Another One of Those Phone Calls

24 August 2013:

       Another one of those phone calls. I had just driven all the way back to Virginia from Westminster, Maryland - 72 miles. What a great show with some serious bluegrassers at the kind of place you'd never catch me hanging out at. But as performance spaces go, it was unique. Good acoustics and an amazingly spacious new dance-floor to boot. I'm settling in all my camera equipment, checking my e-mails one more time and thinking about sack-time. I usually have a cup of black coffee before bed-time (Yeah, I know, sounds sick and it is, but hey - I'm a caffeine addict). I went into the kitchen and my land-line rings. Who uses a land-line anymore unless it's a family emergency, and who calls at this time of night? I looked at the clock. That's a natural habit of mine as a writer. When a phone rings look at the clock and remember the time in case you later have to talk to the cops. That's the first thing they'll ask you. "Sir, what time did this happen?" If you're ever in a bad car-wreck and you're laying there covered in blood and wondering what happened, make sure you can still see your cell phone so you can record the time. The cops and insurance people will ask you a thousand times when it all happened.
       I wasn't going to answer the phone, but that Pavlovian response takes control. After I answered it, I regretted it. Bobby Joe Bettencourt was on the other end. He wanted to tell me about a gig he had just finished down in Old Town, Alexandria. I think he had had a few beers. "That's great," I said. "Nice to see you're getting some work." I didn't really mean it. He described the gig to me and I knew he had done the work gratis. "Did you have a good audience?" I asked, implying that I wanted to know what the house-count was. "Yeah, not many, but the audience was good! We were all happy with that!" Bobby Joe replied. I wonder if the bar-owner was happy with that. After so many more minutes of my bed-time ticking away, and Bobby Joe droning on about upcoming gigs, I finally popped an action question to Bobby Joe: "Great. well . . .Why did you call me? It's late my friend, and I've got a busy weekend." I made a huge mistake by referring to him as my friend. "Well it's like this, you know, I thought you were coming out some night, you know, like tonight to take some pictures and maybe write a story?" I tried to tell him I never made the promise, but I knew he'd never believe me, and besides, considering the hour of the early morning and the fogginess caused by the alcohol it would be tough to try to convince him that I had never made the promise. " I'm tired," I said. "and I've really got to get to bed. Nice talking to you." I eased the phone down and ended it.
       Bobby Joe isn't his real name. It's Craig. Later I found out he assumed the name 'Bobby Joe' so he could 'feel' more Southern. I saw his Virginia driver's license once and the  'Bettencourt' isn't real either. I always wondered why he had assumed this disguise and then a friend of his told me he wanted a more French-sounding name since he lived for two years in Metairie, Louisiana. When I asked his friend what Bobby Joe had been doing down there all that time, he answered, "Studying the music, Man! Paying his dues!" This was right after I had seen Bobby Joe Bettencourt for the first time. I had been conned into seeing him. Conned into seeing his act. His name and the name of his band had been posted in a flyer for a local arts festival (we have a lot of them where I live.) You never know what you're going to run into at one of these public gatherings. It's hit or miss. Sometimes I see some well-known people - at least in bluegrass circles. On the rare occasion I'll see somebody who's just starting out and they may be rough around the edges, but you can see promise - maybe a future if they stick with it and run into the right contacts. The flyer said "Bobby Joe Bettencourt: southern music, bluegrass, folk music, and americana. - on stage at 2:00."  I got tied up in traffic and then had a hell of a time finding a place to park in Alexandria. I got there late and missed the whole show except for a few bars of Bobby Joe's final song. It didn't sound like bluegrass to me, but maybe I missed the best part. My fault. I tried to talk to Bobby Joe or maybe some of his band members, but they were gone in no time. I picked up one his business cards laying on a chair. I decided I'd save it and maybe try to give him a call later. I'm always interested in new names, new acts. I talked to some people who were still hanging around the performance area and I asked them if they had seen Bobby Joe perform, and I asked them if it was bluegrass. A woman with a toddler in tow said, "Oh yeah, bluegrass, or maybe folk, but they were OK." The woman's husband said "Nah, it was blues. I think it was more blues than folk." Both looked at each other. The disagreement between them could have gotten ugly if I continued the questioning.
       I did call Bobby Joe. Quite a few times but never seemed to reach him. When I finally did get through it was after ten o'clock. He seemed in a muddle. "Just finished a gig over in Tacoma Park. Do you know Rance Barnsworth?"  No, I said, never heard of him. "One of the best washboard-players in the South. Won some kind of competition once in Baton Rouge. Well, the bastard walked out on me half-way through the set!" That he had a wash-board player in a bluegrass band should have been my first red flag. But it would be the first of many red flags.

