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The Sunless Sea

The Controller shrugged his shoulders. “Because it’s old; that’s the chief reason. We haven’t any use for old things here.”
“Even when they’re beautiful?”
“Particularly when they’re beautiful. Beauty’s attractive, and we don’t want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the new ones.”

From The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson, 1951:

Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye.
-Matthew Arnold

Between the sunlit surface waters of the open sea and the hidden hills and valleys of the ocean floor lies the least known region of the sea. These deep, dark waters, with all their mysteries and their unsolved problems, cover a very considerable part of the earth. The whole world ocean extents over about three-fourths of the surface of the globe. If we subtract the shallow areas of the continental shelves and the scattered banks and shoals, where at least the pale ghost of sunlight moves over the underlying bottom, there still remains about half the earth that is covered by miles-deep, lightless water, that has been dark since the world began.

This region has withheld its secrets more obstinately than any other. Man, with all his ingenuity, has been able to venture only to its threshold. Carrying tanks of compressed air, he can swim down to depths of about 300 feet. He can descent about 500 feet wearing a diving helmet and a rubberized suit. Only a few men in all the history of the world have had the experience of descending, alive, beyond the range of visible light. The first to do so were William Beebe and Otis Barton; in the bathysphere, they reached a depth of 3028 feet in the open ocean off Bermuda, in the year 1934. Barton alone, in the summer of 1949, descended to a depth of 4500 feet off California, in a steel sphere of somewhat different design; and in 1953 French divers penetrated depths greater than a mile, existing for several hours in a zone of cold and darkness where the presence of living man had never before been known.

Although only a fortunate few can ever visit the deep sea, the precise instruments of the oceanographer, recording light penetration, pressure, salinity and temperature, have given us the materials with which to reconstruct in imagination these eerie, forbidding regions. Unlike the surface waters, which are sensitive to every gust of wind, which know day and night, respond to the pull of sun and moon, and change as the seasons change, the deep waters are a place where change comes slowly, if at all. Down beyond the reach of the sun’s rays, there is no alternation of light and darkness. There is rather an endless night, as old as the sea itself. For most of its creatures, groping their way endlessly through its black waters, it must be a place of hunger, where food is scarce and hard to find, a shelterless place where there is no sanctuary from ever-present enemies, where one can only move on and on, from birth to death, through the darkness, confined as in a prison to his own particular layer of the sea.

They used to say that nothing could live in the deep sea. It was a belief that must have been easy to accept, for without proof to the contrary, how could anyone conceive of life in such a place?

A century ago the British biologist Edward Forbes wrote: ‘As we descend deeper and deeper into this region, the inhabitants become more and more modified, and fewer and fewer, indicating our approach to an abyss where life is either extinguished or exhibits but a few sparks to mark its lingering presence.’ Yet Forbes urged further exploration of ‘this vast deep-sea region’ to settle forever the question of the existence of life at great depths.

Even then, the evidence was accumulating. Sir John Ross, during his exploration of the arctic seas in 1818, had brought up from a depth of 1000 fathoms mud in which there were worms, ‘thus proving there was animal life in the bed of the ocean notwithstanding the darkness, stillness, silence, and immense pressure produced by more than a mile of superincumbent water.

Then from the surveying ship Bulldog, examining a proposed northern route for a cable from Faroe to Labrador in 1860, came another report. The Bulldog’s sounding line, which at one place had been allowed to lie for some time on the bottom at a depth of 1260 fathoms, came up with 13 starfish clinging to it. Through these starfish, the ships’s naturalist wrote, ‘the deep has sent forth the long coveted message.’ But not all the zoologists of the day were prepared to accept the message. Some doubters asserted that the starfish had ‘convulsively embraced’ the line somewhere on the way back to the surface.

In the same year, 1860, a cable in the Mediterranean was raised for repairs from a depth of 1200 fathoms. It was found to be heavily encrusted with corals and other sessile animals that had attached themselves at an early stage of development and grown to maturity over a period of months or years. There was not the slightest chance that they had become entangled in the cable as it was being raised to the surface.

