political bookstores. This was my very first time coming into contact with leftist publications and ideas beyond Ramparts Magazine and Stop-the-War demonstrations. That was only foreplay to the heavy breathing of anarchism and leftward utopianism, and the airy sparkle (or existential wail) of life among the poets.
One of Ferlinghetti's books from City Lights Publishers
This is particularly heavy for me since I'm currently working for a band of lawyers who are creating this type of bank card like the Diner's Club or gasoline or department store cards. (They call it "MasterCard," including Crocker Bank.) I am learning far too much about both how lawyers operate (meetings for which I type minutes but that never happened) and how Xerox machines work (some days I'm just all over black plastic dust that doesn't come off easily–one has to stir the stuff occasionally, you see) and how the frequent repairmen do too.
I'm not entirely sure which is the real me, the junior legal secretary or the beatnik-in-waiting. But I'm pretty sure it's the beatnik; like the Zen koan of the man dreaming he's a butterfly vs. the butterfly dreaming he's a man, I think I'm the butterfly.
So walking into that bookstore is an experience both warm and scary, both imaginary and real, the lights glinting off the windows, the chairs all occupied before I get there, the discussions I hear, and the erotic feel of the books themselves. I've learned it's the only all-paperback bookstore, that City Lights became a publisher 2 years after Ferlinghetti opened the bookstore, and that (with the help of the ACLU) Ferlinghetti beat a rap after publishing Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" for the first time ("obscenity"–when even I know it's the government that's the obscenity). (Oops, sorry, did I just violate a norm? It must be the butterfly fluttering inside me.)
The "obscene" book
My affair will only end (and maybe only temporarily?) when I leave San Francisco. I keep coming back to California: born in LA, move to Tucson, move to San Francisco. What's next? Only time will tell.
I digress. I love North Beach. I wander around there every weekend. I think my new boyfriend and I will settle here for a spell close by. And then maybe I can spend even more time wandering from the Spaghetti Factory to City Lights to the Playhouse to The Committee and beyond.
The "obscene" bookstore
In the meantime, I sometimes take the cable car (and/or I walk) to City Lights. After seeing that there was no pressure to buy (an important part of the experience, given my still impecunious state), I take advantage of what appears to be a policy that no one bothers people who read the books or even the magazines. They also have great bulletin boards with notices of readings, concerts, plays, everything that's Going On. The more people inside the windows in the brightly lit store, reading, the more come in from outside–and maybe buy something. I don't buy very much at City Lights, but I am becoming familiar with a lot of titles, a lot of poetry, and a lot of polemics, politics, Asian and Indian religions, new ideas.
As I caress the new ideas, and they sweet-talk me, I still find an analytical spirit within me that doubts that their ideas of the future are any more valid than other promises I've heard. I resist the temptation to embrace them fully, even though I am also pushed into the arms of the left by Pacifica Radio (KPFA/KPFB with studios in SF & Berkeley) and its reports from the Vietnam front sent by intrepid reporters from the Christian Science Monitor who manage to elude the US government and find out what's really happening there. I try to be clear-eyed about what I swallow, but sometimes it's not so easy to avoid becoming emotional about the fate of the human species.
And then there's my new boy friend. Mel is an insurance inspector (steam boiler) who has spent much of his life at sea, a graduate of the Merchant Marine Academy. While having a girl in every port, he became seriously leftist and went to meetings of the Communist Party at one time. (He finally rejected the Party as being too reactionary.) We have both decided, I think, that the only hopeful politics are radical, but nonviolent and seriously sexual.
Sometimes I feel like the City Lights logo
We met because he is a sometime actor and poet who wants to make films. So do I, and we met in such a group–but I want to write for them. In the group we met a filmmaker who only lacked a camera. Marks that we were, we bought him a camera, believing that we would be working together. Guess who absconded with the camera–it wasn't us. So we bonded over the loss and resolved to be less gullible. But we still believe in each other and try not to believe everything we read or hear (or everyone who asks for money).
So Mel has had to put up with my affair with the bookstore–after all, we aren't married (yet). He reads, but he's not in love with print as I am. Meanwhile, please excuse me while I get back to my copy of The Berkeley Barb, for which I occasionally write.
March started out cool and rainy here in North West Germany, but spring is in the air and so is change.
Beat music has rapidly conquered not only the hearts of the young, but also the West German charts. However, there is still life in the schlager genre, beloved by the older generation. And so the beat song "Yesterday Man" by British singer Chris Andrews has been replaced at the top of the West German single charts with the treacly "Ganz in Weiß" (All in White) by the young Schlager singer Roy Black. Ironically, Roy Black, whose real name is Günther Höllerich, started out as a rock singer and named himself after Roy Orbison, but switched over to the schlager side, when he found no success in his chosen genre.
Robbers; Pop Art and Controversy:
Meanwhile, my hometown of Bremen has become embroiled in a massive controversy that began in the most unlikely of places, namely behind the white neoclassical façade of the more than fifty-year-old Bremen theatre. For on March 6, 1966, at 2 AM in the night, a new production of Friedrich Schiller's 1781 play Die Räuber (The Robbers) premiered, directed by Peter Zadek.
The Bremen Theatre am Goetheplatz, an unlikely setting for a theatre scandal.
So what on Earth makes a new production of an almost two-hundred-years old play, a classic of German literature that generations of students suffered through in school, so controversial and shocking? Well, you see, this is not your usual production of The Robbers, with actors dressed in faux 18th century garb and painted backdrops of the deep dark woods, through which the titular robber gang and their leader, the aristocratic outlaw Karl Moor, swagger on their quest for vengeance, freedom and paternal love.
Instead, the stage was drenched in neon light. The painted backdrop, courtesy of head set designer Wilfried Mink, depicted not deep dark woods and gothic castles, but a colourful pop art scene of a woman sniper that was clearly inspired by Roy Lichtenstein's comic strip paintings. It's a striking image and one that brought a smile to my face. However, the more conservative theatregoers were so shocked by so much pop that they booed as soon as the curtains went up.
Wilfried Mink's striking Roy Lichtenstein inspired stage design for "The Robbers"
Romantic Outlaws in the Deep Dark Woods:
In front of this pop art backdrop, the familiar tragedy we all remember from our school days played out. The aristocratic Count von Moor has two sons, the handsome Karl, his oldest son and heir, and the ugly and deformed younger son Franz. The Count prefers Karl, who is a wastrel and womanizer, and rejects the dutiful Franz. The fact that both Karl and Franz are in love with the virginal Amalia doesn't help matters either.