Bluegrass Nirvana

 Dave Propst - Darren Beachley - Mike Munford. 

(Warren Blair and Steve Streett are 

to the left and out of camera-range)

24 August 2013: Westminster, Maryland

       It sounds so 80's man, yeah. I found my bluegrass Nirvana this past Saturday. I like to skip that stuff and call it Mount Olympus. I've always been more of a classicist than a New Age guy. I'm continually intrigued by how quickly Yoga has become the new religion among a lot of my peers. Or call it religion du jour. Like every day new food threats,  (don't eat this, don't eat that) Yoga will be supplanted in five more years with a new religion du jour.  Maybe some techno-based form of internet Taoism. We are suffering through nothing more than what the Victorians had to endure every summer when they flocked to the new "Chautauqua" on the lake-fronts and picnic grounds of New York state or other New England camp grounds. They would gather to hear about new philosophies, the latest trends, or a new religion. The women would be treated to Victorian fashion shows and lectures on the evils of their husband's drinking and smoking habits. The weird thing is, this is how the upwardly mobile of that age spent their vacations - and enjoyed it. Now we're blasted every minute of the day with the insidiousness of the digital revolution. Too much information. Too much information. My own search for a purer form of bluegrass music is really no different. Except that my search wants to take me back (probably) to a gathering of the bluegrass gods that will never happen - ever again.
     
        There is a  near-religious purity to this music when it's presented in precisely the right way. When you hear it and when it's experienced by an audience that knows how to listen to it maybe a loud unanimous shout will go up into the air, or maybe, just a gathering of old-timers nodding their heads. First to he musicians, and then to each other. The beauty of the experience is this:  you'll never have it very often. Like an epiphany, you have to be ready and willing to be open to its possibilities. I'm like an addict. I want more and more of a good thing. I try to be as available as possible - to the possible. You never know in this business who might be on their way to Mount Olympus. I'm fortunate. I know some of those people. Their names mean nothing right now to the public at large. But you'll hear their names twenty or thirty years hence.  They'll reach the top of their artistic game and wonder why and how they got there. On the way, they're busy working, paying their dues and putting up with a lot of crap. More than anything else, they are defining their futures in the here and now.

       I'll set the stage for you:  It's a Thursday night in Westminster, Maryland, a beautifully cool, August night and one of my favorite bands (The Martin Brothers and Aspen Run) is playing at The Stables Restaurant on Old Westminster Pike. The band is great - pulling out all the stops on all the old hillbilly standards. There's a dancing crowd and local folks are out having fun. The band is promoting a recently-released new CD, Steve Unkart is belting out "Wild Bill Jones" and the crowd is going nuts. Herb Martin wants me to meet someone, but before the introduction is even made the guy reaches out his hand and says, "Yeah Ed! I'm Rob Miller."

       We talked. We had a very interesting conversation. The kind of conversation I've had with other true-believers. They get this crazed look in their eyes when they start talking about the current state of bluegrass music or the past state of bluegrass music. Marvin Ashby has that crazed look. Brett Smeltzer has it bad. Doug Ross should probably be on some sort of medication for his. Dempsey Price needs to be locked up for his bluegrass addiction. I'd heard about Rob Miller and what he's been doing for a while now up in Westminster, Maryland. Word gets around. He runs a concert series called the "Reunion." He's resurrecting all the old bands and old players who contributed to the historical significance of Maryland's rich field of bluegrass - Maryland Style. It all happens in a place everyone knows as "Rob's Barn." I had already been invited to the next 'gathering' but Rob reinforced the invitation to "come and check the place out." I was tired of driving that week. I didn't need another night out. The show he wanted me to attend included musicians I knew, and I had seen,  playing by themselves or with other configurations of players. I had seen all of them, at different places, a lot. They were the Cream of the Crop. The Creme de La Creme. If you wanted a "Maryland Ambassadors Team of Maryland Bluegrass" this would be it. I finally couldn't refuse any longer. The more I thought about it, the more I thought if I miss this I may be missing one of the best bluegrass moments in 2013. A day and half later I was driving back up to Westminster to get the full Rob's Barn experience.

