This song is a reference to a Carson McCuller's story, or rather, its epilogue. The men in the title are in a chain gang. This is a group of prisoners usually made to do road work as part of their sentences. To prevent their escape on the road, they are chained together at the ankle. Like men working on railroad or any other menial, repetitive, rhythmic task, they often sing; the Sam Cooke song "Chain Gang" referred to such a system as late as 1960, and there are chain gangs in the 1967 movie Cool Hand Luke and 1969's Take the Money and Run.
We don't start with the chain gang, but with the town they work near. "Where I'm from," the speaker begins, "there's poverty/ All kinds of inequality. Nobody comes here, nobody leaves." So, not your typical tourism hot spot.
In fact, the local prison seems to be the main, um, industry. The "whipping report," which one assumes is an official record of their punishments, is on display "in the library," perhaps one of the few public buildings in town aside from city hall and the schoolhouse.
Now, we meet the chain gang. First, you "hear one voice start singing," accompanied by their instruments, "twelve picks... ringing... in the dirt." One voice, but twelve picks? Oh, they all join in: "Twelve mortal men in a song of liberty."
Why is it important to note that they are mortal? Of course they are; all men are. Perhaps this is to contrast them with an immortal being-- Jesus had 12 apostles, all mortal men. Or perhaps this is to highlight the amazement that they sing-- they are chained, imprisoned, and doomed... yet they sing!
And of "liberty," yet! And both "ecstasy and fear." Fear is understandable, and even hope for liberty, but how are men in such straits to be in ecstasy? Perhaps it is the music, the joy of being outside, the camaraderie of their fellow inmates, even the adrenaline rush that comes from physical labor.
The song closes with a vision, a dream, a wish: "In my heart, I see a crowd/ A thousand souls marching proud." It does not say what their purpose is, what they march for, but "everyone [is] gathered," and "each one is loved."
The song has only three verses. The first is about a hopeless, silent town of free people. The second is about a hopeful, singing gang of chained people. The third imagines a group that is not only free, but "chained" by a common purpose, and loved. The best of both worlds.
Next Song: Harper Lee
Showing posts with label poverty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poverty. Show all posts
Monday, January 23, 2017
Monday, July 18, 2016
New York is a Woman
So many songwriters have written odes to New York City, it would be pointless to try to list them all. But this is an interesting take-- if (especially for Vega) it's a very conventionally written song, even with its clever use of internal rhyme.
What's interesting is that it likens the city to a, as it says in the title, a woman. The woman is, of course, a New Yorker. She is, at least "from the 27th floor," glamorous in that film noir, "late-night TV" kind of way: like a femme fatale, she "spread herself before you... undressed" seductively, flashing her "bangles and spangles and stars." This refers to both the twinkling lights and sequins of the nightlife scene and "stars" in the sense of "celebrities."
The listener was so overwhelmed and excited, he had to descend in an elevator and "go cruising all the bars."
And who are "you" in the song? A "suburban boy here for your first time." This is also a double entendre; yes, for the literal first time visit, but also (New York is a woman, remember) here to lose some of your virginity and innocence. You are here on a business trip, but you decided to stay for Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday, to experience the mad whirl of the city for yourself: "You were startled by her beauty and her crime." (This line also gives the entire album its title.)
Speaking of "crime," the city's seedier side is not necessarily a "turn-off." But aside from the seedy, there is the sad. New York is famous for its opulent depravity, but also its obvious deprivation: "Look down and see her ruined places." And, aside from poverty, there has been terrorism: "smoke and ash still rising to the sky" could refer to the attacks of 9/11, which too place in 2001, and while this album was released in 2007, some wounds never heal.
But that's the dichotomy that makes New York so fascinating. There is a reason so many songs have been written about New York and not Dubuque, Iowa (no offense... but I have been there a few times, so I know). As Vega puts it, it's her "her steam and steel"-- the hot, ephemeral aspects and the cold, hard ones.
This endlessly changing face is a major reason New York is so enthralling. You feel this passion "endlessly," even "desperately."