One thing I liked about the Bremen production of The Robbers is that the talented actors playing Karl, Franz and Amalia are all young and about the same age as the characters they play. This is a far cry from fifty-year-old veteran actors portraying the youthful follies of characters in their twenties.
The aristocratic outlaw Karl Moor, the way he was portrayed in 1859.
In most productions of The Robbers, the actors wear 18th century garb, which Karl complements with the slouch hat of the romantic highwayman. In Bremen, however, Karl (portrayed by Vadim Glowna whose mother-in-law Ada Tschechowa was one of the victims of the Lufthansa flight 005 crash in January) dresses in a Superman inspired costume, which looks striking, though it doesn't provide much camouflage in the deep dark woods of Bohemia. Franz is dressed up like a monkey with a tail, a hunchback and huge fake ears, probably because Franz is supposed to be ugly and the talented 25-year-old Swiss actor Bruno Ganz, who portrays him on stage, is rather handsome. Amalia (Edith Clever), meanwhile, emphasises her virginal purity by wandering about in a white nightgown. Again, you would not think that this is particularly shocking, but the furious boos and walk-outs from parts of the audience suggest otherwise.
After his wild student days, Karl wants to change his wicked ways and writes a letter to his father, begging for forgiveness. However, his jealous brother Franz replaces the letter with a forgery, which portrays Karl as a rapist and murderer, whereupon the Count disinherits Karl and banishes him from the castle. This turn of events shocks Karl so much that he and his student friends promptly decide to form a robber gang to strike back at society and the parents who wronged them. And because these intellectual robbers are devoted to democracy, Karl is elected captain of the gang.
The romantic outlaw, often a nobleman who was wronged and has fallen on hard times, is a stock figure in German literature and legend from the 18th century well into the 20th. As with many legends, there is a kernel of truth to the tale of the romantic robber, for the highways and woodlands of Germany were indeed infested with gangs of bandits well into the 19th century, though those bandits were usually neither noble nor aristocratic nor idealistic university students but just plain criminals.
The Robbers is more realistic than most tales of romantic bandits. And so the idealistic Karl quickly realises that life as a robber is not all it's cracked up to be, when his comrades develop a taste for killing and his gang burns down an entire town, while rescuing one of their own from the gallows. The Bremen production stages the gang's reign of terror by pouring buckets of fake blood onto the stage, enough to shock Karl into returning home and part of the remaining audience to walk out in disgust. You'd think people would have noticed that The Robbers is a very bloody play (Karl's gang kills 82 people when they burn down the town) before seeing the blood actually flow on stage.
A Bourgeois Tragedy:
Back at the castle, Karl's villainous brother Franz has forged yet more letters, informing his father and Amalia that Karl has died. Bruno Ganz spends the first two acts of the play running across the stage in his monkey outfit, calling, "The mail has come."
Furthermore, Franz plots to murder his father to become count. When this fails, he simply locks his father in the dungeon and takes over the castle. Franz also tries to seduce Amalia, but Amalia would rather join a convent than marry Franz.
Franz Moor (Bruno Ganz) harrasses Amalia (Edith Clever) in the Bremen production of The Robbers.
The disguised Karl blunders into this sorry state of things. He finds his father in the dungeon and Amalia still mourning his death and decides to wreak vengeance on his treacherous brother. But once again, things don't go Karl's way. Terrified of the robbers, Franz commits suicide. When Karl unmasks in front of his father, the old Count promptly dies of shock (thankfully, none of the audience members followed suit). The unruly robbers burn down the castle.
Only the faithful Amalia wants to stay with Karl, but Karl tells her that the life of a robber is no place for a woman. But he can't leave the gang, because he swore a holy oath. Now Amalia wants to die and begs Karl to kill her, which he reluctantly does. In the end, the devastated Karl surrenders to the authorities, first making sure that a poor man with thirteen kids gets the considerable prize on his head. Schiller doesn't tell us what happened to Karl afterwards, but anybody with a bit of knowledge of history can guess. Captured bandits were almost all executed, hanged or beheaded if they were lucky and broken on the wheel if they were not.
The devastated Karl Moor (Vadim Glowna) breaks down on stage in the Bremen production of The Robbers
The Robbers is one of Schiller's best plays. However, I hated the ending when I first read it in school, particularly the fate of Amalia. Why couldn't women become romantic outlaws, too, and why couldn't Karl and Amalia live happily ever after in the deep dark woods? As an adult, I still don't like the ending very much, though it is more realistic than Karl and Amalia playing Robin Hood in the Bohemian woods. Because let's face it, Karl's robbers are murderous bandits who have killed countless people. Though Amalia could still have moved on, especially since Karl is very much an idiot for all his noble swagger. You don't join a criminal gang and start killing people just because your parents have wronged you.
Karl's brother Franz may be the villain, but he is still sympathetic, also due to Bruno Ganz's great performance. For while Karl lost his father's love, Franz never had it in the first place. He was rejected and mistreated all his life for his physical defects that he had no control over. His deeds are inexcusable – but then so are Karl's – but I can understand his motivation. Meanwhile, the true villain of the play is the old Count with his favouritism and abominable parenting skills.
Generational Conflict Played out on Stage:
At its heart, The Robbers is a play about the conflict between an older generation that is set in its ways and a young idealistic generation crying out for freedom and change. This conflict was playing out when Schiller first wrote the play only a few years before the French Revolution and it is once again playing out all over West Germany, where a generation born during the war and immediate postwar years is rebelling against their Nazi parents. Today's young rebels may protest against the war in Vietnam and they may join a commune or a motorcycle gang rather than a robber band, but the conflict at the heart of The Robbers is still as current as it ever was.
This generational divide is also mirrored in the reactions to Peter Zadek's production of The Robbers. Older theatregoers, who often have a subscription to see every production of the season, were infuriated by the unexpected visuals on stage to the point that they walked out en masse or wrote letters of protest to the local newspaper. In fact, theatre manager Kurt Hübner explicitly warned the more conservative viewers that this particular production of The Robbers would not be what they expect. And indeed, the premiere took place after midnight specifically to keep the conservative subscription viewers away. Meanwhile, younger people, many of whom rarely bother to go to the theatre at all because the productions are so stuffy and boring, were thrilled at this colourful and fresh adaptation of a classic play that everybody remembers from school.