Then the Challenger, the first ship ever equipped for oceanographic exploration, set out from England in the year 1872 and traced a course around the globe. From bottoms lying under miles of water, from silent deeps carpeted with red clay ooze, and from all the lightless intermediate depths, net-haul after net-haul of strange and fantastic creatures came up and were spilled out on the decks. Poring over the weird beings thus brought up for the first time into the light of day, beings no man had ever seen before, the Challenger scientists realized that life existed even on the deepest floor of the abyss.

The existence of an abundant deep-sea fauna was discovered, probably millions of years ago, by certain whales and also, it now appears, seals. The ancestors of all whales, we know by fossil remains, were land mammals. They must have ben predatory beasts, if we are to judge by their powerful jaws and teeth. Perhaps in their foragins about the deltas of great rivers or around the edges of shallow seas, they discovered the abundance of fish and other marine life and over the centuries formed the habit of following them farther and farther into the sea. Little by little their bodies took on a form more suitable for aquatic life; their hind limbs were reduced to rudiments, which may be discovered in a modern whale by dissection, and the forelimbs were modified into organs for steering and balancing.

Eventually the whales, as though to divide the seas’s food resources among them, became separated into three groups: the plankton-eaters, the fish-eaters, and the squid-eaters. The plankton-eating whales can exist only where there are dense masses of small shrimp or copepods to supply their enormous food requirements. This limits them, except for scattered areas, to arctic and antarctic waters and the high temperature latitudes. Fish-eating whales may find food over a somewhat wider range of ocean, but they are restricted to places where there are enormous populations of schooling fish. The blue water of the tropics and of the open ocean basins offers little to either of these groups. but that immense, square-headed, formidably toothed whale known as the cachalot or sperm whale discovered long ago what men have known for only a short time—that hundreds of fathoms below the almost untenanted surface waters of these regions there is an abundant animal life. The sperm whale has taken these deep waters for his hunting grounds; his quarry is the deep-water population of squids including the giant squid Architeuthis, which lives pelagically at depths of 1500 feet or more. The head of the sperm whale is often marked with long stripes, which consist of a great number of circular scars made by the suckers of the squid. From this evidence we can imagine the battles that go on, in the darkness of the deep water, between these two huge creatures—the sperm whale with its 70-ton bulk, the squid with a body as long as 30 feet, and writhing, grasping arms extending the total length of the animal to perhaps 50 feet.

At first thought it seems a paradox that creatures of such great fragility as the glass sponge and the jellyfish can live under the conditions of immense pressure that prevail in deep water. For creatures at home in the deep sea, however, the saving fact is that the pressure inside their tissues is the same as that without, and as long as this balance is preserved, they are no more inconvenienced by a pressure of a ton or so than we are by ordinary atmospheric pressure. And most abyssal creatures, it must be remembered, live out their whole lives in a comparatively restricted zone, and are never required to adjust themselves to extreme changes of pressure.

But of course there are exceptions, and the real miracle of sea life in relation to great pressure is not the animal that lives its whole life on the bottom, bearing a pressure of perhaps five or six tons, but those that regularly move up and down through hundreds or thousands of feet of vertical change. The small shrimps and other planktonic creatures that descend into deep water during the day are examples. Fish that possess air bladders, on the other hand, are vitally affected by abrupt changes of pressure, as anyone knows who has seen a trawler’s net raised from a hundred fathoms. Apart from the accident of being captured in a net and hauled up through waters of rapidly diminishing pressures, fish may sometimes wander out of the zone to which they are adjusted and find themselves unable to return. Perhaps in their pursuit of food they roam upward to the ceiling of the zone that is theirs, and beyond whose invisible boundary they may not stray without meeting alien and inhospitable conditions. Moving from layer to layer of drifting plankton as they feed, they may pass beyond the boundary. In the lessened pressure of these upper waters the gas enclosed within the air bladder expands. The fish becomes lighter and more buoyant. Perhaps he tries to fight his way down again, opposing the upward lift with all the power of his muscles. If he does not succeed, he ‘falls’ to the surface, injured and dying, for the abrupt release of pressure from without causes distension and rupture of the tissues.