Even whirlwind weekends must wind down, though. "She's happy you're here, but when you disappear/ She won't know that you're gone to say goodbye."
Why? Well, New York is the most populous city in North America.* And to her, well, "You're just another guy." She's seen them come and go. "If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere," according to another New York song... but some don't make it there.
And even the ones who stick around don't make much of a lasting impression. She's a great weekend fling, but you're not one in a million, dude. And even if you are... well, to make it there, you've got to be one in eight million.
New York is there for everyone, but she belongs to no one. I have been there a few times, so I know.
Next Song: Pornographer's Dream
*(but not in "the Americas" altogether-- Mexico City and even Sao Paulo, Brazil have more people.)
What's interesting is that it likens the city to a, as it says in the title, a woman. The woman is, of course, a New Yorker. She is, at least "from the 27th floor," glamorous in that film noir, "late-night TV" kind of way: like a femme fatale, she "spread herself before you... undressed" seductively, flashing her "bangles and spangles and stars." This refers to both the twinkling lights and sequins of the nightlife scene and "stars" in the sense of "celebrities."
The listener was so overwhelmed and excited, he had to descend in an elevator and "go cruising all the bars."
And who are "you" in the song? A "suburban boy here for your first time." This is also a double entendre; yes, for the literal first time visit, but also (New York is a woman, remember) here to lose some of your virginity and innocence. You are here on a business trip, but you decided to stay for Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday, to experience the mad whirl of the city for yourself: "You were startled by her beauty and her crime." (This line also gives the entire album its title.)
Speaking of "crime," the city's seedier side is not necessarily a "turn-off." But aside from the seedy, there is the sad. New York is famous for its opulent depravity, but also its obvious deprivation: "Look down and see her ruined places." And, aside from poverty, there has been terrorism: "smoke and ash still rising to the sky" could refer to the attacks of 9/11, which too place in 2001, and while this album was released in 2007, some wounds never heal.
But that's the dichotomy that makes New York so fascinating. There is a reason so many songs have been written about New York and not Dubuque, Iowa (no offense... but I have been there a few times, so I know). As Vega puts it, it's her "her steam and steel"-- the hot, ephemeral aspects and the cold, hard ones.
This endlessly changing face is a major reason New York is so enthralling. You feel this passion "endlessly," even "desperately."
Even whirlwind weekends must wind down, though. "She's happy you're here, but when you disappear/ She won't know that you're gone to say goodbye."
Why? Well, New York is the most populous city in North America.* And to her, well, "You're just another guy." She's seen them come and go. "If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere," according to another New York song... but some don't make it there.
And even the ones who stick around don't make much of a lasting impression. She's a great weekend fling, but you're not one in a million, dude. And even if you are... well, to make it there, you've got to be one in eight million.
New York is there for everyone, but she belongs to no one. I have been there a few times, so I know.
Next Song: Pornographer's Dream
*(but not in "the Americas" altogether-- Mexico City and even Sao Paulo, Brazil have more people.)
Monday, June 27, 2016
St. Clare
Clare was an Italian saint, a prioress of the Franciscan Order. She dedicated her life to prayer and poverty. In fact, her following was known as the Order of the Poor Ladies, or just the Poor Clares. They were also monastic and preferred silence and hard work; they traveled little.
Ironically, she is the patron saint of goldsmiths and gilders, of embroiderers and needle-workers... and television. (Also: good weather, eye disease, and laundry. Obviously, it was eye disease first, then TV; one wonders if this wasn't a wry commentary on TV itself.)
Evidently, the song is about a woman who has left where she is to visit her home. To "keep her safe/ until she returns", a candle is lit and "that saint"-- which we only learn is Clare from the title-- is called upon for sacred protection.
We see "plaster and paint/ holding the fire." Perhaps this is a candlestick cast to resemble Clare, whose hands are positioned to hold the candle itself. She is described as "a poor woman's saint."
Yet, she "holds all man's desire." Well, she is holding a candle. Perhaps it symbolizes what people want-- light, warmth, tranquility. "Desire" doesn't have to mean sexual desire, does it?