Kurt Hübner, manager of the Bremen theatre, and some of his stars on the balcony of the theatre,
A Sixty-Year War:
The controversy about the Bremen production of The Robbers is also part of a larger battle about how faithful to the text and the perceived intentions of the author a theatre production should be. This battle has been raging in theatres across Germany for sixty years now, beginning when Viennese actor and director Max Reinhardt ignored stage directions in favour of dreamlike three-dimensional sets on a revolving stage – shocking back in 1905. A few years later in 1919, director Leopold Jessner caused a veritable scandal when his production of Friedrich Schiller's play Wilhelm Tell was performed not in front of the expected painted alpine backdrop, but on a multi-level staircase type stage.
Actors standing on a staircase instead of in front of a painted alpine backdrop in Leopold Jessner's production of "Wilhelm Tell". Truly scandalous back in 1919.
But change was in the air and it came from the unexpected direction of the Green Hill of Bayreuth, home to the famous Richard Wagner festival. Here, director Wieland Wagner, grandson of Richard, threw out the horned helmets and naturalistic painted backdrops in favour of abstract set designs and sophisticated lighting effects.
The Knights of the Round Table in Wieland Wagner's 1954 production of his grandfather's opera "Parsival" in BayreuthWieland Wagner's 1962 production of his grandfather's opera "Tristan and Isold" in Bayreuth.
Modern opera productions may also be found elsewhere. Only last month, Boris Blacher's new opera Zwischenfälle bei einer Notlandung (Occurrences during an Emergency Landing) premiered in Hamburg. The barren stage was decorated only with an upright metal grid and electronic control consoles. The music was electronic and included tape recordings of plane engines and ocean waves. The plot was pure science fiction. A plane crashes on an island inhabited only by a stereotypical mad scientist and his robots. The scientist takes the surviving passengers prisoner, the passengers and robots team up to destroy the scientist's computers, in the end everything turns out to have been a plot to steal the scientist's research. The critics were politely puzzled and not sure what to make of it all.
The premier of Boris Blacher's new science fiction opera "Zwischenfälle bei der Notlandung" (Occurrences at an Emergency Landing) in Hamburg, featuring robots and mad scientists.
Meanwhile, the Bremen theatre mostly stuck to traditional productions. This changed when manager Kurt Hübner took over in 1962 and brought in young actors and directors with fresh ideas in addition to more traditional fare. The Robbers is not even the first modern production in Bremen. Only last year, a production of Frank Wedekind's 1891 play Frühlings Erwachen (Spring Awakening) premiered, also starring Vadim Glowna and Bruno Ganz. The stage was barren except for a giant photo of British actress Rita Tushingham who loomed above the stage as a symbol for the repressed sexual longing which leads to suicide, rape, teenage pregnancy and prison in the play. Oddly enough, the same critics who now complain about The Robbers generally liked that production of Spring Awakening.
Dreaming of Rita Tushingham: Bruno Ganz and a sevred head in "Spring Awakening" by Frank Wedekind at the Bremen theatre.Troubled youngsters in conflict with parent figures. Bruno Ganz, Vadim Glowna and theatre manager Kurt Hübner (and an oversized Rota Tushingham) in the Bremen production of "Spring Awakening".
Authorial intentions:
The debate about how faithful a theatre production should be to the text and the author's intention tends to forget that in many cases, we have no idea what the author's intentions were. Bar a séance, neither Friedrich Schiller nor Frank Wedekind can tell us how they would prefer to see The Robbers or Spring Awakening performed.
Furthermore, stage performances are always a product of their time. In William Shakespeare's time, all parts were played by male actors. Yet no one accuses a contemporary production of being unfaithful to Shakespeare's intentions, just because Juliet is played by a woman. Nor do we expect baroque operas to be performed by castrated male singers, even though that's how it was done in the 17th century.
Friedrich Schiller, looking very revolutionary and very handsome.
By the standards of the late 18th century, Friedrich Schiller was a revolutionary writer and The Robbers was widely viewed as a call for freedom and an indictment of tyranny to the point that post-revolutionary France granted him an honorary citizenship. When The Robbers premiered in 1781, it was greeted with enthusiastic applause by an overwhelmingly youthful audience, an audience much like those who stayed to the end of the Bremen production and applauded the actors and director.
Which production of The Robbers would Friedrich Schiller prefer: one where actors traipse about in old-fashioned clothes and declaim their dialogues in front of painted backdrops, while an elderly and conservative audience gradually falls asleep in the auditorium, or the Bremen production with its brightly coloured sets, youthful actors and equally youthful audience?
I think the answer is clear.
The Journey is once again up for a Best Fanzine Hugo nomination — and its founder is up for several other awards as well! If you've got a Worldcon membership, or if you just want to see what Gideon's done that's Hugo-worthy, please read his Hugo Eligibility article! Thank you for your continued support.
Today is C-Day (Conversion Day) – the day Australia switches to decimal currency after 140 years of using the British system of Pounds, Shillings and Pence. (I actually think it should have been called D-Day, for Decimalisation Day, but I guess that might have seemed insensitive to some of our returned servicemen). Schoolkids are now sighing with relief that they will not have to learn to do those complicated “money sums” like all the generations before them!
A Rum Deal
Australia’s monetary history is rather colourful. In the early days of the penal colony in Sydney, there was very little hard currency available, and most transactions were by barter. Rum and other spirits became a form of currency, controlled by corrupt military officers, which earned their regiment the nickname “the Rum Corps”. When Governor Bligh (yes, that Bligh of Mutiny on the Bounty fame!) tried to prohibit spirits from being used as a medium of exchange, it resulted in a mutiny that drove him from the colony in 1808. This event is known, not surprisingly, as the Rum Rebellion.
Governor Macquarie, Bligh’s successor, introduced the first Australian currency. He purchased 40,000 Spanish dollars and had a round piece punched out of the middle of each one, producing two coins – the “holey dollar” (valued at five shillings) and the “dump” (valued at one shilling and three pence). His “minter” was a convicted forger!
Real Money
In the mid-1820s, the British Government finally decided to provide the Australian colonies with a proper currency and introduced the British system of Pounds, Shillings and Pence. If you’re not familiar with it, 12 pence (pennies) made up a shilling and 20 shillings made one pound.
Australia used British coins and banknotes right up into the early 1900s. It wasn’t until 1910, nine years after the colonies federated to form the Commonwealth of Australia, that the Australian Pound was introduced. Even then, it was branches of Britain’s Royal Mint in Sydney, Melbourne and Perth that produced the coins, indicating how closely Australia remained tied to Britain. The first Royal Australian Mint was only opened in early 1965 to produce our new decimal coins.