Immense pressure, then, is one of the governing conditions of life in the deep sea; darkness is another. The unrelieved darkness of the deep waters has produced weird and incredible modifications of the abyssal fauna. It is a blackness so divorced from the world of the sunlight that probably only the few who have seen it with their own eyes can visualize it. We know that light fades out rapidly with descent below the surface. The red rays are gone at the end of the first 200 or 300 feet, and with them all the orange and yellow warmth of the sun. Then the greens fade out, and at 1000 feet only a deep dark, brilliant blue is left. In very clear waters the violet rays of the spectrum may penetrate another thousand feet. Beyond this is only the blackness of the deep sea.

In a curious way, the colors of marine animals tend to be related to the zone in which they live. Fishes of the surface waters, like the mackerel and herring, often are blue or green; so are the floats of the Portuguese men-of-war and the azure-tinted wings of the swimming snails. Down below the diatom meadows and the drifting sargassum weed, where the water becomes ever more deeply, brilliantly blue, many creatures are crystal clear. Their glassy, ghostly forms blend with their surroundings and make it easier for them to elude the ever-present, ever-hungry enemy…. At depths greater than 1500 feet, all the fishes are black, deep violet, or brown, but the prawns wear amazing hues of red, scarlet, and purple. Why, no one can say. Since all the red rays are strained out of the water far above this depth, the scarlet raiment of these creatures can only look black to their neighbors.

The deep sea has its stars, and perhaps here and there an eerie and transient equivalent of moonlight, for the mysterious phenomenon of luminescence is displayed by perhaps half of all the fishes that live in dimly lit or darkened waters, and by many of the lower forms as well. Many fishes carry luminous torches that can be turned on or off at will, presumably helping them find or pursue their prey. Others have rows of lights over their bodies, in patterns that vary from species to species and may be a sort of recognition mark or badge by which the bearer can be known as a friend or enemy. The deep-sea squid ejects a spurt of fluid that becomes a luminous cloud, the counterpart of the ‘ink’ of his shallow-water relative…

In their world of darkness, it would seem likely that some of the animals might have become blind, as has happened to some cave fauna. So, indeed, many of them have, compensating for the lack of eyes with marvelously developed feelers and long, slender fins and processes with which they grope their way, like so many blind men with canes, their whole knowledge of friends, enemies, or food coming to them through the sense of touch.

The last traces of plant life are left behind in the thin upper layer of water, for no plant can live below about 600 feet even in very clear water, and few find enough sunlight for their food-manufacturing activities below 200 feet. Since no animal can make its own food, the creatures of the deeper waters live a strange, almost parasitic existence of utter dependence on the upper layers. These hungry carnivores prey fiercely and relentlessly upon each other, yet the whole community is ultimately dependent upon the slow rain of descending food particles from above. The components of this never-ending rain are the dead and dying plants and animals from the surface.

Pressure, darkness, and—we should have added only a few years ago—silence, are the conditions of life in the deep sea. But we know now that the conception of the sea as a silent place is wholly false. Wide experience with hydrophones and other listening devices for the detection of submarines has proved that, around the shore lines of much of the world, there is the extraordinary uproar produced by fishes, shrimps, porpoises and probably other forms not yet identified. There has been little investigation as yet of sound in the deep, offshore areas, but when the crew of the Atlantis lowered a hydrophone into deep water off Bermuda, they recorded strange mewing sounds, shrieks, and ghostly moans, the sources of which have not been traced.

During the Second World War the hydrophone network set up by the United States Navy to protect the entrance to Chesapeake Bay was temporarily made useless when, in the spring of 1942, the speakers at the surface began to give forth, every evening, a sound described as being like ‘a pneumatic drill tearing of pavement.’ The extraneous noises completely masked the sounds of the passage of ships. Eventually it was discovered were the voices of fish known as croakers, which in the spring move into Chesapeake Bay from their offshore wintering grounds. As soon as the noise had been identified and analyzed, it was possible to screen it out with an electric filter, so that one more only the sounds of ships came through the speakers.