Then why say she is a "woman's" saint, and then discuss a "man's" wants? Why not say "all our desire," meaning all of humanity's wants? Something about this woman-- this sacred, silent Clare-- is desirable, it seems.
The woman who left is now called a "bold little bird." She is told to "fly away home." This is a reference to the nursery rhyme "Ladybug, ladybug/ Fly away home." As ladybugs are also called "ladybird beetles," some have misheard the rhyme to be about an actual bird, not a bug.
In any case, she left here, and is going "away" there. But there is "home," so she is returning there, yes? And then she will "return" to here, we hope, where our candle burns for her.
The speaker wishes she could have accompanied her to smooth the way: "Could I but ride herd/ On the wind and the foam." From "foam," we know the woman is traveling over the sea (as in "oceans/ White with foam" from "God Bless America.") The speaker wishes she could have ridden herd, or been in control of, the waves on that sea, so as to make this woman's sea-path as smooth as possible.
It is this travelling woman's willingness to travel that makes her desirable. After all, the "souls/ That curl by the fire" like a bunch of homebodies will "never know/ All man's desire." But she travels away from the hearth.
Now it is "spring," which implies the earlier part of the song took place in the winter, a bad time for sea travel. This explains why they were so worried about her, and why they were curled by the fire themselves.
It is early enough for the "snow" to "melt," the "stream" to unfreeze and run, and even "green" things like the water-dwelling vegetable "watercress" to grow. But it is still "cold."
Evidently, out travelling woman made it to dry land. She is shown "barefoot" and "cold," and standing or sitting "by the side of the road" now. She is "holding" both "a lyre," or small harp, and "all man's desire."
Why she had to go "home" to do this is unclear. Is she waiting for a ride to take her to her family's house? Is she lost? Or even shipwrecked on the wrong shore? We aren't told.
The lyre is obviously a symbol of music itself, and of poetry. It is associated with poets like King David and the god Apollo.
So, before, it was a "fire," and now a "lyre" that can "hold all man's desire." Perhaps this shows evolution. Early people craved the heat and protection of the fire, and learned of its ability to help cook food and make pots and tools. Later, when these basic needs were conquered, man could turn his desire to finer things, like the arts.
The song ends as it began. The implication is that the woman has not yet returned. The speaker awaits her still, praying for the saint's intervention and keeping the candle lit for her. (The only difference is that we now know it is a "white" candle, if that is significant.)
People go home to visit all the time, then come back to the place they now dwell. They usually travel in good weather if it can be helped, so we may assume that this woman's need to go "home" was urgent. Yet, once she has arrived on her native shore, she seems in no hurry to make it all the way from the port to her destination point. Or has she been home, and is now on her way back to us?
While it is difficult to even understand the sequence of events being described, it is harder still to understand what is being said here.
It seems odd to talk about saints, and women too poor to afford shoes, being ones who hold "all man's desire." Whether "man" means male people or all people, surely many people desire more-- or at least other-- than what it is these women offer, which is enlightenment and piety.
What about the things Clare herself is patron of? Don't people "desire" gold, and fine embroidery, and television? I'm sorry, but the statistics are pretty clear-- people want good reception as much as they want godly redemption.
Perhaps we are reading too much into the song. Perhaps the imagery is merely impressionistic. It is very pretty, sparse in its arrangements as an Order of the Poor Ladies' cloister.
Or perhaps one needs to know more about Suzanne Vega, or Saint Clare, to truly understand it.
Next Song: Zephyr and I
Ironically, she is the patron saint of goldsmiths and gilders, of embroiderers and needle-workers... and television. (Also: good weather, eye disease, and laundry. Obviously, it was eye disease first, then TV; one wonders if this wasn't a wry commentary on TV itself.)
Evidently, the song is about a woman who has left where she is to visit her home. To "keep her safe/ until she returns", a candle is lit and "that saint"-- which we only learn is Clare from the title-- is called upon for sacred protection.
We see "plaster and paint/ holding the fire." Perhaps this is a candlestick cast to resemble Clare, whose hands are positioned to hold the candle itself. She is described as "a poor woman's saint."