Australian Pound notes (with pretty boring designs) and the full range of Australian coins available before the changeover to decimal currency. A "florin" was another name for a two shilling coin
Going Decimal
Several times in the past 50 years, there have been suggestions for Australia to adopt a decimal currency system. Decimal currency puts us in line with all the world’s major currencies, apart from the Pound Sterling, and all our trading partners apart from Great Britain. But Britain did not want Australia to change its monetary system, and successive Australian Governments and the Reserve Bank of Australia ultimately accepted the British view.
However, in the late 1950s, Prime Minister Robert Menzies finally recognised the economic and pragmatic importance of converting to a decimalised currency. With Australia’s export trade increasing, the complexity of the Pounds, Shillings and Pence system made the arithmetic of financial transactions unnecessarily difficult (as I know from personal experience). Research showed that decimalisation would save the Australian economy more than £11 million ($22 million) a year, through the increased convenience of a decimal currency. This would quickly offset the £30 million ($60 million) cost of conversion. So, in 1963 the Currency Act nominated 14 February 1966 as the day Australia would go decimal.
In Come the Dollars…
Our new currency needed a name and new designs that would be uniquely Australian. A public competition was held in 1963 to find a name “with an Australian flavour” for the currency. About 1000 submissions were received. These included suggestions such as Austral, Boomer (a male kangaroo), Kanga, Roo, Emu, Digger (an Australian soldier), Zac (old nickname for a sixpence coin; it’s also slang for something worthless), Kwid (a funny spelling of the old slang “quid” meaning a Pound), and Ming (from Prime Minister Menzies’ nickname, which comes from the Flash Gordon character “Ming the Merciless”!).
1963 prototype designs for the possible new "Royal". As you can see, one design followed the style of the existing Pound note, the other was quite modern and tilts towards the style in the eventual dollar design
Mr. Menzies rejected all the competition’s suggestions. Being a fervent monarchist, he proposed instead calling the currency the Royal. However, the public made it clear that they didn’t like that name (I certainly didn’t!), so in September 1963, the Treasurer announced that our new currency would be the dollar (which would be the equivalent of 10 shillings), divided into 100 cents. Everyone was much happier with that.
Monopoly Money
It was decided that the new coins should depict Australian wildlife while the notes should reflect national history and Australia’s contribution to the wider world. Gordon Andrews, one of Australia’s leading industrial designers, has designed the new notes. His bright colours and modern style have already led to some wits comparing the new notes to “Monopoly money”, but I think they look great and represent a nation which is coming out from under Britain’s shadow and finding its own feet.
Australia's new decimal coins. The 1 cent piece shows a possum (a completely different animal from the American opossum); the 2 cent, a frill-necked lizard; the 5 cent coin shows an echidna (otherwise known as a spiny ant-eater) and the 10 cent a lyre-bird; the 20 cent depicts a platypus and the 50 cent coin carries the Australian Coat of Arms, which includes a kangaroo and an emu
The $1 note acknowledges Australia’s origins depicting Aboriginal art and Queen Elizabeth II, while the $2 highlights Australian agricultural innovation in the development of the superfine wool Australian Merino sheep and rust-disease resistant Federation wheat. The $10 note recognises the freed convicts who helped to build this country and our home-grown poets and writers, and the $20 celebrates internationally renowned Australian aviation pioneers. I understand that next year, once we have become more used to the new notes, a $5 bill will also be introduced. Hopefully, it will recognise the often-overlooked contribution of women to Australia’s history.
Our new dollar notes, with their fresh modern styling. To make the transition easier for users, the decimal notes have been matched to their counterparts in the “old money” and are similarly, but more brightly, coloured as you can see by comparison with the earlier image of the Australian Pounds
Meet Dollar Bill
Dollar Bill, the decimal changeover mascot, singing his jingle to a classical musician playing an instrument shaped like the Pound symbol
In April last year, a new character appeared on our TV screens and in cinema ads. His name is “Dollar Bill” and he was introduced as part of the government’s campaign to educate everyone about decimal currency before C-Day arrived. Dollar Bill has been on TV every night (sometimes too many times a night!), singing his catchy little jingle to help familiarise people with the new currency values and the date of changeover. The most memorable part of the jingle is: “In come the dollars and in come the cents, to replace the pounds and the shillings and the pence. Be prepared folks when the coins begin to mix, on the fourteenth of February 1966”. I’m not sure why, but the identity of the person who provides the voice for Dollar Bill is being kept a secret.
The jingle’s tune is based on the folk song “Click Go the Shears” (about sheering sheep in outback Australia). Everyone knows that song, so it makes the decimal currency rhyme easy to remember. I think it’s engraved on my brain now: I’ve heard it so many times, I suspect I’ll still be able to sing it when I’m sixty! Those of you in America might be interested to know that the tune was originally an American Civil War song "Ring the Bell, Watchman" by Henry Clay Work, that somehow made its way down under.
The character is very popular with kids and apparently the Decimal Currency Board gets about 500 fan mail letters a week for Dollar Bill from school children. He has appeared on everything from billboards to matchbox covers.
To appeal to the teenage audience, there’s a hip little rock number called “The Decimal Point Song”, sung by a young man named Ian Turpie. It was never going to rate on the pop charts, but I think young Turpie could have a good career ahead of him in entertainment. For older Australians there’s even a series of television ads called “Get with It, Gran”.
Major retailers are helping customers feel comfortable with the changeover by including decimal prices and their "old money" equivalents in their catalogues
It's not easy for older people, or younger ones either for that matter, to get used to the change, especially if they are not very good at maths. But at least we have two years of changeover, during which both old and new currency can be used. Of course, the kids now in Primary School have it easy, as they'll grow up with the new system. It will be interesting to see on the news tonight how the first day of the changeover goes, but I doubt there will be the chaos that some pessimists are predicting after all the community preparation. And who knows – if things go smoothly, maybe the government will even consider taking Australia metric as well in the future!
There are quite a few handy little pocket calculators like these available that make the conversion process relatively easy. I'll bet their inventors are making a small fortune
Conscription has been part of American military planning for a little over a century, and it’s never been popular. From the draft riots of the Civil War to young men burning their draft cards today, there has always been resistance. During the Civil War, wealthy men could hire substitutes to go in their stead, and during the First World War, selection was done by local draft boards, which were subject to local pressure and tended to draft the poor. The interwar period saw the introduction of the lottery system in an effort to overcome the inequities of the past, and, with a brief return to local draft boards during World War Two, it has persisted to today.