Later in the same year, a chorus of croakers was discovered off the pier of the Scripps Institution at La Jolla. Every year from May until late September the evening chorus begins about sunset, and ‘increases gradually to a steady uproar of harsh froggy croaks, with a background of soft drumming. This continues unabated for two to three hours and finally tapers off to individual outbursts at rare intervals.’ The authors of the soft background drumming have not yet been discovered.

Far from being the original home of life, the deep sea has probably been inhabited for a relatively short time. While life was developing and flourishing in the surface waters, along the shores, and perhaps in the rivers and swamps, two immense regions of the earth still forbade invasion by living things. These were the continents and the abyss….

In December 1938, off the southeast tip of Africa, an amazing fish was caught alive in a trawl—a fish that was supposed to have been dead for at least 60 million years…. The fishermen who brought it up in their trawl from a depth of only 40 fathoms realized that this five-foot, bright blue fish, with its large head and strangely shaped scaled, fins, and fail, was different from anything that they had ever caught before, and on their return to port they took it to the nearest museum, where it was christened LatimeriaIt was identified as a coelacanth, or one of an incredibly ancient group of fishes that first appeared in the seas some 300 million years ago. Rocks representing the next 200 million years of earth history yielded fossil coelacanths; then in the Cretaceous, the record of these fishes came to an abrupt end. After 60 million years of mysterious oblivion, one of the group, Latimeria, then appeared before the eyes of the South African fishermen, apparently little changed in structure from its ancient ancestors. But where had these fishes been in the meantime?

The story of the coelacanths did not end in 1938. Believing there must be other such fish in the sea, an ichthyologist in South Africa, Professor J.L.B. Smith, began a patient search that lasted 14 years before it was successful. Then, in December 1952, a second coelacanth was captured near the island of Anjouan, off the northwestern tip of Madagascar. It differed enough from Latimeria to be placed in a separate genus, but like the first coelacanth known in modern times, it can tell us much of a shadowy chapter in the evolution of living things.

Occasionally a very primitive type of shark, known from its puckered gills as a ‘frillshark,’ is taken in waters between a quarter of a mile and a half a mile down…. The frillshark has many anatomical features similar to those of the ancient sharks that lived 25 to 30 million years ago. It has too many gills and too few dorsal fins for a modern shark, and its teeth, like those of fossil sharks, are three-pronged and briarlike. Some ichthyologists regard it as a relic derived from very ancient shark ancestors that have died out in the upper waters but, through this single species, are still carrying on their struggle for earthly survival, in the quiet of the deep sea.

Possibly there are other such anachronisms lurking down in these regions of which we know so little, but they are likely to be few and scattered. The terms of existence in these deep waters are far too uncompromising to support life unless that life is plastic, molding itself constantly to the harsh conditions, seizing every advantage that makes possible the survival of living protoplasm in a world only a little less hostile than the black reaches of interplanetary space.


The Truth About John Henry

May 1866: the first mixed-race jury in Virginia convenes to indict Jefferson Davis (the trial was never completed). On the same day, a man named John Henry stands trial for burglary.

This one time I went on tour to Colorado. We were gonna go 2016-05-04-16-06-31to California but Fortuna had other plans. Plagued with brake troubles from the minute we left New Orleans, my friend’s van, a beautiful baby blue ’78 Chevy G20, gave a death rattle on I-25 N between Pueblo and Colorado Springs. She decided it wasn’t wise to drive to California without properly functioning brakes, and the tour ended that night after a house show and a fair amount of bourbon.

I went to stay with an old friend in Denver and pretty soon we found ourselves bookshop-hopping down Colfax Avenue in the rain. The third shop had the right vibes: tall stacks, weird knick knacks for sale, and a proprietress who seemed not to have moved from behind her desk in many years. I already had The Man With The Golden Arm under mine when I saw it—Steel Drivin’ Man. John Henry: The Untold Story of an American Legend. Uncorrected Advance Reading Copy, Not For Sale. 

There’s a song my high school sweetheart used to sing.

john-henry-coverJohn Henry was a little boy
Sittin’ on his mammy’s knee
Picked up a hammer in his little right hand
“This hammer’s gonna be the death of me.”

John Henry was a little boy
No bigger than the palm of your hand
By the time that boy was nine years old
He was drivin’ spike like a man.