       I don't know anything about all this fantasy football, basketball, or baseball stuff. Actually, I'm the worst sports fan because I ignore sports. Everyone laughs at my great lack of knowledge of sports. The fantasy thing is dreaming up a team or something like that. I don't know. I have no interest in what they're talking about. But if it applied to bluegrass, then the fantasy team showed up this past weekend at Rob's Barn. Imagine this line-up on stage: Darren Beachley, Dave Propst, Mike Munford, Warren Blair, and Steve Streett. If most of these names are unfamiliar to you it's because you're not from around here or maybe you're not really into bluegrass. When I say you're not from around here I'm referring to west of the Rocky Mountains. When I accuse you of not really being into bluegrass I do so because you may not be familiar with the common knowledge that Maryland, and especially the Baltimore area produces some of the best bluegrass music in the U.S. There are regions that used to. There are regions that still do. There are regions that used to and now bluegrass music is a dead entity, like a calf's heart stuck in a jar full of formaldehyde up on a museum shelf. You have to hand it to bluegrass true believers like Rob Miller. There was once a traditional music mecca called the Friendly Inn and every Maryland Bluegrass Great played there. There was a band called "Line Drive" who played there to capacity crowds. It was the early 90's. Friendly's closed up and all the great players moved on to other bands and other venues. True Believers still talk about all the magic moments that happened at the Friendly Inn. On this particular night Rob Miller is re-uniting Line Drive. The place is packed with a lot of the people who remember the Friendly Inn.

       The old Friendly Inn sign is hanging up on the stage and it makes the perfect backdrop for the return of these guys - but in actuality, they never left Maryland's vibrant bluegrass scene. They all just moved up several notches in their showmanship and musicianship. These are working musicians who've played with the best. Dave Propst is working nearly every night and every weekend- somewhere. I don't have to say anything about Darren Beachley that hasn't already been said. Warren Blair continues to amaze with his work schedule and flexibility between vocals and fiddling. Just when you're about ready to get sick of hearing  Stanley or Monroe tunes, Warren throws in "San Antonio Rose" to shake up the mix. And then there's Mike Munford - probably one of THE best banjo-pickers in the world. IBMA is finally acknowledging his value; his talent. The irony of the "best" award, if he gets it this year, is, we've all known this for a long time. Nobody in the mid-Atlantic bluegrass belt needs an introductory lecture on Mike Munford. The newest guy on the block Steve Streett (Bass) lives in the York, Pa area and has been playing the Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Delaware circuit for years with Baltimore Bluegrass and a lot of other fine musicians. Quiet and reserved (until you discover his sense of humor) Steve's beautiful vocal-renderings were called upon several times for the performance. I'm always shocked when the quiet member of any group steps up to the plate - and then makes everybody's jaws drop in amazement. Darren Beachley drove the show. He usually does. Darren expects the best out of his stage-mates and he usually gets it in spades. People who don't know bluegrass wouldn't have a clue as to what Darren was doing up on the stage. He never sounded better or smoother. Considering the work schedules of these guys I doubt if they practiced much for this evening. It was obvious to all they didn't have to. The audience there that evening knew it was Darren being Darren at his best. Being former military, I call it excellent leadership. Getting the best out of what you've been given. Darren's level of professionalism separates the men from the boys; the pro's from the poseurs. The barn that night was packed. The excitement was high. I knew I was in for an experience I may never have again.