On January 6th, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee became the first Black civil rights organization to come out against the draft, citing the lack of freedom at home for so many and the fact that Blacks are over-represented. This statement gave the Georgia House of Representatives an excuse to refuse seating the newly elected Julian Bond. Mr. Bond is one of the founders of the SNCC and endorsed the statement issued by the group. He is probably also the most visible of the eleven Black men recently elected to the Georgia House. The claim was that by endorsing the opposition to the war and the draft, he could not swear to uphold the constitution of the United States.
Julian Bond outside the Georgia House. What possible objection could they have to him?
A long tradition
It is timely that, amid the draft protest furor, January 27th saw the death of Grover Cleveland Bergdoll, once known as America’s most notorious draft dodger (or 'slacker' as they were called during and after WWI). The scion of a wealthy Philadelphia brewing family, he enjoyed a playboy lifestyle before the war. He drove race cars and was one of the first people to learn to fly, even owning a Wright Model B. He registered for the draft, but failed to appear for a physical and was declared a deserter. He managed to stay on the run for two years, but was finally arrested in 1920 in his family home, with his mother waving a gun and threatening the authorities. Sentenced to five years, Bergdoll was released under guard to recover an alleged cache of gold, but he escaped and eventually made his way to Germany. There were two attempts to kidnap him, both ending disastrously for the would-be kidnappers. He married a German woman and settled down, though he made two extended trips back to America. He returned to the States for good with his family in 1939. Sentenced to serve the rest of his original term and an additional three years, he left prison in 1944 and moved to Virginia. He died of pneumonia, aged 72. He is survived by his ex-wife and eight children.
Bergdoll’s original wanted poster.
The issue at hand
In the theme of this heightened era of military involvement (and lack thereof) this month’s IF plays host to several seasoned veterans, as well as the monthly new recruit. The stories range in quality from 1-A to not quite 4-F. The cover is even given to a story about a draft dodger, though one not one tenth as interesting as Grover Bergdoll.
A drab cover for a drab story. Art by Hector Castellon
The Long Way to Earth, by John Brunner
Kynance Foy has a problem. Armed with a degree in qua-space physics and an encyclopedic knowledge of interstellar commerce and law, she left Earth for the outer worlds to make her fortune. But the farther out she has gone, the harder it is for a Terran to find employment, and now she can’t even scrape up the price of a ticket home. Which is why the prospect of a job that pays nearly five times the going annual wage and offers repatriation at the end of the contract it too good to pass up. The catch is that she has to spend a year as the only person on a remote planet.
The man in charge of the project is only too happy to give her the job after she rebuffs his crude advances. It’s only on arrival that she discovers just how easy it is to breach her contract and be denied so much as passage off the planet, as has happened to every other person to hold the job. When a handful of her predecessors turn up, she knows that so much as acknowledging their existence will terminate her contract, but Kynance has a plan.
Executive Shuster is about to get the surprise of his life. Art by Adkins
This is a solid story: Brunner at his best writing a more traditional tale. Which is not quite as good as Brunner at his best when writing a more modern tale, but still good. Kudos for a woman protagonist who, while beautiful, gets by on her brains and is an active, driving force of the narrative. Three stars.
Ouled Nail, by H. H. Hollis
Our unnamed narrator runs into rocket jockey Gallegher in a New York bar. Galllegher works the Earth-Mars run, where a man spends months alone between planets and can go more than a little stir-crazy. He launches into a long tale of his friend Pick Pratt, who seems to have come up with a way to help spacers get over their stress.
Hollis is this month’s first time writer. This is something of a stereotypical science fiction bar tale, but I can’t say I enjoyed it much. Gallegher is an obnoxious narrator and the conclusion has holes you could fly a fleet of spaceships through. The Ouled Nail of the title are an Algerian tribe known for sending out their women to work as dancers and courtesans in the oases and towns near where they live. I had not heard of them before, so the best thing I can say for this story is that it sent me to the library to learn something. Two stars.
Dam Nuisance, by Keith Laumer
Retief is back. This time out, the CDT is supporting South Skweem, while the Groaci are backing North Skweem. Ambassador Treadwater is trying to come up with a grand public works project, but policy says it can’t be useful. Meanwhile, the Groaci are building a dam for North Skweem, one which is causing a drought in half of South Skweem and flooding the other half. To top things off Ben Magnan has disappeared while paying a courtesy call to the Groaci mission. As usual, it’s up to Retief to put everything to rights.
The differences are apparent to any right-thinking diplomat. Art by Gaughan
Even I am beginning to grow weary of Retief. Like a song that plays every single time you turn on the radio, it doesn’t matter how good it might be, it’s getting old. The worst part is the wasted opportunity. Laumer is clearly drawing on the situation in South-east Asia, with a bit of the Aswan Dam thrown in. That’s a set-up for biting satire – which we know he’s capable of writing – but instead we get a retread. Someone who’s never read a Retief story might enjoy this, but regular readers can only sigh over what might have been. A very low three stars.
Draft Dodger, by Kenneth Bulmer
Hugo Lack has received his call-up notice to the Terran Space Navy. Desperate to avoid serving, he visits draft-dodging facilitator Jerky Jones, but about the only thing he can afford is an irreversible lobotomy. Lack is soon scooped up by the Navy and enters a dream-like, almost fugue state that sees him through boot camp and deployment. He winds up in the quartermaster corps in an out-of-the-way base, but one day the war comes to him.
What a dull, dull story. It’s not terribly engaging to begin with, but when Hugo enters his sleepwalking state, the narrative voice follows him. Bulmer is trying to say something about the way the military creates heroes and the ungrateful people back home, but mostly he perpetuates the idea that the only reason someone might not want to “do his duty” is cowardice. Two stars.
Revolution has come to the Moon, and now it’s time for someone to travel to Earth and make the case for independence. After a harrowing journey in a cargo pod, Mannie and Prof arrive in India. They spend some time appearing before a supposedly new UN committee, but which is actually the committee overseeing the Lunar Authority. During an extended break, they go on a whirlwind tour of the Earth, with Mannie using ploys developed by Mike and Prof to drive wedges between various factions. Returning to India, they are presented a plan from the committee to turn all free Loonies (some 90% of the population) into client-employees. If they don’t like it, they can be repatriated to Earth, where most of them have never been and none can live comfortably.
As the situation turns bad, Mannie and Prof make their escape, assisted by Stu and return to the Moon. The events of the trip make excellent propaganda to fire up the people, and there is now a duly elected government in place. With a bit of manipulation, Prof winds up as Prime Minister and Secretary of State, Wyoh is Speaker pro tem and Mannie is Minister of Defense. An embargo is imposed on the shipment of grain Earthside and a grain pod is fired at an unpopulated part of the Sahara to show that the Moon can defend itself. And then Earth invades. Troop ships sent on long orbits come in from the back of the Moon where Mike can’t see them. War has come to the Moon. To be concluded.