John Henry said to his shaker,
“You oughta see me swing.
Twelve whole pounds from my hips on down,
And I love to hear that cold steel ring…”

You may have heard the story. John Henry—the Pyrrhic victory of man over machine. John Henry— a swashbuckling freelancer, a workaholic of prodigious size and strength, a flawed hero whose pride brought on his death when he bragged he could beat a steam drill through a mountain. That’s the story that’s been recorded more times than any other in American folk music. Johnny Cash, Bruce Springsteen, you name it.

But it’s not the real story.

In Steel Drivin’ Man Scott Reynolds Nelson pulls off an extraordinary feat of historical detective work—in the Boss himself’s words, “at the crossroads where American myth and reality intersect.” Using song lyrics, census data and sealed prison records sweet-talked from a lady archivist, Nelson solved the ultimate cold case, and the reality is more fascinating than the myth.

Turns out John Henry was a 5’1” 19-year old from New Jersey. Like many northerners he came south in search of opportunity under the short-lived Radical Reconstruction, and like many others he was arrested (for an alleged burglary of one Wiseman’s grocery store) under the black codes, reactionary laws that made a mockery of his newfound citizenship and basically reestablished slavery:

“Enforcement efforts targeted [freed people], especially in and around cities. In some Virginia cities, like Petersburg, the downtown slave pens were reestablished to hold these black ‘vagrants’ until their trials. Men and women without labor contracts could be picked up by police and auctioned off to the highest bidder for three months of labor. Those who tried to escape during their three-month term could be used for an additional three months and be bound with ball and chain. Virginia enabled a ‘special police,’ a resurrection of the old slave patrol; if a white person reported that goods were stolen, [they] were authorized to raid and search black neighborhoods.” (p. 53)

Under the black codes “vagrancy” (not having a white employer; a charge used to arrest blacks well into the 20th century) and an “air of satisfaction” were punishable crimes. Being inside someone’s house without proof of an invitation was ruled evidence of burglary. Blacks were not allowed to testify against whites in court—meaning John Henry could not defend himself in his own trial. And so on.

In the months following John Henry’s arrest there was tremendous dispute over jurisdiction in Southern states (that’s a whole ‘nother story). In 1866 Congress passed the Civil Rights Act, but crafty racists at every level of the justice system found ways around such things:

“The rules of evidence under Virginia’s laws were now suspect, and capable of federal review…. John Henry’s alleged burglary could only be a felony if he had taken more than $20 worth of goods. The trouble was, no one could have walked out of Wiseman’s store with $20 worth of merchandise…. If the crime was a misdemeanor [the Judge] would have no business trying it in a circuit court…. To find John Henry guilty of a felony the prosecutor had to change the store into a house and charge John Henry with housebreaking. Thus, the prosecutor had the court clerk cross out ‘burglary’ on the indictment and replace the charge with ‘housebreaking and larceny’…. City directories, tax rolls, and census rolls show that Wiseman’s only building on his land was a grocery…. So the judge gave [the prosecutor] time to gather more evidence [and] ordered the trial ‘continued until the next term at the Defendant’s cost.’ ”  (p. 56)

After sitting in jail for six more months awaiting the circuit judge’s return, with no friends and no hope of a fair trial, John was sentenced to 10 years at the Virginia Penitentiary.

“The federal government had invalidated special police raids and limits to black testimony. But the whipping post and ten-year sentences for minor property crimes remained in force. In that sense the black codes in Virginia never ended.” (p. 63)

Meanwhile, a guy named C.P. Huntington convinced the military governor to hand over the incomplete railroads, while leaving all contracted debt to the state of Virginia, crippling state finances for years (sounds oddly familiar). The key to connecting the southeastern seaboard with the Ohio River Valley, and controlling the flow of goods between them, lay in blasting through the ancient Allegheny Mountains. Only problem? Labor. Major bottleneck in hammering through granite.


Luckily for Huntington, at the same time he needed cheap labor, his friends running the penal system faced prison overcrowding from years of converting misdemeanors to felonies and throwing free black people in jail (still sounding oddly familiar).