       The show started at 8:30. I don't even think you can classify what happens at the Barn as a show. More like an intimate evening to sit around with old friends and hear some good music. This is what I truly appreciated. The listeners were there to listen. Once the music started every ounce of attention was glued on this unique gathering of musicians. The Barn was packed with an audience that spilled out into and under a 60-ft. tent. There was food before and after, provided by an audience-generated pot luck system. Rob Miller wants to provide a well-regulated party atmosphere for folks who appreciate traditional bluegrass. It's a very simple premise that somehow seems to work successfully. Thirty-one songs later the evening wound down toward going-home time. Two encores. Three rounds of standing ovations. Everybody in the audience saying to each other "We've got to do this again." Sadly, that may never happen. These guys are working too much. Their schedules just happened to come together like the alignment of the planets for this particular date. It was an event - in the truest sense of the word. I left wishing that every bluegrass moment could be like this. We all know life isn't like that. The good things happen only once in a while and sometimes we're lucky enough to be there when it happens.

Coming soon:  Rob's Barn and The Friendly Inn Connection.

 

Memories Passed Away

 Released August 2013: Memories Passed Away by The Martin Brothers and Aspen Run

21 August 2013

       Welcome to the fourth album of music produced by Aspen Run - and the first album which launches The Martin Brothers and Aspen Run. At least I think they're still called albums! So much has changed in the music industry since I first heard bluegrass music coming over the airwaves at night while my Dad listened to his old Philco radio. It wasn't called bluegrass back then. It was just plain old Hillbilly Music, with an emphasis on the "Hillbilly" for definite politically-incorrect reasons. We early rock-and-rollers laughed at Dad's music; the twang, the non-electrified instruments, the songs about dying on the cross, and women giving up on their men for the honky-tonk life. Older and supposedly wiser now, I know I've reached a turning point on that Great Road of Life when I begin to regress, begin to re-examine why my old man listened to that stuff, and I begin to realize there were musicians from way back in that era who are still being listened to, still selling albums, and being studied now in university programs for the music they produced. A whole new generation of younger musicians haved picked up the torch from the old guys.

       On February 16th 2013 I got a privileged call from Herb Martin, Jr. to come up to Westminster, Maryland and sit in on the birth of this collection of songs. It was cold. Snow decorated the trees when I passed through Reisterstown, but it had been an easy winter so far. Donna, Herb's wife and mother to the Martin Boys had a big pot of stew going. The Band was in the kitchen tuning up and going through a few licks before they went into the home-made recording studio in what everyone calls "The Old Stone House." I had grown used to hearing the Martins (with the inclusion of Steve Unkart and Guy Herbert) perform their normal play list at numerous live performances. I had seen for myself the energy this unique group of musicians can bring to a stage. A rare thing indeed when any bluegrass group can make an audience get up out of their seats and dance. Unlike the third recorded collection of mostly Ralph Stanley and Jimmy Martin covers, Aspen Run: Wanted. (2011) this latest effort includes more than a few pleasant surprises along with audience favorites that have earned the Martins a reputation for delivering solid performances all over the mid-Atlantic region. This collection includes five original songs written by Aaron Martin, Herb Martin, Jr., Herb Martin, III, and Steve Unkart. I've singled out "Memories Passed Away" by Aaron Martin as one of my favorites, and I wasn't surprised when it was elected as the title-cut. All the originally-written songs are good and enjoyable, but this one makes you sit up and listen because there is a story involved. A painful human condition experienced in loneliness.

       It's now early August and the Boys are just a little bit older. The first time you see them on stage their youth astounds you if you're my age. Herb, III was born in 1985. Clayton is the middle sibling, born in 1987. The youngest, Aaron, was born in 1988. They already have a legend growing up around their family background. They didn't even play any kind of instruments until seven or eight years ago and when they began they gravitated into old-time bluegrass, bypassing the normal route of young folks attempting to become the next Rock and Roll stars. Family friend Ed Tillman remembers running into them at a local bluegrass jam at the Village Inn in Lineboro, Maryland. "They were great. I remember that night because they wouldn't quit. That was in 2006," says Ed. Shortly after that, it was only a matter of one or two years before The Martins (under the name of Aspen Run) was becoming a popular favorite bluegrass band in the Carroll County region of Maryland. They are following a long tradition of families involved in bluegrass. In their region the same names keep popping up in conversations about bluegrass: Paisley, McCoury, Lundy. Tippett, Meek, to name just a few in this treasure trove region of old-time music. The Martins stuck to tradition as they set out to make a name for themselves.