The Earth strikes back! Art by Morrow
Heinlein continues to excel. We get what is probably the most action we’ve seen, with the promise of more next time, but most of the story is committee meetings, back-room deals and political wrangling. And it’s still compelling! We do get one bit of pure Heinleinian didacticism when Prof trots out a parable of a man whose job is polishing the brass cannon on the courthouse lawn and one day quits his job, sells everything he has and buys his own cannon to go into business for himself. I understand Heinlein wanted to call this book The Brass Cannon. Fortunately, he was talked out of it. Anyway, four stars and I eagerly await the conclusion.
Summing Up
Once again, Heinlein shines out brightly. A couple of Journey writers have noted that there are two John Brunners: the exciting New Wave writer and the conventional writer for the American market. He’s managed to bridge the gap slightly this time, though he's still much closer to the second Brunner than the first. After that, it’s Laumer going through the motions and some sub-par filler. I have to say, that doesn’t fill me with a lot of confidence about what happens once the current serial ends.
This seems like an unusual pairing, but it’s nice to see the return of Rosel Brown.
News accounts of plane crashes have become an almost monthly litany. But it is not often that one finds themselves a first-hand witness to disaster. Journeyer Cora Buhlert had that unfortunate opportunity last week…
Fields on Fire:
A postcard of Bremen Airport
On January 28, 1966, I was driving back from downtown Bremen to my home in the village of Seckenhausen just outside Bremen. It was a typical winter evening in North West Germany, rainy, stormy and cold with a low cloud cover and little visibility.
I was driving along the Kladdinger Straße, a meandering country road that connects the Bremen neighbourhood of Grolland to the village of Stuhr, and had the car radio on, because I was waiting for the seven PM news, which were about to start. The area in question is deserted at the best of times. It's mostly fields and meadows stretching along the shores of the river Ochtum as well as the tiny village of Kuhlen, really just a few farmhouses and a roadside inn. A bit further, beyond the river, lies the runway of Bremen airport. However on that night, this lonely stretch of road was surprisingly busy. People were standing outside the farmhouses of Kuhlen and the roadside inn in the pouring rain, all staring at something in the distance.
Puzzled, I drove onwards and quickly saw just what the people of Kuhlen were all staring at. Because just beyond the road, there loomed a wall of flame. An entire field was on fire and the flames had also engulfed an old barn by the roadside. However, it was winter, the field was barren and it was raining, so how could there possibly be such a huge fire?
The Stihr volunteer fire brigade with its two engines.
I did not stop to investigate – it was a very big fire – but stepped down on the accelerator to get to the village of Stuhr and call the fire brigade from a public phonebox there. However, before I could make it to the village, I saw the engines of the Stuhr volunteer fire brigade coming towards me, sirens wailing. Those weren't the only fire engines I passed that night nor the only sirens I heard. It was as if every fire brigade in the entire county had been alerted. As happens so often, the sirens and fire engines also attracted spectators and so I saw several cars and people on bicycles heading towards the fire that I had been so eager to leave behind. Whatever had happened in that lonely field just off Kladdinger Straße, it must have been bad.
It was not until I got home and listened to the eight o'clock news that I learned what had happened. For it turned out that a Lufthansa plane en route from Frankfurt to Hamburg had crashed while attempting to land at Bremen airport just before seven PM, only minutes before I drove past the crash site.
A sketch of the crash site that appeared in the local newspaper.
Roaring engines and rattling windows:
Worried, I immediately called my aunt and uncle to check if they were okay. Because my aunt and uncle live in a house so close to the airport that they could wave at the plane passengers from their kitchen window, if they wanted to. To my relief, they were fine, but then they live on the other side of the airport from crash site. They also reported that their dinner at shortly before seven PM had been interrupted by the roar of a plane engine that was louder than usual, so loud in fact that the windows and doors and even the cups and saucers on the kitchen table rattled. Then the noise suddenly stopped for a heartbeat or two, before it was followed by a loud boom. And come to think of it, I had heard the same hollow boom a few minutes before I drove past the burning field.
Chaos at the crash site.More chaos and fire at the crash site
By the following morning, I learned the sad truth. The crash of Lufthansa flight 005 from Frankfurt to Hamburg via Bremen had cost the lives of everybody on board, forty-two passengers and four crewmembers. Nine passengers were Italian, one was Dutch, one was American, the rest were West Germans. It is the fourth crash of a Lufthansa plane since the reestablishment of the airline in 1954 and the worst to date.
A Sequence of Unfortunate Events:
The Lufthansa Convair CV-440 Metropolitan that crashed in Bremen photographed at Düsseldorf airport last year.
Now, four days on, we have at least a few clues regarding what caused the tragedy in the field just off the Kladdinger Straße. The eight-ear-old Convair CV-440 Metropolitan had entered its final approach to Bremen airport and everything seemed normal, in spite of the low visibility and heavy tail-wind. The cockpit windows may have been iced over as well. The fact that Bremen airport does not yet have a radar system and is not scheduled to be equipped with one until 1970 may have played a role as well.
This aerial view of the Lufthansa flight 005 crash site shows the scale of the destruction.
However, once the plane emerged from the low cloud cover, Captain Heinz Saalfeld must have realised that he had overshot the runway, probably due to a defective instrument. He began a go-around manoeuvre only ten metres above the runway and tried to pull up the plane again, though he did not inform the traffic control tower of his intentions. The last time that the tower attempted to contact flight 005 was at 6:50 PM. One minute later, the aircraft crashed. Most likely, Captain Saalfeld and co-pilot Klaus Schadhoff pulled up the plane too quickly, so that the aircraft stalled and crashed into the field just off the runway.
Upon start in Frankfurt, the Convair 440 had been fully fuelled with 3200 litres of kerosine, much more than would have been necessary for the flight to Bremen or Hamburg. The reason for this was that because of the bad weather in North Germany, the pilots wanted to have enough fuel on board to reach an alternate airport in case landing in Bremen or Hamburg would not be possible. Upon impact, the remaining approximately 2500 litres of kerosine on board ignited, causing the massive fire I saw a few minutes later.
Sifting through the wreckage of the Lufthansa flight 005 crash.
Scenes of Horror:
The airport fire brigade as well as several fire brigades from Bremen and the surrounding villages needed forty minutes to extinguish the flames. Once they did, they found themselves faced with scenes of pure horror.