Thus began the convict leasing system that in many respects survives to this day. Thousands of men were leased to the railroads and other projects. John Henry, prisoner #497, was leased out to the C&O in 1868, on December 1. 25 cents per prisoner, per day.

There was, in fact, a short period of time when hammer teams and steam drills worked side by side. Nelson uses company records to show the Lewis tunnel in Virginia is the one where John Henry must have met his death, not the Big Bend tunnel in West Virginia, as is commonly believed.


“Despite the seemingly heroic tale of John Henry’s death, he was just one of many convicts who died with their hammers in their hands. The Virginia Penitentiary workers died at the rate of approximately 10 percent per year through the entire decade of the 1870s. Even after the survivors were transferred back to the relatively safer work of constructing the James River and Kanawha Canal near Richmond, they continued to die, their lungs still filled with the silica dust they had inhaled in the tunnel. As early as 1880 most of the convicts who worked on the tunnel would have been gone.” (p. 89)

Did you know track-liners were the first to use the term “rock and roll?” They always worked in pairs. Rock was for the hammer blow, roll was for the man who adjusted the drill between blows. Track-liners built on the tradition of enslaved people in singing work songs that were literally tools of survival: keep the rhythm or be worked to death.

So the real song of John Henry was no lively ballad at all. The line about “sitting on his mammy’s knee” comes from Welsh miners. The real song of John Henry was a work song—a warning. It was a way of remembering the truth, of mourning and hoping at once.

This old hammer, huhrailroad-crew
Killed John Henry
Killed my brother, huh
Won’t kill me

Take this hammer, huh
Hammer to the captain
Tell him I’m gone, huh
Tell him I’m gone

This old hammer, huh
Killed John Henry
Killed my brother, huh
Won’t kill me.

The real life of John Henry embodies so much of what’s shoved under the rug in our collective memory—the ghost of slavery, the backlash to progress, the bloody trail of money, labor and law. It’s not a pretty story, like the myth, but it’s ours.

“Radical Reconstruction had briefly promised to make the South into something other than a plantation society dominated by planters. While John Henry worked…[at] the Lewis Tunnel, his brothers and sisters had made dramatic plans to change the South. For the first time, black men had elected their own representatives to the state legislature and to Congress….

For former slaves, in and out of the legislature, the convict lease system held a particular terror. Workers in chains, abused by guards, threatened with rifles: All were chilling reminders of slavery days. In the Virginia Assembly one afternoon in 1873 William Gilliam, a black legislator from Prince George County [where John Henry was arrested] stood up to describe the terrors of the whipping post and asked if the commonwealth could stand such a stain on its reputation. The entire hall grew quiet. Reconstruction was a revolutionary time. Black men served on juries, voted, built their own churches, made their marriages legal, used the court system, and lived their lives as national citizens. They held onto some of these rights, but were stripped of others before John Henry had even entered the Lewis Tunnel.

In 1867 a group of capitalist adventurers like C.P. Huntington, men with tight connections to the War Department, acquired, for nearly nothing, most of the state-supported railway systems in the South…. White Democrats took over the statehouses from black and white Unionists, calling the trade a fair one: loss of all Southern state railroads for planters’ return to power.

….Traces of the bargain were visible everywhere. A newly Redeemed South became home to the first national, multidivisional corporations in the world: the Southern Railway, the Norfolk & Western, and the Chesapeake & Ohio…. The new corporations lay at the spine of the South, serving the region’s imperial centers. Critics called the new railway system “the Octopus.”

At first, Democrats praised the railways, but every trade costs something: While the railway systems blossomed, Southern states withered on the vine…. Public schools, most erected after the war, were quickly impoverished…. Every state institution shrank to pay the railroad debt and keep state taxes low, pulling black and white Southerners in a downward spiral. Penitentiaries filled to the bursting point.

…While the C&O board told investors and bondholders that the line would increase through traffic to the West, Huntington, his board members and railway contractors quietly bought up coal lands to resell at a steep markup to private mining companies. With the mountains punctured, West Virginia could be mined for its burnable wealth. As early as 1875, little chunks of the state entered coal cars, bit by bit. They were bound, like the railway passengers who heard about John Henry’s death, for the East and the West.” (pp. 99-101)

For Your Listening Pleasure: Bootlegs From The Canada-Louisiana Border

I knew a guy who told me his life plan over whiskey. Well, more than one, actually. But this is the story of Duff Thompson.