       Tradition is an important element in the story of Martin Family history in Westminster, and especially at the plot of Martin farmland and the Old Stone House. That day in February, Herb Martin, Jr. invited me to watch old films (probably from the 40's and 50's) of Martin Family members in past days making music, and having a good time on the same porch that still stands today. Nothing about that old house has changed much. After hearing "Memories Passed Away" Aaron entertained me with a whole notebook of songs he was working on. I was more than a little stunned. This kid can write!. It was time to go into the recording room and crank them out. Brotherly bickering broke out every few minutes about what was bluegrass and what was not. Beneath it was the deeper purpose of refining their craft, perfecting what was real and cleaning up what sounded phoney. The vocal jabs were normally settled by Herb Martin, III, the eldest. Clayton is the perfectionist. Aaron is the decent-hearted joker. Steve Unkart and Guy Herbert, older than any of them, are stabilizing forces for the process. At the center is the united quest for a pure bluegrass tradition. On this, The Martins will not waver. In a bluegrass business of today where so many younger musicians are trying to break the rules and be 'unique' the Martins don't have to. Their music is so old and traditional it's refreshing to hear it.

       Aaron's title cut is an anthem of sorts for the whole collection. It's about never forgetting those who have gone before and those who are still with us. You can say the same thing about music, families, and struggling to maintain one's human dignity in a complicated world. Sometimes it all seems like a very good or very bad dream. Out of dreams we create. It's the human spirit to do so. Memories Passed Away couldn't have been chosen as a better title for this collection. Every song reminds us to never forget where we came from - especially those closest to us who we call family.

Ed Henry

Vienna, Virginia,  2013

"Livin' The Dream!"

 Danny Paisley and Southern Grass at Port Deposit, Maryland, May 2013

17 August 2013

"I have my dreams, Mr. Starbuck, they may be little dreams, but they're my dreams!"
                                                                                  Lizzie, from The Rain-Maker

       Anyone who thinks the bluegrass life is easy needs to talk to Danny Paisley. He's popularized a  well-worn, tongue-in-cheek life-phrase here in our neck of the woods. The first time I heard it I fell out of my chair with laughter. One of his band members made a comment about an uncomfortable situation and Danny responded with "You're livin' The Dream now, Buddy!" In other words, suck it up and like the fact you're able to get up in front of people and entertain them. Danny's got a sense of humor I can appreciate. He's always got that smile on his face that lights up when all his musicians are running full-bore on synchronized pistons. I've written previously that he may have one of the best configurations in bluegrass music. Danny's "Livin' the Dream" attitude has a lot to do with it. Every time I hear him say it I have some deep thinking to do about how hard it is for a few of the better entertainers to work a room - and then get maybe just enough money to cover their gasoline expenses for the day.  The life of hard work and little recompense goes way beyond the guy up on stage or the band cranking out old time music just to bring a little enjoyment to a room-full of beer-drinking dancers. Recently, at Jumbo Jimmy's (Port Deposit, Maryland) I watched for the umpteenth Sunday afternoon, as the manager handled a big crowd of people who had come out to enjoy AcrosstheTrack Bluegrass. The beer flowed and so did the steamed crabs and sandwiches, she got people seated, and took care of the usual customer whinings. What I didn't know, is this person also does all the entertainment bookings and handles all the relations with the entertainers. Her sense of modesty prohibits me from mentioning her name. She's a hard-worker and she's "Livin' the Dream" of running (single-handedly) a clean, well-lighted place that takes people away from the hum-drum for a few hours out of their work-week. She makes sure the bands get paid. She's part of the process that keeps musicians employed.
       I talked to Rick Miller last night. Much recognized in Maryland for his life spent in the music business, he's busy trying to establish another new group. Actually, up to this point, they're doing well as far as new bands go. The gigs are steadily building. What I like about Rick is his honesty in dealing with a new situation and his total honesty in dealing with a strange, obscure part of the music world - bluegrass. You almost have to be crazy to think that it will make you rich someday. Our conversation was like a dream sequence flipping from (Father) John Michael Talbot to Molly Hatchet to Pope John Paul, II. I studied this kind of literary form in college - it's called Stream of Consciousness. We laughed a lot about Danny's turn of phrase because Rick realizes what he's up against in trying to make it in the bluegrass music business. It's OK to dream, Rick.
       Without dreams you're a dead entity in a dead world of non-creativity. I've been fortunate in my life to be around dreamers. They want something a little more out of life than struggling with an  8 to 5 job and paying a mortgage. I'm happy when I see a Dreamer get his or her just-due. Their dreams bolster our dreams, they become the stuff of novels and movies and pop-culture. Watching PBS one night, I heard a scientist make the remark that the only thing that separates humans from the rest of the animal world is our ability to dream, and thus create from that process. Here's to the Dreamers. Here's to all those practitioners of the bluegrass trade who are out there trying to get better at what they do by steadily working, steadily practicing, and steadily growing. If you hang around long enough, you see the good ones fulfilling their dreams, reaching at least some level of their perceived goals. But it's that way in any art-form, propelled of course by a huge shot of luck and making the right connections. At the basis of it though, is "Livin' the Dream." Success is hard work.

