Monday, October 13, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Mark Ross sent this along. Thought you might enjoy it.
Utah's Speech
Friends and Brothers, for many years now we have all understood that railroads exist solely to carry persons such as ourselves from one place to another. The business of transporting freight simply helps to defray the expense of this noble and much needed endeavor. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly commend the Union Pacific,Burlington-Northern, Denver-Rio Grande and Western and similar charitable organizations for their benign efforts on our behalf and to offer heartfelt thanks for affording us the opportunity to spend so many carefree hours watching the pleasant landscape flow by. Oh, the rich pageantry! The bracing mountain air, sparkling lakes and snow-capped peaks spread out before us like a handful of jewels. Lulled into blissful reverie by the gentle swaying of our noble chariots, we gaze enraptured at the panoramic splendor of America.Exaggeration? Ah no, my friends. I cannot believe that so heady a delight as we have enjoyed for lo these many years could simply be the result of economic necessity. Surely the Almighty has penetrated the hearts of railroad executives, and through them his divine purpose moves: that we homeless vagabonds are permitted to advance that spirit of adventure for which our mothers bore us and which is so firmly rooted in the very heart of our great Republic. Indeed, I affirm without fear of contradiction the belief that God, Motherhood, The Founding Fathers and the Railroad are committed to permitting the hobo his humble existence.I hasten to add, however, that all is not rosy and bright with our Brotherhood of the Road. On every hand villains and assassins assault our way of life, indeed our very persons. High-binders and cut purses sap our meager resources as the necessities of life (wine, a humble crust and a quiet corner in which to enjoy well-earned repose) continue to soar in price. Organized authority (which any sensible person must assume was constituted for our protection) now falls upon us cloaked in the foul disguise of "custodians of law". Where, I ask, will it end'? Will we, in the final extremity, be forced to abandon our historic mission of bringing the divine law of "Freedom in Mobility" to the benighted heathen cringing meekly in factory and barnyard? Will we (oh dire presentiment!) be driven to join them in that abomination against our class and kind- WORK? No, I Say, a thousand times NO! Take heart, noble companions! Share with me a sacrament of our sacred beverage, shoulder your bindles and once more plunge into the fray, secure in the knowledge that we carry with us the future of the Republic, indeed the hopes and dreams of all mankind. Let us sing.(Speech to be delivered at the 1976 bicentennial Hobo Convention in Britt,Iowa, where I intend to be elected King. Campaign staff positions are now being filled and all donations are gratefully accepted and can be forwarded to Philo Records. They are, of course, tax deductible.)
Utah's Speech
Friends and Brothers, for many years now we have all understood that railroads exist solely to carry persons such as ourselves from one place to another. The business of transporting freight simply helps to defray the expense of this noble and much needed endeavor. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly commend the Union Pacific,Burlington-Northern, Denver-Rio Grande and Western and similar charitable organizations for their benign efforts on our behalf and to offer heartfelt thanks for affording us the opportunity to spend so many carefree hours watching the pleasant landscape flow by. Oh, the rich pageantry! The bracing mountain air, sparkling lakes and snow-capped peaks spread out before us like a handful of jewels. Lulled into blissful reverie by the gentle swaying of our noble chariots, we gaze enraptured at the panoramic splendor of America.Exaggeration? Ah no, my friends. I cannot believe that so heady a delight as we have enjoyed for lo these many years could simply be the result of economic necessity. Surely the Almighty has penetrated the hearts of railroad executives, and through them his divine purpose moves: that we homeless vagabonds are permitted to advance that spirit of adventure for which our mothers bore us and which is so firmly rooted in the very heart of our great Republic. Indeed, I affirm without fear of contradiction the belief that God, Motherhood, The Founding Fathers and the Railroad are committed to permitting the hobo his humble existence.I hasten to add, however, that all is not rosy and bright with our Brotherhood of the Road. On every hand villains and assassins assault our way of life, indeed our very persons. High-binders and cut purses sap our meager resources as the necessities of life (wine, a humble crust and a quiet corner in which to enjoy well-earned repose) continue to soar in price. Organized authority (which any sensible person must assume was constituted for our protection) now falls upon us cloaked in the foul disguise of "custodians of law". Where, I ask, will it end'? Will we, in the final extremity, be forced to abandon our historic mission of bringing the divine law of "Freedom in Mobility" to the benighted heathen cringing meekly in factory and barnyard? Will we (oh dire presentiment!) be driven to join them in that abomination against our class and kind- WORK? No, I Say, a thousand times NO! Take heart, noble companions! Share with me a sacrament of our sacred beverage, shoulder your bindles and once more plunge into the fray, secure in the knowledge that we carry with us the future of the Republic, indeed the hopes and dreams of all mankind. Let us sing.(Speech to be delivered at the 1976 bicentennial Hobo Convention in Britt,Iowa, where I intend to be elected King. Campaign staff positions are now being filled and all donations are gratefully accepted and can be forwarded to Philo Records. They are, of course, tax deductible.)