Plan: move to the city, get a band together, teach them his songs, and skip town. Then start all over again: new city, new band, another escape. Let his music play on long after he’s gone, and never take the credit. Rinse, wash, repeat.

He was the drummer and I the guitarist/backup singer in a little doo-wop country blues outfit in New Orleans. At the time he was living in his van outside a friend’s house. There’s large grassy area between the house and the levee, semi-protected by the tallest trees around, separated just barely from the moods of the Mississippi. Duff (not his real name—not on the best terms with Homeland Security) and a bunch of other undocumented Canadians camped out there, playing stringed instruments, recording on reel-to-reels, and refusing to eat spicy foods. They called it New Canada. He got a band together and recorded them live.

Well he’s still in New Orleans, so I don’t know how much of anything he said to me was true (sensing a pattern). But in the spirit of Duff’s plan, and because he doesn’t have a cell phone, I’ve chosen to upload a burned CD of 5 songs and publish them here without his permission, so that the wide, wide world of N.S.H. readers can enjoy his beautiful music.


He’s a little bit like a sleepy Elvis Costello who lucid-dreams about mashed potatoes, or a funnier Roy Orbison who wears flip flops and smokes too many cigarettes, or maybe a Canadian Doug Sahm-style spirit guide for country soul children in troubled times.

Whatever it is, it’s one of a kind.

My mashed potatoes fell on the linoleum
And I spilled my water on my last piece of toast
I just want a perfect piece of something
But it’s you I want the most


Studs & The Greatest

I hear it’s better late than never.

Thanks to WFMT Chicago & The Studs Terkel Radio Archive, you can now hear two absolute all-star American heroes—oral historian with the heart of gold, Studs Terkel, and the one and only fighter-poet Muhammad Ali—hashing it out on the radio in 1975. As per usual Studs, the interview sounds more like a conversation between friends, zigging and zagging with a fair share of giggles. And as per usual Ali, a sharp social commentary is woven from beautiful wordplay, an informed hope, and a wicked sense of humor.

Billie Holiday sets the mood:

Them that’s got shall have
Them that’s not shall lose
So the Bible says
And it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that’s got his own
That’s got his own

Right now the full Studs archive is available here and it’s an absolute gold mine. We’re talking Rosa Parks, Hunter S. Thompson, James Earl Jones, the SNCC, Florence Scala, Oliver Sacks, Anais Nin, Sydney Poitier, Buckminster Fuller, Ralph Ellison, Jacques Cousteau, and many more legends, as well as unknown, everyday people speaking frankly about the times.

If you’re half as inspired by these two men as I am, this interview will wake you up. Ali’s words about the underdogs’ ability to unite could not be more relevant in 2016. Listen to Studs & The Greatest being humans; talking, laughing and listening to each other as the train goes by and the wind picks up, then quiets down.

Enjoy ❤

“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.” —Muhammad Ali

“I want, of course, peace, grace, and beauty. How do you do that? You work for it.” —Studs Terkel

“Use it or lose it.” —Unknown

More Dangerous Than 1000 Rioters: A Fireside Chat with Freddy Martinez, Director of Lucy Parsons Labs (LISTEN)

Who is Lucy Parsons? In the 1920’s the Chicago Police Department called her “more dangerous than a thousand rioters.” She was a writer, orator and activist who came north from Texas under threat of the Klan for her interracial marriage and involvement in the rebellious activity of registering black people to vote. Lucy’s better known as the wife of Albert Parsons, one of seven men executed by the state of Illinois in the infamous Haymarket Affair (see: suppression, surveillance, eight-hour work day). According to historian Studs Terkel, Lucy spent the rest of her life dogged by police, frequently arrested for public speaking, and a live speech from Lucy Parsons was as rare as it was brilliant.