My neighbour Heini Meier is a member of the Seckenhausen volunteer fire brigade, which was called in to help with the fire fighting and rescue efforts. Only to find that there was no chance of rescuing anybody, because everybody on board had died during impact.
Sifting through the wreckage of the Lufthansa flight 005 crash.
Some of the first people on site, such as a group of teenagers celebrating a birthday in one of the nearby farmhouses and a man walking his dog along the river Ochtum reported that when they reached the crash site, they saw dead passengers still buckled into their seats.
However, by the time Heini Meier made it to the crash site with his fire engine – after being forced to chase spectators out of the way – there were no recognisable bodies left. He did wonder about gleaming spots on the ground in the stark glow of the searchlights. Only when the sun rose the next morning did he realise that he had been walking on charred bodies and that the gleaming he'd noticed in the dark was caused by the jewellery, watches and belt buckles of the dead reflecting the searchlights.
Sifting through the wreckage of the Lufthansa flight 005 crash.
By daylight, the sight was so horrible that even hardened veteran fire fighters who had lived through World War II were shocked. But the grim work was particularly hard on the young fire fighters and the teenaged volunteers of the West German federal disaster relief organisation THW who had been tasked with recovering the bodies. Even the ladies of the Delmenhorst Red Cross station who had been sent to Bremen to provide the helpers with coffee and sandwiches were not spared the horrible sights, because they had to pass through the makeshift morgue to deliver food to the helpers.
A grim task: Young volunteers of the West German federal disaster relief organisation THW recover the bodies of the victims of flight 005.Three young THW volunteers are taking a well-deserved break from the grim work of body recovery.The ladies of the Delmenhorst Red Cross station kept the helpers supplied with coffee and sandwiches.
Because of the intense fire, the dead were burned almost beyond recognition and molten nylon from clothing and upholstering was fused to the bodies. Not all of the bodies were still in one piece either. Identifying all of the passengers and crew based on dental records and personal effects will still take weeks, if not longer.
The Victims of Flight 005
But even though many of the bodies have not yet been identified, we know who the people on board of flight 005 were. So here are the stories of some of them:
Pilot Heinz Saalfeld was 48 years old, an experienced veteran who had been a fighter pilot in World War II and had been flying for Lufthansa since 1957.
Co-pilot Klaus Schadhoff was 27 years old and only got his license last year. He trained at the Lufthansa flight school here in Bremen and was hoping to meet his fiancée during the stopover.
27-year-old Lufthansa stewardess Heide Bitterhof was not supposed to be on flight 005 at all. She only switched shifts at the last minute with a colleague who was suffering from a bad toothache.
Another Lufthansa stewardess, 23-year-old Maria Wolf was on leave and wanted to visit her family in the village of Brinkum, only three kilometres from where she died in the field off the Kladdinger Straße.
Ada Tschechowa in the 1930s.
49-year-old actress Ada Tschechowa was a film and theatre legend. Her mother was the German-Russian silent film star Olga Tschechowa, her great-uncle was none other than the great Russian playwright Anton Chekhov. Ada's daughter Vera has also joined the family business. She has been acting since her teens and even dated Elvis Presley for a while, much to the chagrin of her mother. Ada Tschechowa had largely retired from acting and worked as an agent. She only boarded flight 005 at the very last minute on a VIP ticket, because she wanted to visit her friend, actor Norbert Kappen who was shooting the TV-show Hafenpolizei (Harbour Police) in Bremen.
Ada Tschechowa pours Elvis Presley a glass of milk when he briefly dated her daughter Vera in 1958.If you're going to date Ada Tschechowa's daughter, you'd better wear a tie, as Elvia Presley found out.
Dr. Hans Schröter, Bernhard Huber and Helmut Stiller were three managers of the AEG household goods and engine factory in Oldenburg. They were on their way back from a business trip.
Kurt Rosiefsky was a Bremen cotton merchant. He, too, was on his way back from a business trip.
41-year-old Friedrich-Karl von Zitzewitz was a member of an aristocratic family that can trace its lineage back to the 12th century. His father was involved in the resistance against the Third Reich and was arrested in connection with the failed assassination attempt on Hitler on July 20, 1944.
Dr. Karl Suchsland was a specialist in the field of material and production science who wrote a seminal paper about wood glue bonding. He was on his way home to Hamburg.
The nine Italian victims of Lufthansa flight 005: swimmers Bruno Bianchi, Dino Rora, Sergio De Gregorio, Luciana Massenzi, Carmen Longo, Amedeo Chimisso and Daniela Samuele, coach Paolo Costoli and reporter Nico Sapio.
Also on board of flight 005 were seven members of the Italian national swim team as well as their coach Paolo Costoli and the Italian TV reporter Nico Sapio. The young Olympic hopefuls Bruno Bianchi, Dino Rora, Sergio De Gregorio, Luciana Massenzi, Carmen Longo, Amedeo Chimisso and Daniela Samuele were between 17 and 23 years old. The Italian swimming team was not supposed to be aboard flight 005 either. However, their flight from Milan to Frankfurt was delayed due to bad weather, so the team had to take a later flight.
The young Italian swimmers were supposed to compete in the 10th International Swim Festival at the Zentralbad in Bremen. The swimming competition did start two days later with a minute of silence for the dead and flowers placed upon the starting blocks. But the mood at the normally cheerful event was muted by the mourning for the Italian team and the other passengers of flight 005.
The Bremen Zentralbad indoor pool, where the Italian swim team was supposed to take part in the 10th International Swim Fest.
Rumours, Suspicions and Speculations:
As always, when something terrible and unexplained happens, speculations were soon running high and the rumour mill was spinning in overdrive.
Did Captain Saalfeld suffer a heart attack during the failed go-around manoeuvre and is this why he did not reply to the hails of the tower?
What about the mysterious pliers that were found at the body of co-pilot Klaus Schadhoff? Was Schadhoff trying to carry out some last second repairs during a risky flight manoeuvre? And where did he get the pliers, since Lufthansa has confirmed that they were not part of the onboard tool kit?
Another persistent rumour is that the pliers belonged to one of the passengers and that this passenger stormed the cockpit and attacked the pilots during the final approach. After all, the body of co-pilot Klaus Schadhoff was found several metres away from Captain Saalfeld, entangled with the body of a still unidentified male passenger. Was Schadhoff engaged in a desperate struggle in those final few seconds of flight 005? Is this why neither Saalfeld nor Schadhoff responded to the hails of the tower?