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Hello,
Well it's been a while. The tribute show for dad last night went well. It was a Small but intimate crowd that was primed and ready. I emceed the show and after coming to an understanding with the audience as to my singing ability sang a song or two. I sang " Daddy What's A Train" with Gigi Love who was nice enough to come up from her home in Durango for the show.......she was kind enough to play in the key of "off " because that's the key I sing in.
We all sat in assorted kitchen chairs that gently arced across the stage with dad's stage set up in the middle. It felt both comforting and familiar to sit in dad's chair, surrounded by friends and swap songs and stories with everyone. I opened with a couple of stories and a poem I wrote for dad Anke Summerhill, followed with "Star Light on the Rails" it was beautiful. Mike Iverson sang "Johny Thurmond", Doug Wintch sang " Queen of the Rails" , Kate MacLeod sang " The Green Rolling Hills of West Virginia" and Kyle @ Weston Wulle closed the first set with " All Used Up " The second set was more of the same and we closed with Dad's Hymn song. It's hard to say how things went from the stage but judging by the laughter, appropriate somber silence and applause, folks enjoyed the show. I know I did.
After the show and the everyone had fled to the comfort of their homes the auditorium was empty and quiet. I sat on the edge of the stage and soaked it all in. I was filled with an ease and peacefulness and left thinking, what's next?
Well it's been a while. The tribute show for dad last night went well. It was a Small but intimate crowd that was primed and ready. I emceed the show and after coming to an understanding with the audience as to my singing ability sang a song or two. I sang " Daddy What's A Train" with Gigi Love who was nice enough to come up from her home in Durango for the show.......she was kind enough to play in the key of "off " because that's the key I sing in.
We all sat in assorted kitchen chairs that gently arced across the stage with dad's stage set up in the middle. It felt both comforting and familiar to sit in dad's chair, surrounded by friends and swap songs and stories with everyone. I opened with a couple of stories and a poem I wrote for dad Anke Summerhill, followed with "Star Light on the Rails" it was beautiful. Mike Iverson sang "Johny Thurmond", Doug Wintch sang " Queen of the Rails" , Kate MacLeod sang " The Green Rolling Hills of West Virginia" and Kyle @ Weston Wulle closed the first set with " All Used Up " The second set was more of the same and we closed with Dad's Hymn song. It's hard to say how things went from the stage but judging by the laughter, appropriate somber silence and applause, folks enjoyed the show. I know I did.
After the show and the everyone had fled to the comfort of their homes the auditorium was empty and quiet. I sat on the edge of the stage and soaked it all in. I was filled with an ease and peacefulness and left thinking, what's next?
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Hello,
Some folks have asked about directions to the cemetery where dad is buried so I am posting a link to directions from downtown Nevada City. There are two cemeteries on red dog, Forest View is on the Left or North side of Red Dog. Dad is in the back North East corner towards a blue house that boarders the cemetery.
On to other news. some of the folks here in SLC are planning a tribute concert for Saturday Sept. 27, at the Fine Arts Theatre on the University of Utah campus. Maybe I'll see some of you there.
Ken Sanders and I are still working on republishing dad's old song book. The only thing holding up the project is myself. I can't seem to make my self sit down and write the new forward and pick out some photos to add to the song book. Mostly because I have been spending my spare time learning to play and sing. I know it sounds odd that up until now I haven't played or sang much. I know dad always wanted to see and hear me on stage but it was something I just couldn't make myself do. When I was much younger I never saw the logic in learning something that was one of the things that kept dad and I so far apart ( kids logic) and as I grew older I thought " how can I possibly measure up". But now that I have dad's old Guild I think with it comes a certain obligation. So I must play. Ben Pearl myself and Mark Ross are going to do tribute set at Winterfolk in Portland this winter. Sisters of The Road, Portland and Winterfolk was the road trip dad and I looked forward to most every year. I think 04 was the last time we made it, might have been 05, either way it's been far to long.