“Governments never lead—they follow progress. When the prison, stake or scaffold can no longer silence the voice of the protesting minority, progress moves on a step—but not until then.”
–Lucy Parsons, pamphlet printed 1890’s, Chicago

In 1942 Lucy tragically perished in a house fire. When her executors arrived for her books, letters and manuscripts, her life’s work had already been seized by the CPD and handed over to the FBI, never to be seen again. Let’s just say she never made the history books.

Fast forward 75 years.

We the people have the tools to collect, analyze, and disseminate information on a scale never seen before. Good news is, the data actually supports the “bad apple” theory that a few cops are committing the vast majority of abuses of power. Bad news is, they’re still on the beat.

From 2004 to 2014 the CPD spent over half a billion on settlements and legal fees related to citizens’ complaints against officers—about the yearly budget of Chicago Public Schools. From March 2011 to September 2015 less than 2% of complaints resulted in any disciplinary action. Meanwhile, the burden of proof lies on the citizen to remember detailed information such as name and badge number—from March 2011 to March 2015 28% of misconduct complaints, totaling 4,000, were immediately dropped because the complainant couldn’t remember the name of the officer.

Freddy Martinez, co-founder and director of Lucy Parsons Labs, hopes to solve this problem. Born and raised in Chicago, Freddy works a full-time job and develops for LPL, a 10-12 member collective nonprofit, in his free time. Founded in 2015, the group is already having an impact on police accountability. Their investigation into civil asset forfeiture funds, and the secret surveillance budget they’re funneled into, is making waves with even the most jaded of civil servants—Chicago city aldermen. They’ve got a secure drop for whistleblowers to upload files. Freddy also successfully sued the CPD to release records on their use of covert cell phone trackers, known as Stingrays.

I sat down with Freddy to ask about OpenOversight, LPL’s new web tool for police identification, which launched yesterday in beta on the world-wide web. OpenOversight is a place for people to file and access complaints, information, and pictures of police officers (all publicly available information); an audacious attempt to bypass institutional barriers to empowering complainants, and one sure to ruffle some feathers.

Listen to me & Freddy talk oversight, origins, the CPD, cyber-security for dummies, the role of beer in the revolution, and the importance of getting sued:

“Oh Misery, I have drunk thy cup of sorrow to its dregs, and I am still a rebel.” 
–Lucy Parsons

Bob Dylan Is Trolling Us

First of all, congratulations Bobby D on winning the Nobel Prize in Literature, and thank you for getting the Beatles high. You changed the game on words in music forever. You also wrote songs that helped inspire white people to join the civil rights movement, question authority, and wear dark sunglasses.

I just found this pretty awesome recording of Studs Terkel, a personal hero, interviewing Bob in the spring of 1963 on WFMT Chicago. The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan was yet to be released, so most listeners had no idea who the kid was. Studs is awkward and awed at times, but does a great job. He predicts A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall will be a classic, Bob sings it. And it seems like Bob really opens up, touching on the meanings of songs, his childhood friendships, and the time he saw Woody perform in Burbank, California, at age ten.

BUT WAIT. Bob Dylan was ten in the summer of 1951, when Woody Guthrie was still living on Mermaid Avenue in NYC, suffering from (alcoholism, schizophrenia, and) the onset of Huntington’s disease, beginning to lose his motor skills. He didn’t return to California until 1952, when he moved into a shack on the property of the Theatricum Botanicum, near Topanga Canyon.

Is Bob Dylan messing with my man Studs? He’s sure trying. In the interview you can hear Bob awkwardly switching between different American dialects; “knowed” one sentence, “knew” the next. Even before becoming famous he seems predisposed to trolling reporters and perpetuating myths about himself—he’s just not quite so good at it yet.

What’s the point of all this? Bob Dylan is the ultimate unreliable narrator (next to Neitzsche). When Bob Dylan says “Rock and Roll Is Dead,” he doesn’t know if it’s true. He lies like a landlord in a shakedown, and that’s saying something.

A lot of people have written about Dylan and I won’t try to analyze his motivations here. We have evidence of the guy showing real faith in people to change how they think. We also have evidence of him rejecting, even despising, the people who swallow his words without chewing. No one can say if he hopes or hoped you see past him. Past the cynicism and wordplay. But, I hope you do.

I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
Been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
A-gonna fall