Geez Louise! I can't turn on my TV these days without somebody haranguing me about "populism." President Obama's a populist. So's Hilary Clinton. So's Sarah Palin, Joe the Plummer, and now these teabag protesters from last week. I'd happily offer myself up to FOX News right now as the sacrificial lamb of smarmy east-coast liberal elitism if I thought for a second it would get all the talking heads out there to SHUT THE HELL UP.
Populism is a funny thing - it's not good or bad, it just is. I could argue that both Eugene Debs and George Wallace were populists, but it wouldn't tell you anything substantial about either man. (Since this is a music blog, let's amend that: I could argue that both Bruce Springsteen and Ted Nugent are populists. . . don't know that I'd ever put them on the same mixtape, though.) Look, I will spare all of you the excruciating rant that I'm obviously itching to spew. Suffice to say, populism is a label oft misused when attached to people. Or movements. But it's excellent for talking about art, especially when the art in question is music.
I bring this up because the slices runneth over with populist tunes of one stripe or another. What constitutes a populist song is open for interpretation, but we can reach a broad definition by comparing them to the non-populist stuff, of which there's tons. I myself have stood up in Robeson and belted out hard-core party ballads that no one this side of Khrushchev's politburo would ever deem populist. I've already touched on the relative obscurity of certain songs that emerge and disappear with each passing Olympic cycle. And there's a long list of issue-specific folk songs whose topics are so dated that they can't be sung without a solid ten-minute prologue to explain their significance. Let's be clear: populist/non-populist in this case is not code for good/bad. On the contrary, I think it's fantastic when an obscure song becomes part of the Tolland canon and achieves a certain immortality as a result (Two Good Arms is a perfect example). But populist music is an extension of something at the heart of what makes Kinderland so great: context.
Walk onto any college campus and you'll surely trip over young people engaging in some form of progressive activism. To wit: camp does not own a monopoly on iconoclasm. What camp does do is teach young people that by engaging in that activism they are the latest incarnation of an ongoing struggle much larger than themselves. And that the long tradition of fighting for progressive values in this country, while often initiating on the fringes, is ultimately as inherently mainstream as baseball, apple pie, and Born in the U.S.A.
Hold that thought for a minute, and let me hit y'all with the Million Dollar Quartet in 1956 singing Down By the Riverside. The boys in the Quartet never cut so much as a 45 under that particular sobriquet, but that don't mean you ain't never heard of 'em. The short version: Elvis Presley pays a visit to the Sun Records studios (his old stomping grounds) and walks in on a Carl Perkins session, which includes a then-unknown (outside of Memphis, anyway) Jerry Lee Lewis on piano. Johnny Cash shows up later, although some say just to be in the photo (he's definitely not present on this tune). Sam Phillips is genius enough to tape the whole thing, and we're all the better for it.
What's interesting for our purposes here is the set list of that particular jam session: it includes a pretty eclectic mix of pop tunes, traditional arrangements, gospel, and Christmas carols. The point is, these guys recognize a number like Riverside as a standard - a well-known song that everyone can get in on. Maybe when we sing it in camp we imbue it with a different political significance, but bottom line is that it's our standard too, and for the same reasons. I don't want to get all mushy here like Alice and go off on a we're-all-brothers-and-sisters tearjerker. . . that ain't the KassaNostra style. But there's a shared appreciation here that spans any number of cultural and generational divides. This song is traditional, and mainstream, and can be sung with the same passion in Tolland or Memphis or wherever. That, boys and girls, is honest-to-god populism.
Million Dollar Quartet: Down By the Riverside
Here's another for you: Johnny Cash, performing at Madison Square Garden in 1969. Cash was never someone easily pigeonholed, and at the time of this concert he had already begun cultivating his "Man in Black" persona, which would confound everyone's preconceived notions about him. But one moment in particular stands out here. He sings Remember the Alamo, a song that practically gushes patriotic fervor. The song ends, the audience cheers wildly, and then something strange happens. He begins to talk about his experiences in Vietnam, playing for the troops as part of a USO tour. In a mere ninety seconds, Cash stakes out a position on the war more perceptive and nuanced than many on either side of the issue could ever hope to do. Then, as if to underscore the point that a broader consensus is possible, he sings Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream. And the audience, god bless 'em, cheers as loudly as they did for Alamo.
Johnny Cash: Strangest Dream [live]
The recently departed John Updike once wrote, "Being naked approaches being revolutionary; going barefoot is mere populism." And he was right. He was also an uptight prig who wouldn't know a hora from a hootenanny. Somewhere in the middle of all that lies the truth. But I'll trust you to know it when you hear it for yourselves.
FINAL BONUS FEVER: Don't know if I'd ever call Peggy Lee a populist, and I still prefer the Little Willie John original, but there's no way I could ever leave her off this list of classic Fevers. Lee's cover, released on Capitol in 1958, is iconic - far and away the best-known version of the song, and amazingly, even more minimalist than John's take. She wrote all the additional lyrics herself, by the way. This one's for you, Gerol (and for Walter Reuther, of course).
Peggy Lee: Fever
Peace & Vinyl,
The KassaNostra