Understanding Poland - After 1939

 Police Officer Marcelli Konieczny - 1897-1940  Murdered at Katyn

With only a few remaining relatives in Poland, my wife and I have been traveling to Poland in an attempt to put together her family history. On this latest trip we discovered that Marcelli Konieczny, a ranking Police Officer, and one of her family members, was abducted by the Soviets and murdered along with thousands of others at a place called Katyn (1940). The name of the place, let alone the name of this horrific event is known today to few Americans. The mass executions were first blamed on the Nazis by the Soviets.  The Russian government finally,  fully admitted through release of documented records that Stalin ordered the mass-executions. Most of the Polish Army Officer corps, Naval Officer corps, and just about every policeman vanished into mass graves. Read the full account:


       "Both occupying powers focused their terror on the educated and ruling elite of the country, and, in the Nazi case, also on the Jews. The eastern half of Poland, except for the region of Wilno which was handed over by the Soviets to the Lithuanians, was formally annexed by the USSR after bogus local plebiscites. Mass arrests took place of key figures in the Polish military, political and economic establishment, of civil servants and trade union leaders. All private and public enterprises were taken over; the press was shut down; all Polish political, cultural and social organizations were dissolved. At first the soviets made strenuous efforts to win over the local non-Polish populations by promoting the Belarussian and Ukrainian languages, by distributing confiscated landed estates among the peasants, and by extending the welfare system. Once effective control had been established, the Soviets launched an attack on all religions, dissolved all local autonomous organizations, including the highly developed Ukrainian co-operative movement, and arrested all local Ukrainian and Zionist leaders. Conscription into the Red Army was introduced, and in April 1940 Soviet-style collectivization was imposed. The entire population was now terrorized into obedience.
       In 1940 and 1941 up to half a million people from all social classes and all ethnic groups, but mostly Poles and Jews, were deported from the Soviet-occupied territories to Siberia and Soviet Central Asia. Entire families, deemed in any way 'unreliable' by the Soviets, suffered this ordeal; scores of thousands were to perish in the inhospitable conditions of their places of exile or from forced labour in the Gulag. By mid-1941 many small towns of pre-war eastern Poland had lost much of their Polish character. The NKVD meted out special attention to captured Polish officers (regulars and reservists), civil servants, policemen and border guards. On orders signed on 5 March 1940 by Stalin and the Politburo, over 21,000 such prisoners were shot in April 1940; of these 4,000 perished in Katyn near Smolensk. For half a century, until Gorbachev's admission in April 1990, Soviet governments were to deny their responsibility for these atrocities. Yet while merciless to those he considered enemies of Soviet power, Stalin sought to recruit Poles, especially left-wing intellectuals, willing to co-operate with the USSR. This policy gained momentum after the unexpected defeat of France in June 1940, which left the USSR alone facing a Nazi dominated European continent. In any confrontation with Germany, the Poles could be useful. In the autumn of 1940 the 85th anniversary of Mickiewicz's death was publicly celebrated in Lwow (L'viv) and in early 1941 the Comintern revived its Polish section.
       Soviet terror was soon outstripped by its Nazi counterpart. The Nazi occupation lasted longer, it effected the majority of the Polish population (indeed, between 1941 and 1944 Nazi control extended to the entire area of pre-war Poland) and it took a heavier toll of life. A vast track of western Poland, including Poznan and Lodz (renamed Litzmannstadt) was incorporated directly into the Third Reich, and its populations classified according to crude and inconsistent 'racial' criteria. To affirm the German character of Upper Silesia and especially of Pomerania, two-fifths of their population were registered wholesale as "German" (and therefore subject to military sevice) as opposed to 2 percent carefully screened in the Wartheland. Those classified as Poles were reduced to the status of a helot underclass, deprived of all property and of access to all but the most basic schooling, and subject to compulsory labour or deportation. In the Wartheland virtually all Polish Catholic churches, monasteries and charitable institutions were closed; in Upper Silesia and Pomerania German was enforced as the language of religious life. Patriotic Polish priests were expelled, arrested, or shot. The central part of Poland, administered separately by the so-called Central Government (to which Galicia was added in 1941), was subject to a regime of terror, semi-starvation and ruthless economic exploitation. It became a dumping ground for all unwanted Poles and Jews from the lands annexed by the Reich. Most Catholic parishes were allowed to function in the Central Government but under many restrictions. Polish Protestants were especially victimized by the Nazis. A policy of  "Spiritual Sterilization" brought with it an attack on Polish high culture; museums, libraries, universities, most secondary schools, and theatres were closed down, and the public playing of Chopin's music was forbidden. Only some primary schooling and limited technical training was permitted  . . . The incarceration in concentration camps in September 1939 of the staff of Krakow University was a foretaste of the fate awaiting the entire Polish educated class under Nazi rule."

