Saturday, August 16, 2014

And you are the Weaver's bonny




No, that's not Big Daddy from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, though you may be excused for making the comparison. It's Burl Ives, who, surprisingly, starred in a complete turkey of a TV show in the mid-1960s. 




As good an actor as Ives was, and he was very good with the right part, there was something oppressive about him, a little adenoidal contempt in his speaking voice that took something away from his folksy charm. In  his one-and-only, one-season attempt at a TV sitcom, he played one O. K. Crackerby, supposedly the richest man in the world. In the opening credits, he buys a hotel just because it's there. In one sequence he sits in a rocking chair whittling, but you get the feeling he could just as easily stab you in the throat.




In this memorable scene from the intro, he takes one look at his new hotel and commands: "Paint it!" Somebody should have dumped a bucket of whitewash on the whole show.




This is folksy on an endless loop. You can't say the man isn't trying, he does what he can with very weak material, but he did a lot better playing Santa in the Holly Jolly Christmas special. I've tried to describe Ives' voice, which was unique. Not at all what we think a folk voice should be, almost baleful. He excelled at morbid songs like Long Black Veil. (I've also been trying to find one called That's All I Can Remember, just a kick-ass morbid jailhouse execution song). I've always wanted to say about him, "folksy my ass". There was some sort of legend that he got up and walked out of the classroom in school and never came back. Like Bob Dylan, he was singing in front of people at age four. He sang one about the devil's nine questions, an old Child ballad that in actuality has only eight questions in it (maybe to see if you're paying attention?), and the accompaniment consists of two chords, strumming perhaps three strings per chord. At least until all that Little Bitty Tear business, he was a minimalist.




O. K. Crackerby on amphetamines. To be honest, these clips were not very good material for gifs, so I had to play around with the settings. I just liked the hokey name, which sounds almost like a breakfast cereal:  the O. K. is obvious, but Crackerby is remeniscent of cracker barrels and even "crackers", po' white trash who made a killing somewhere. And not hunting possums. (This was, don't forget, the era of the Beverly Hillbillies.)




My favorite of the bunch, a grey square that appears between the end of the scene and the commercial. Probably had more audience appeal than the show. If Burl had been allowed to sing, it might have boosted the ratings, not to mention the quality. Even Andy Griffith pulled out his guitar once in a while.


The Patty Duke Show 1963



Adorable.




Friday, August 15, 2014

Absolutely excruciating! (but not then)

Yoo Hoo, Killed Cock Robin? (Pogo version)

















































































































































The Dancing Pig - My Favorite Silent Film




This is a favorite, one I've posted before, but let's trot it out again, shall we? Well, I'm doing it anyway.

Obviously this is some sort of crude vaudeville act that has been filmed with a still camera. The dancers are almost out of frame for most of it, and a man leaps in to remove chairs and other props, something you don't see in too many movies these days. But the most remarkable feature of this, which of course I have giffed in three speeds (small, medium and large), is the mugging at the end, in which the pig shows off all the technical marvels of his facial features, a tongue that sticks out and waves, nasty-looking fangs, etc. I'm not sure how the guy in the suit managed all this, but you will notice most of it took place during a head shot at the end. Keep your eye on the pig's neck, and you will plainly see hands working the strings and levers. As if it needed to be any creepier.








And now, for your enjoyment and edification, The Director's Cut by Wes Craven, a. k. a. A Nightmare on Pig Street. The fun begins at 3:52!



Who Killed Cock Robin?










Who killed Cock Robin 




"Who killed Cock Robin?"

 "I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."





"Who saw him die?" 

"I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye, I saw him die."





"Who caught his blood?" 

"I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."





"Who'll make the shroud?"

 "I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."





"Who'll dig his grave?"

 "I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave."






"Who'll be the parson?" 

"I," said the Rook,
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."





"Who'll be the clerk?"

 "I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk."





"Who'll carry the link?"

 "I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link."






"Who'll be chief mourner?"

 "I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."





"Who'll carry the coffin?" 

"I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."





"Who'll bear the pall?" 

"We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."




"Who'll sing a psalm?" 

"I," said the Thrush,
As she sat on a bush, "I'll sing a psalm."