Yet, she "holds all man's desire." Well, she is holding a candle. Perhaps it symbolizes what people want-- light, warmth, tranquility. "Desire" doesn't have to mean sexual desire, does it?
Then why say she is a "woman's" saint, and then discuss a "man's" wants? Why not say "all our desire," meaning all of humanity's wants? Something about this woman-- this sacred, silent Clare-- is desirable, it seems.
The woman who left is now called a "bold little bird." She is told to "fly away home." This is a reference to the nursery rhyme "Ladybug, ladybug/ Fly away home." As ladybugs are also called "ladybird beetles," some have misheard the rhyme to be about an actual bird, not a bug.
In any case, she left here, and is going "away" there. But there is "home," so she is returning there, yes? And then she will "return" to here, we hope, where our candle burns for her.
The speaker wishes she could have accompanied her to smooth the way: "Could I but ride herd/ On the wind and the foam." From "foam," we know the woman is traveling over the sea (as in "oceans/ White with foam" from "God Bless America.") The speaker wishes she could have ridden herd, or been in control of, the waves on that sea, so as to make this woman's sea-path as smooth as possible.
It is this travelling woman's willingness to travel that makes her desirable. After all, the "souls/ That curl by the fire" like a bunch of homebodies will "never know/ All man's desire." But she travels away from the hearth.
Now it is "spring," which implies the earlier part of the song took place in the winter, a bad time for sea travel. This explains why they were so worried about her, and why they were curled by the fire themselves.
It is early enough for the "snow" to "melt," the "stream" to unfreeze and run, and even "green" things like the water-dwelling vegetable "watercress" to grow. But it is still "cold."
Evidently, out travelling woman made it to dry land. She is shown "barefoot" and "cold," and standing or sitting "by the side of the road" now. She is "holding" both "a lyre," or small harp, and "all man's desire."
Why she had to go "home" to do this is unclear. Is she waiting for a ride to take her to her family's house? Is she lost? Or even shipwrecked on the wrong shore? We aren't told.
The lyre is obviously a symbol of music itself, and of poetry. It is associated with poets like King David and the god Apollo.
So, before, it was a "fire," and now a "lyre" that can "hold all man's desire." Perhaps this shows evolution. Early people craved the heat and protection of the fire, and learned of its ability to help cook food and make pots and tools. Later, when these basic needs were conquered, man could turn his desire to finer things, like the arts.
The song ends as it began. The implication is that the woman has not yet returned. The speaker awaits her still, praying for the saint's intervention and keeping the candle lit for her. (The only difference is that we now know it is a "white" candle, if that is significant.)
People go home to visit all the time, then come back to the place they now dwell. They usually travel in good weather if it can be helped, so we may assume that this woman's need to go "home" was urgent. Yet, once she has arrived on her native shore, she seems in no hurry to make it all the way from the port to her destination point. Or has she been home, and is now on her way back to us?
While it is difficult to even understand the sequence of events being described, it is harder still to understand what is being said here.
It seems odd to talk about saints, and women too poor to afford shoes, being ones who hold "all man's desire." Whether "man" means male people or all people, surely many people desire more-- or at least other-- than what it is these women offer, which is enlightenment and piety.
What about the things Clare herself is patron of? Don't people "desire" gold, and fine embroidery, and television? I'm sorry, but the statistics are pretty clear-- people want good reception as much as they want godly redemption.
Perhaps we are reading too much into the song. Perhaps the imagery is merely impressionistic. It is very pretty, sparse in its arrangements as an Order of the Poor Ladies' cloister.
Or perhaps one needs to know more about Suzanne Vega, or Saint Clare, to truly understand it.
Next Song: Zephyr and I
Monday, June 6, 2016
Harbor Song
An imagined/remembered relationship with an actual person, not unlike "Some Journey" or other of her works.
In this story, the man is "rich," and lives in a home with "golden curtains."' The woman (the speaker herself) is desperate and has "no place to go." She asks for shelter, and he is... ambiguous.