( excerpt: A Concise History of Poland. 2nd Edition. Lukowski and Zawadzki, eds. Cambridge University Press. 2006. )

Birkenau Death Camp - May 2013 - Photo by Ed Henry - On a recent visit to Poland

The Age of Mediocrity

August 10th, 2013

       I've just been accused of being a Purist and I think it's hilarious. I may even be feeling a small sense of pride in the accusation. It means my level of expectation is higher than the accuser's level of expectation. That this whole small battle is about musicianship makes it even funnier. Some people would think it's a useless argument. When it comes to music and entertainment it IS useless, because every individual has his or her own expectations and choices as to what they like or dislike. It used to be judged in ticket and recorded music sales but the digital world changed all that. The music teacher (the first one to get fired in any discussion about school budgets,) would probably understand the point I'm attempting to make. The fledgling opera-singer, the struggling professional classical dancer, the jazz saxophone-player searching for just the right groove knows exactly what I'm talking about. My accuser hasn't a clue. The accuser (or accusers - there is an army of them) have accepted that mediocrity is OK in any form of entertainment, and at my age, I feel it is a great sadness.
       The Age of Mediocrity should replace the current title of "Age of Information" for the time-frame we're experiencing.  There is a huge swath of the Great Unwashed who will always accept mediocrity as the norm. I think it reached its zenith with the advent of Obama and our current government. I don't blame them for their mediocre leadership. That's what happens when popularity and the cult of personality replaces the values we expect in solid leadership qualities. It takes on a downright sinister facade when you count up all the money involved to "get someone elected." The mediocrity is in place because we, the voter put it there. What we should have voted in were public servants who we trusted enough to fulfill their campaign promises - and then kept them. The electorate voted for mediocrity instead of strong leadership. It's not enough to just accept that all politicians are liars and bamboozlers.
       My accuser doesn't know me that well and the fact doesn't bother me. After all, this whole argument started over music and entertainment, but I begin to see in it a whole pattern of how mediocrity has become the new American norm. Remember the old saw, "We can send a man to the Moon, but . . ."  What my accuser doesn't know is I constantly see promise in those who, given half the chance, can better themselves because there is an innate talent involved. The accepted level of mediocrity keeps them off the stage, off the concert tour, out of the recording studio, out of the film studio, because their talent is a threat to the status quo. Instead of artists working together and supporting each other the dividers want it done their way. Or, one person's level of mediocrity soon becomes the copied norm. It creeps in like a disease to hamper the growth of any human endeavor, whether it's the arts or universities, community organizations, even governments. My hackles go up when I hear, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." "We've always done it this way." "Too bad the kid doesn't have any talent." I'm amused by the current demise of national television networks, who wonder in awe at why all national television ratings are down, advertising sales have slipped, and ask why they're in trouble after several decades of copy-cat and cookie-cutter programming relying heavily on script-writers who seem to have come out of the National Smarm School of Wit and Comedy. Like voting for the lowest common denominator, again it's our fault for turning on the television set in the first place. It is our fault for paying for a few sheets of newsprint that no longer serves the purpose as a source of news. Shock waves went through our community recently with the sale of the venerable Washington Post. Why does anyone even think that's newsworthy, when it's a trend happening in every big city in our country? We've come to expect instant gratification when we want the 'latest' and the internet is there to give it to us. Commentary and opinion? Now everyone has an opinion and can comment on any subject they want. But mediocrity again doesn't like, will not stand for, fresh opinion or an enlightened opinion.
       I like a person with guts. Male or female. Doesn't matter. The ones who quietly take charge matter more to me than the loud-mouthed Prussians. I'm even objective enough to listen to a loud-mouthed Prussian if he or she indeed has the capability to admit a mistake, admit a wrong-headed judgement. Some of the simplest working-guys I know right now have shown me more leadership in their little finger than has ever been shown to me by our current president. They just carry on with life. They're surrounded with lots of genuine friends. They never had to con, flim-flam, or bamboozle their way through life. They actually worked for all the good things they have in their lives. The first symptom of mediocrity is not having to work very hard for a lifestyle of mediocrity.