My neighbour Heini Meier believes that even though the above makes for an exciting story for the tabloids, it's very likely wrong, because the impact was so strong that bodies, aircraft fragments, luggage and personal effects were all jumbled together at the crash site. The mysterious pliers might have been hurled out of someone's luggage and the passenger whose body was found entangled with that of the co-pilot may not have been wearing his seatbelt and was therefore thrown out of his seat upon impact.
While helpers are still sifting through the wreckage of the Lufthansa flight 005 crash, another Lufthansa plane flies overhead.
Technology to the Rescue?
Part of the reason why it's so difficult to determine what exactly happened during those fatal final minutes aboard flight 005 is that the Convair 440 was neither equipped with a flight data recorder nor with a cockpit voice recorder, even though the technology has been in existence for more than ten years now and cockpit voice recorders are already mandatory in Australia and the US.
Would a flight data and cockpit voice recorder have prevented the crash of flight 005? No, but they would have helped accident investigators to determine what exactly the cause of the crash was and how to keep it from happening again.
Another question is if the crash could have been prevented, if Bremen airport had already been equipped with a radar system. And in fact, I find it shocking that Bremen airport still doesn't have a radar system and won't get one until 1970, even though we are prone to bad weather and low visibility conditions. Because even if a radar system could not have prevented the crash itself, it could have kept Captain Saalfeld from overshooting the runway, which was the reason for the fatal crash in the first place.
The crash might also have been averted, if the runway at Bremen airport had been longer, so that Captain Saalfeld could have landed on the first attempt. And indeed, there are plans to extend the runway and expand the airport in response to the growth in air traffic. With jet planes becoming increasingly common and supersonic air travel imminent, expanding the airport and extending the runway seems like the path forward.
However, there are problems. Bremen airport was opened in 1920 and in the forty-six years since then, the city has steadily encroached upon the airport. So the only way to expand is towards the south west, where the river Ochtum is in the way. There are proposals to move the river Ochtum and the Kladdinger Straße, but those plans will take years, if not decades to become reality.
In spite of tragedies like the flight 005 crash, air travel is still the safest form of travel. However, technology can help to make air travel even safer and maybe even prevent such tragedies in the future.
Settling into my favorite armchair, I’ve found myself seeking relaxation and comfort at the start of what will surely be an exciting twelve-month turn ‘round the sun. Lounging in my favorite silk housecoat, a bite of Turkish delight and black tea at my side, I opened this year’s first issue of Life for some rather extravagant reading time.
An American couple fawn over the luxurious Damascus silk and gold brocade being sold by a Lebanese man in a market in Beirut.
What do you suppose I found nestled in the pages but evidence that my own extravagance is part of a larger atmosphere! Littered across this issue is a curious return to the lush grandeur of the La Belle Époque, the era at the turn of the century in which we became enthralled with the Ballet Russes and Leon Bakst’s vision of Schéhérazade, Alfons Mucha painted the natural world with feminine mystique, and we dreamed of Istanbul and the Orient Express. The veil of our world had been pulled back just enough for us to hear the mewing notes of the koto from Japan, to smell the scented smokes of hookah from Turkey, and to gaze in wonder at the recently excavated Temple of Apollo in Athens.
The first and most blatant sign was this astute advertisement for Maxim, a luxurious restaurant in Paris. The lush, organic elements of the restaurant’s interior and the patron in her floral dress perfectly mirror the chaotic beauty that is Art Nouveau and the fashions that accompanied the era. The decadent Parisian promenade dress from 1905-1906, pictured center, is an example of such styles and features not only the hallmark laces, florals, and feathers of the turn of the century, but also a Merry Widow hat fashioned like a tricorn. This, and the gathered ruffled trim at her skirts, is a throwback to the Rococo era of France in the late 18th century. Behind the women seated in the right image, you can sky a Rococo painting, bringing the opulence of the three periods together.
Schéhérazade and Paris stayed with me as I came upon an article about the burgeoning Vegas atmosphere to be found in Beirut. Lebanon was once part of the Ottoman Empire, which has been a fascination of Europe for a thousand years or more. The region was an inspiration to Leon Bakst in his design work, and he lit Paris aflame with his fantastical interpretations of the ancient culture just beyond the veil.
A small selection of costume designs for Schéhérazade by Leon Bakst, 1910.
Of particular note to me was the belly dancer in the subterranean bar of the Phoenician Hotel in Beirut, in which I immediately recognized George Barbier’s illustration of the Ballet Russes’ fantastical production.
Right, Schéhérazade, George Barbier (1913).
This revelation led me to a further inspection of the people in the Beirut photograph series. I was astonished to find the tunic worn by the woman enjoying a mezze of hommos and kibeh resembles Bakst’s scenic design for Schéhérazade.
Note the color palette and use of swirling lines and shapes to convey a hazy depth, an other-worldly mystique.
There is indeed a very strong sense of nostalgia taking over the decade, just as there was fated to be. As we race towards the heavens in our Gemini 6, uniform our young women in trapeze dresses and vinyl, and experience a social technological revolution, we find ourselves torn. On the one hand, we yearn for progress, to push forward, to explore. On the other hand, we cling to Mother Nature, to the chaos of beauty, to romance. We are celebrating both things in equal measure. Even this issue of Life shares its pages equally between the two opposing ideals.
Even within the Neoclassical revival, we see a split personality. Ann Lowe’s floral design on the right, known as the American Beauty dress, is a perfect example of the nostalgia for nature we’re currently feeling, while on the left, we can see an example of orderly geometry, an aesthetic symbol of reason and progress.
This tells me that the distance between our generations is bound to grow, and unrest will continue to boil through the next decade. Our young people are leading us into a new age. For La Belle Époque was also a time of turmoil and division. World War I was on the horizon. The battle for women’s liberation and suffrage in America was being waged at full force. The young sought escape through Mother Nature and loosened propriety thanks to the advent of cocktails and condoms, a shocking lapse in morality as far as the older generations were concerned.
Charles Dana Gibson invented the Gibson Girl, a combination of the voluptuous woman and the fragile lady, which was meant to encapsulate the modern woman at the turn of the century. The dichotomy of her roles is playing out in our own times as well. Striking the perfect balance between the return to nature and the march of progress is a unique struggle for women in fashion today.
This so perfectly mirrors the current state of affairs that I’m shocked I hadn’t noticed it before! The Vietnam War, just like World War I, has inspired a revolution of philosophy, an existential unrest in the youth that has no choice but to bubble up and make itself known through the advent of new fashion, new music, and new ways to perceive the world. The war between Progress and Tradition has always permeated history, but now it is going going to the turf with awe-inspiring style. I will be keeping a close eye on this as we head further into the year.
[Come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge! Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]
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