Once he does take her in, she realizes that, wealth aside, her host is no prize. He is a huge drinker and a huge-er smoker, plus he cannot "be true" in the sense of romantic fidelity. In fact, he actively pursues other... pursuits.
"But still I feel the wind in from the harbor," she says, and longs for him. Wind is aimless and boundless. A harbor is a place of shelter for ships, but temporary shelter by design and designation. This harbor wind recalls her unstable life before.
So the thought of returning to her meandering life is frightening, and she longs for the stability her rich boor of a host provides, which she confuses with an attraction with the man himself... who is, ironically, a free spirit who is often absent from his palatial manse, leaving her behind.
She imagines him lying in state, next. She is not standing beside his casket, as a wife would, but as just another figure "in line" to pay her respects. She still finds him "handsome" and calls him "dear." But even physical attraction, "longing" and "dear" fall short of "love."
It's possible that the funeral is a memory, not a dream like the rich-man scenario. We learn this from the last verse, in which the woman travels-- with direction and purpose, not aimless, fearful wandering-- she comes upon "harbors." There, she smells the "salt" of the sea and the "bay rum" (a concoction used in men's grooming, made from actual rum)...
...and also smells his "ghost." Which implies he really did live, and then really did die.
The last line is telling. In her dream of him being wealthy and her hopeless, he pursued business and pleasure-- leaving from the harbor without her-- while she stayed home, "longing" for him.
But in her memory, he is "beside" her, walking along the harbor shore of various lands. Which implies she has memories of accompanying each other to different ports of call. Travelling together... probably more, since she recalls his scent so clearly.
It is interesting that she did spend time with him, remembers him as an equal, and misses him... but fantasizes about missing him in an entirely different context... with he being powerful and emotionally, financially, and physically distant.
Maybe if he were already distant while he was alive, he would be easier to live without, now.
Next Song: Machine Ballerina
In this story, the man is "rich," and lives in a home with "golden curtains."' The woman (the speaker herself) is desperate and has "no place to go." She asks for shelter, and he is... ambiguous.
Once he does take her in, she realizes that, wealth aside, her host is no prize. He is a huge drinker and a huge-er smoker, plus he cannot "be true" in the sense of romantic fidelity. In fact, he actively pursues other... pursuits.
"But still I feel the wind in from the harbor," she says, and longs for him. Wind is aimless and boundless. A harbor is a place of shelter for ships, but temporary shelter by design and designation. This harbor wind recalls her unstable life before.
So the thought of returning to her meandering life is frightening, and she longs for the stability her rich boor of a host provides, which she confuses with an attraction with the man himself... who is, ironically, a free spirit who is often absent from his palatial manse, leaving her behind.
She imagines him lying in state, next. She is not standing beside his casket, as a wife would, but as just another figure "in line" to pay her respects. She still finds him "handsome" and calls him "dear." But even physical attraction, "longing" and "dear" fall short of "love."
It's possible that the funeral is a memory, not a dream like the rich-man scenario. We learn this from the last verse, in which the woman travels-- with direction and purpose, not aimless, fearful wandering-- she comes upon "harbors." There, she smells the "salt" of the sea and the "bay rum" (a concoction used in men's grooming, made from actual rum)...
...and also smells his "ghost." Which implies he really did live, and then really did die.
The last line is telling. In her dream of him being wealthy and her hopeless, he pursued business and pleasure-- leaving from the harbor without her-- while she stayed home, "longing" for him.
But in her memory, he is "beside" her, walking along the harbor shore of various lands. Which implies she has memories of accompanying each other to different ports of call. Travelling together... probably more, since she recalls his scent so clearly.
It is interesting that she did spend time with him, remembers him as an equal, and misses him... but fantasizes about missing him in an entirely different context... with he being powerful and emotionally, financially, and physically distant.
Maybe if he were already distant while he was alive, he would be easier to live without, now.
Next Song: Machine Ballerina
Monday, May 16, 2016
Last Year's Troubles
This song doesn't seem to need much explanation. Vega contrasts the romanticized way poverty and crime are depicted in Dickens novels (and the movie versions thereof), old ballads, operas, and other entertainments with the poverty and crime of our day, which we see for ourselves and in our news.