It will be nice to see our old friends again. I hope the show doesn't turn out to be a poor mans Gallagher show and I throw up on the first row.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Hello everyone, It's been a long time.
I had a thought, I've had a song rumbling around in my head for the last few weeks and instead of polishing it off myself I thought I would post a verse or two along with the chorus and and let folks contribute their own lyric to the pot and see what we come up with. So here we go.
Untitled
His Life was boom his life was bust.
His life was filled with wanderlust.
He tramped the world with a broken heart.
But now old friend it's time we part.
Chorus
There's a light on at the top of the stairs.
Rest your head weary hobo and linger no more.
The angles of the jungle will sing your sweet refrain
and we'll miss you like the dry earth misses the rain.
Please feel free to add whatever you wish. If you are more comfortable sending some thing by e-mail I will post it for you.
Duncan
I had a thought, I've had a song rumbling around in my head for the last few weeks and instead of polishing it off myself I thought I would post a verse or two along with the chorus and and let folks contribute their own lyric to the pot and see what we come up with. So here we go.
Untitled
His Life was boom his life was bust.
His life was filled with wanderlust.
He tramped the world with a broken heart.
But now old friend it's time we part.
Chorus
There's a light on at the top of the stairs.
Rest your head weary hobo and linger no more.
The angles of the jungle will sing your sweet refrain
and we'll miss you like the dry earth misses the rain.
Please feel free to add whatever you wish. If you are more comfortable sending some thing by e-mail I will post it for you.
Duncan
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Poetry and music collide in the hands of Kell Robertson.
There is an idea of the Southwest that lives in the collective mind. It is embodied through stoic figures that represent unsympathetic landscapes where little is spoken. Poet and songwriter Kell Robertson was drawn to the Southwest by idealized images of the black-and-white films of his youth. His poems—published in more than 13 books—speak like the ghosts of another time.
In his poem “The Old Man Goes Home,” Robertson writes, “All I can see is what we’ve lost.”
It is this sense of longing for his childhood home in Elk City, Kan., that informs the memory of his friend Utah Phillips. Phillips was an enigmatic singer-songwriter, poet and labor organizer cast from Woody Guthrie’s America. Phillips, who died earlier this year, harbored no avarice, no reason to be something he wasn’t. It is an attribute that endeared him to other artists such as Tom Waits and Ani DiFranco, who would eventually cut two records with Phillips, one of which, Fellow Workers, earned a Grammy nomination.
Robertson headlines a celebratory event in memory of Phillips and his friendship. It is a fitting tribute filled with poetry, music and memories.
SFR: How did you first come to poetry?
KR: Probably with Percy Bysshe Shelley. My mother was an avid reader. By the time I went to school—at around the age of 8—I had read Shakespeare. I was lucky. She had the works of Shakespeare and the complete works of Zane Grey, so I had that influence.
That’s quite a reach from Shakespeare to Zane Grey.
Well, yeah…sorta…kinda, maybe, in a way. I went into the military and I got out of it because I hated it; I hated war. I hated the whole thing, so I grabbed my guitar and headed to Mexico and hung out here for a while and eventually hitchhiked across America. Writing became such a natural thing to me. I’ve read all the poets. I know all the stuff. I’ve read all the critics and all the academic jerks.
You’ve been called a beat poet. What do you think about that classification?
Well, you know, it’s very funny. On one of my books Lawrence Ferlinghetti wrote a blurb, ‘Kell is one fine cowboy poet.’ I’ve been called a beat poet, a
New Mexico poet…good God they’ve called me everything. I’m a guy who writes. Sure, I knew some of those people. Lawrence is a good friend. I was not a friend of Kerouac. I was in a skid row bar called the Mars Hotel on Third Street in San Francisco and Kerouac was in there. I went in and sat down. I recognized him and said, ‘Hey man, you’re Jack Kerouac.’ He said, ‘Just shut up and I’ll buy you a beer. Don’t say a goddamn word about it.’ So I didn’t. We just got drunk and that was it.