"Who'll toll the bell?" 

"I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."





All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin




Poor Cock Robin.


Thursday, August 14, 2014

My beautiful! my beautiful!

'Arab's Farewell to his Horse'



Transcription

Arab's Farewell to his Horse.

PRICE ONE PENNY.

Copies of this popular production can always be had in
the Poet's box




My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery
eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed,
I may not mount on thee again-thou art sold, my Arab
steed.




Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.
The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold-
Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell, thou'rt sold, my steed,
thou'rt sold.
Farewell, these free untired limbs full many a mile must
roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stran-
ger's home.




Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed
prepare-
The silky mane I braided once must be another's care.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont
to be.
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home
again.




Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun
and sky,
Thy master's home, from all of these my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become
less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to
meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check and cheer thy
speed,
Then must I startling wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab
steed.




Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreathes lie, like crested waves, along thy panting
side,
And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant
pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started
vein.




Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no it cannot be-
Thou art so swift yet easy curbed, so gentle yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should
yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee
to return?
Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do,
When thou who wert his all of joy hath vanished from his
view;
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and, through the
gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears,
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft has borne
me on.




And sitting down by that green well I'll pause and sadly
think,
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him
drink.
When last I saw thee drink? Away! the fevered dream is
o'er,
I could not live a day and know that we should meet no
more.




They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger' s power is strong,
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I'd giv'n thee up, who said that thou wert
sold?
'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back their
gold;
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back and scour the distant plains,
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!







Commentary

This ballad begins: 'My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, / With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye'. This broadside was priced at one penny and published on Saturday, 5th June 1869. It was published by the Poet's Box, (probably Glasgow) but the town of publication has been obscured.




Although it is not attributed on the broadside, this poem was written by Caroline Norton (1808-77). Norton was the granddaughter of playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816). Her first published poetry appeared in 1829 and as a result she became a successful magazine editor. She found further fame as a political poet and pamphleteer, but also a certain amount of notoriety when it was alleged that she had been having an affair with the Whig Home Secretary Lord Melbourne. The claims were made by Norton's husband, a Tory who was known to be violent toward her. Norton's unhappy marriage influenced her political activism, which contributed to the Marriage and Law Act of 1857.




The Poet?s Box in Glasgow operated from 1849 to 1911. Matthew Leitch was the proprietor at 6 St. Andrew Lane?s, a narrow street on the south side of Gallowgate, from 1850 to 1858. His son William Munsie Leitch worked at the same address from 1859 to 1865 and at varous addresses in London Street until 1911. Many of the broadsides published by the Glasgow Poet?s Box were dated and some carried advertisements, not just for printed items but also for shoe blacking and ?soap for lovers?! Like the other ?boxes? in Dundee and Edinburgh, the Glasgow one sold love songs, sea shanties, parodies and dialogues. It is not clear what the connection between the different Poet?s Boxes were. They almost certainly sold each other?s sheets. It is known that John Sanderson in Edinburgh often wrote to the Leitches in Glasgow for songs and that later his brother Charles obtained copies of songs from the Dundee Poet?s Box. There was also a Poet?s Box in Belfast from 1846 to 1856 at the address of the printer James Moore, and one in Paisley in the early 1850s owned by William Anderson.




Broadsides are single sheets of paper, printed on one side, to be read unfolded. They carried public information such as proclamations as well as ballads and news of the day. Cheaply available, they were sold on the streets by pedlars and chapmen. Broadsides offer a valuable insight into many aspects of the society they were published in, and the National Library of Scotland holds over 250,000 of them.




BLOGGER'S NOTE. I decided to leave these rather boring notes attached, because? I was so intrigued by? all the? question marks. I suppose they were meant to represent some? other kind of punctuation mark, but I can't quite? figure out which one. My favorite passage is:

Many of the broadsides published by the Glasgow Poet?s Box were dated and some carried advertisements, not just for printed items but also for shoe blacking and ?soap for lovers?! Like the other ?boxes? in Dundee and Edinburgh, the Glasgow one sold love songs, sea shanties, parodies and dialogues


"Soap for lovers?!". These people were obviously well ahead of their time.