"Maybe it's the clothing," she says, "the earrings, the swashbuckling blouses," and the "petticoats." Even their "rags are so very Victorian."
Criminals used to be daring, robbing people on the highway or at sea. Today, a "pirate" is someone who illegally downloads a movie-- hardly a role Erroll Flynn could sink a cutlass into.
Overall, those old problems "shine up so prettily" and "gleam with a luster they don't have today."
Meanwhile, today's homeless "just don't give it their best," she smirks sadly. Also, there seems to be a difference in place as well as time. The above comment is about "the ones here at home." "Here," she repeats, meaning America, "it's just dirty and violent and troubling."
Is there more or less "trouble" now or "last year"? "It would be the same, would be my guess," she concludes.
Which is worse, the threat of debtor's prison for bankruptcy and being hanged for pickpocketing... or the fear of being shot for your sneakers or having to live near a drug den? "Trouble is still trouble," she decides. As for crime, "evil is still evil."
So why are last year's troubles romanticized?
Because everything eventually is. Time softens all tragedy. Conquerors like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun were played for laughs in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Night at the Museum.
Even Hitler is has been a sitcom character already (it was called Heil, Honey, I'm Home, and thankfully it was quickly cancelled. But this year, Netflix launched one called Look Who's Back). And anyone strict about anything-- from grammar to soup-- is called a "Nazi."
Meanwhile, the heroes are played with, too. There is a movie called Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, and a new photo app can put your face on Benjamin Franklin's head.
We romanticize the past. Already, the 1980s victims of AIDS are compared, in the musical Rent, to the Bohemians of La Boheme, which was set in the 1840s. Rap somewhat romanticizes today's urban poverty.
We gave an Oscar and Tonys to a singing Oliver Twist years ago... and this year a rapping Alexander Hamilton looks to sweep the Tonys.
Someday, people will look at today's leaders with the same bemusement. Lord only knows what they will have Barack Obama sing on Broadway in 100 years.
Next Song: Priscilla
"Maybe it's the clothing," she says, "the earrings, the swashbuckling blouses," and the "petticoats." Even their "rags are so very Victorian."
Criminals used to be daring, robbing people on the highway or at sea. Today, a "pirate" is someone who illegally downloads a movie-- hardly a role Erroll Flynn could sink a cutlass into.
Overall, those old problems "shine up so prettily" and "gleam with a luster they don't have today."
Meanwhile, today's homeless "just don't give it their best," she smirks sadly. Also, there seems to be a difference in place as well as time. The above comment is about "the ones here at home." "Here," she repeats, meaning America, "it's just dirty and violent and troubling."
Is there more or less "trouble" now or "last year"? "It would be the same, would be my guess," she concludes.
Which is worse, the threat of debtor's prison for bankruptcy and being hanged for pickpocketing... or the fear of being shot for your sneakers or having to live near a drug den? "Trouble is still trouble," she decides. As for crime, "evil is still evil."
So why are last year's troubles romanticized?
Because everything eventually is. Time softens all tragedy. Conquerors like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun were played for laughs in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Night at the Museum.
Even Hitler is has been a sitcom character already (it was called Heil, Honey, I'm Home, and thankfully it was quickly cancelled. But this year, Netflix launched one called Look Who's Back). And anyone strict about anything-- from grammar to soup-- is called a "Nazi."
Meanwhile, the heroes are played with, too. There is a movie called Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, and a new photo app can put your face on Benjamin Franklin's head.
We romanticize the past. Already, the 1980s victims of AIDS are compared, in the musical Rent, to the Bohemians of La Boheme, which was set in the 1840s. Rap somewhat romanticizes today's urban poverty.
We gave an Oscar and Tonys to a singing Oliver Twist years ago... and this year a rapping Alexander Hamilton looks to sweep the Tonys.
Someday, people will look at today's leaders with the same bemusement. Lord only knows what they will have Barack Obama sing on Broadway in 100 years.
Next Song: Priscilla
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