How did you meet Utah Phillips?
I met Utah in San Francisco years ago with Rosalie Sorrels, his singing partner at the time. He’s a reformed alcoholic, and I’m a perpetual drunk. The two of us walked around each other over the years. He would run into me and say, ‘Hey Kell, you still drinking?’
Utah never diverted from who he was…
No, he was a Wobbly all the way. He clung to those old ideas and I agree with him. He told stories better than anyone I’ve ever seen. He would talk about the old days with the Wobblies, the labor unions, traveling on box cars, about living as a hobo, fighting the cops. It was a time and a place that really happened. He could get really into what he did, which was talking about working people and being poor in America. He was the genuine thing.
You’ve lived in a lot places. Have those regions influenced your writing?
I grew up with poor people. I have an eighth-grade education, that’s it. The rest of it I got on my own, self-taught all the way. I love this country. I’m in the Southwest because I like the people and I love Mexican music. My mother took me to see Hank Williams [Sr.] in Shreveport, La. He dropped the microphone; he was drunk and he just blew everybody away. I looked at him and said, ‘I want to do that.’ And then I heard Dylan Thomas read and I said, ‘I want to do that.’
You think that kind of experience can still be had with young people, with poetry?
I don’t know; I worry about it. I don’t know if it’s possible at all. There’s about a million slam poets and poetry drill teams…I’m not sure if that does it any good. I think it’s something that you have to uncover on your own.
William Faulkner once said about his work, ‘I’m just a farmer who likes to tell stories.’ I’ve read some of your poems and I’m curious if you think people tend to over-think or overanalyze them.
Those stories in the songs and the poems are personal. I did most of those things or at least I knew people who did. Of course, in the back of your head, if you have a sense of language and understand rhetoric, line, meter and all that crap…the poem or the song just comes to you.
There is an idea of the Southwest that lives in the collective mind. It is embodied through stoic figures that represent unsympathetic landscapes where little is spoken. Poet and songwriter Kell Robertson was drawn to the Southwest by idealized images of the black-and-white films of his youth. His poems—published in more than 13 books—speak like the ghosts of another time.
  Don’t call Kell Robertson a beatnik, just call him a writer. |
In his poem “The Old Man Goes Home,” Robertson writes, “All I can see is what we’ve lost.”
It is this sense of longing for his childhood home in Elk City, Kan., that informs the memory of his friend Utah Phillips. Phillips was an enigmatic singer-songwriter, poet and labor organizer cast from Woody Guthrie’s America. Phillips, who died earlier this year, harbored no avarice, no reason to be something he wasn’t. It is an attribute that endeared him to other artists such as Tom Waits and Ani DiFranco, who would eventually cut two records with Phillips, one of which, Fellow Workers, earned a Grammy nomination.
Robertson headlines a celebratory event in memory of Phillips and his friendship. It is a fitting tribute filled with poetry, music and memories.
SFR: How did you first come to poetry?
KR: Probably with Percy Bysshe Shelley. My mother was an avid reader. By the time I went to school—at around the age of 8—I had read Shakespeare. I was lucky. She had the works of Shakespeare and the complete works of Zane Grey, so I had that influence.
That’s quite a reach from Shakespeare to Zane Grey.
Well, yeah…sorta…kinda, maybe, in a way. I went into the military and I got out of it because I hated it; I hated war. I hated the whole thing, so I grabbed my guitar and headed to Mexico and hung out here for a while and eventually hitchhiked across America. Writing became such a natural thing to me. I’ve read all the poets. I know all the stuff. I’ve read all the critics and all the academic jerks.
You’ve been called a beat poet. What do you think about that classification?
Well, you know, it’s very funny. On one of my books Lawrence Ferlinghetti wrote a blurb, ‘Kell is one fine cowboy poet.’ I’ve been called a beat poet, a
 KELL ROBERTSON WITH JOE WEST, KENDALL MCCOOK, MITCH RAYES, RICHARD MALCOLM, GEORGIE ANGEL AND PATRICK HOULIHAN 7 pm Monday, July 14 $5 Santa Fe Brewing Company 35 Fire Place 424-9637 |
How did you meet Utah Phillips?