(In case you're wondering, I didn't vote for Obama - or the other guy, either!)    

Poland Revisited - To a Historian Friend:

 Officer Marcelli Konieczny, family member and Policeman murdered during the Katyn Massacres

4 August 2013:
(a friend writes that Poland has been described 'like a Canary caught between two huge Cats.' My reply:)

       I wanted to provide you with another take on the Canary Analogy. I think it's too easy a trap for the historian to fall into when discussing Poland. It's probably due to Poland's geography more than anything, and of course it's always the first thing mentioned in any work on Poland - "a land bridge for many invading, outside forces." At the core of it though, there was always this entity of the culture of language, and even slavonic customs and traditions that held together this odd idea of a free and liberty-loving place called Poland. You can sense it among the Poles. You can read about it in popular fiction. It's wrapped into their music, arts, writing, poetry, and film-making. The question becomes how serious is it as a force to weld together an idea and move it into the realm of  progressive nationalistic aspirations? You asked me about my interest in such matters, when strangely enough my background is in Asian History.

       I travel a lot in Asia, concentrating my linguistic and historical interests for the past twenty-five years in Viet Nam. My first trip to Poland was a real eye-opener to say the least, because in a very weird way I felt like I was traveling in Viet Nam. I could see the same growth pangs of moving from one economic system to another, the personal yearnings in the people for a better life, and mainly, the realization that Poland had a lot of catching up to do with the 20th century. (at that time we were on the verge of entering the 21st century!). There was in the citizens too, this longing for freedom and liberty, and a release from the chains of somebody else's rules and system. Poland always was central Europe's "Ireland." just as Viet Nam is often referred to as Asia's "Ireland." Poland may be nothing more than a romantic dream in the minds of millions of Poles residing in and outside of Poland. The Dream becomes a fertile garden for the demographer, statistician, historian, economist, or even artist. All have the task of explaining Poland to the rest of the world.  The Chronicler may have the most important task. The Chronicles rest on one important fact: no matter how much Poland has been trampled on, torn apart, sub-divided so many times, and changed hands, it remains as a nation of people bound by a language and a "Polish Way" of sorting out their destiny.

       It was never so much about two cats wanting to eat the canary, but two cats constantly debating issues of what to do with the canary. The Polish Question at the Potsdam Summit wasn't new. The fall of the Soviet Bloc proved that. And the question had come up again previous to the end of World War II. Also it was more about Lithuania, the Hapsburgs, Ukrainia, the Holy Roman Empire, and what to do about Silesia. It was always about having to deal with the Poles if we should one day decide to attempt to conquer them. All of this geographical debating led right up to the political breakdowns in 1987. In simpler terms, the Canary doesn't care one bit about any cats on it's borders, maybe never cared, except to give the cats a warning every once in a while that it's probably best to leave the Canary alone.