I met Utah in San Francisco years ago with Rosalie Sorrels, his singing partner at the time. He’s a reformed alcoholic, and I’m a perpetual drunk. The two of us walked around each other over the years. He would run into me and say, ‘Hey Kell, you still drinking?’
Utah never diverted from who he was…
No, he was a Wobbly all the way. He clung to those old ideas and I agree with him. He told stories better than anyone I’ve ever seen. He would talk about the old days with the Wobblies, the labor unions, traveling on box cars, about living as a hobo, fighting the cops. It was a time and a place that really happened. He could get really into what he did, which was talking about working people and being poor in America. He was the genuine thing.
You’ve lived in a lot places. Have those regions influenced your writing?
I grew up with poor people. I have an eighth-grade education, that’s it. The rest of it I got on my own, self-taught all the way. I love this country. I’m in the Southwest because I like the people and I love Mexican music. My mother took me to see Hank Williams [Sr.] in Shreveport, La. He dropped the microphone; he was drunk and he just blew everybody away. I looked at him and said, ‘I want to do that.’ And then I heard Dylan Thomas read and I said, ‘I want to do that.’
You think that kind of experience can still be had with young people, with poetry?
I don’t know; I worry about it. I don’t know if it’s possible at all. There’s about a million slam poets and poetry drill teams…I’m not sure if that does it any good. I think it’s something that you have to uncover on your own.
William Faulkner once said about his work, ‘I’m just a farmer who likes to tell stories.’ I’ve read some of your poems and I’m curious if you think people tend to over-think or overanalyze them.
Those stories in the songs and the poems are personal. I did most of those things or at least I knew people who did. Of course, in the back of your head, if you have a sense of language and understand rhetoric, line, meter and all that crap…the poem or the song just comes to you.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
July 4, in Nevada City
I drove from my home in Salt Lake to spend a long relaxing weekend with Joanna, Morrigan and my new adopted home, Nevada City Ca. Normally I drive I80 only because it is faster than US 50. But when I gassed up in Wendover I could not resit the urge to head down 90 to Ely Nevada turn right and drive out US 50. I spent the night in Ely at the Nevada Hotel, thirty five bucks for a room, give me a break what a great deal. I left late Thursday night so when I rolled into Ely at almost midnight a beer some blackjack and a good nights sleep hit the spot. If you have never driven highway 50 put it on your things to do list. It is billed as the loneliest road in America and indeed it is, I passed only a smattering of cars and trucks along the way and because of the lack of traffic the road itself is in great shape and perfect for cruising. I was in a bit of a hurry so I didn't make the usual stop in Eureka for lunch and a visit to the Opera house, maybe next time. I did stop a Shoe Tree. For those of you not familiar with shoe tree it is a huge tree of the North side of the road adorned with shoes hanging form every branch. The story of I heard ( from dad ) was that a young couple ran away to elope and threw their shoes in the tree for good luck. Anybody that knows dad knows t was a much longer story but you get the idea. If any body out there has a different tale please do post it. Highway 50 seems longer than 80 but actually it's only adds 60 miles to the trip which equates to about two hours drive time because the winding nature of the road and the amazing vistas and views along the way.
I got to Nevada City later than normal but in tome to enjoy a tasty bar- b-que chicken dinner With Joanna, my little sister Morrigan, Molly Fisk and Kuddie. We sat around the patio table munched on chicken and of course corn on the cob, after all it was the 4Th, caught up on things and enjoyed the smoke free night. Smoke free nights have become rare in the summer nights of California.
It sure was nice to be back in town with family and friends. Later in the evening we took the shuttle to the fair ground for the fire works show. After the drive it was a long day but one I would have gladly walked to California for.
The next day Ben Pearl and his girl friend Mia drove up from Davis for a visit, Ben sang Sweet Briar at Dad's funeral and has become a good friend since our first meeting in Portland several years back when we were up there for Winterfolk.
The day was topped off with dinner Jordan's house. Joanna and I dined with his wife Susan, daughter Emma and son James and of course Jordan. After a magnificent pasta dinner we sat on the front porch sipped Port and smoked cigars under a faint sliver of moon. It was my first encounter with that end of a cigar but it truly was a special occasion and a fitting tribute.
The night ended and morning came far to quickly. before I knew it I was once again on the road headed for home. The few short days felt like a month and were just what I needed to recharge my batteries.
More later
Duncan
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