Real Revolutionaries Carry a Banjo


I spend a lot of time think­ing about Pete Seeger. I was even think­ing of him the night news of his death flashed on my screen. In the course of work­ing on an excru­ci­at­ing­ly long-term film project on the pol­i­tics of coun­try music, the influ­ence of Pete Seeger aris­es quite often. Part of the the­sis of the film, called Open Coun­try, is that Pete Seeger should be con­sid­ered a founder of coun­try music. Not folk music, mind you, as that has been around for some time. Coun­try music. Nashville, I believe, owes Pete a stat­ue in the cen­ter of town. But I will return to this seem­ing­ly absurd point lat­er.

It is not pos­si­ble to sum up the con­tri­bu­tions of Pete Seeger in this com­men­tary, nor in any arti­cle, anthol­o­gy or book. His con­nec­tion to the labor rebel­lions of the Great Depres­sion and the post-War years, bat­tles with HUAC and the anti-com­mu­nist witch-hunts, par­tic­i­pa­tion in the Civ­il Rights move­ment in the South, agi­ta­tion against the wars in Viet­nam, Cen­tral Amer­i­ca, and the Mid­dle East, build­ing a com­mu­ni­ty effort to clean indus­tri­al water­ways, act­ing against glob­al warming—these are all rich areas where Pete Seeger would have to be includ­ed. To do jus­tice to the lega­cy of Pete Seeger, indeed, one would have to write about every sig­nif­i­cant move­ment for social jus­tice in the Unit­ed States, if not the world, with­in the last 80 years.

With his pass­ing, as I try to take the long view of his life, I am taint­ed not by what I know from books, record­ings and word-of-mouth lega­cy, but by the small per­son­al expe­ri­ences I had of him. Grow­ing up in the 1960s, I had heard a few songs of his in school, sung “Where Have all the Flow­ers Gone” in sum­mer camp and saw him as a dis­tant dot on a stage at anti-war ral­lies. Our fam­i­ly watched the Smoth­ers Broth­ers tele­vi­sion show reli­gious­ly, and was vague­ly aware of his cen­sor­ship bat­tle while “waist deep in the big mud­dy.” But in my tran­si­tion from pro-war patri­ot­ic teenag­er, to peacenik, to mil­i­tant rev­o­lu­tion­ary, Seeger was too much “kum­baya” and not enough “street fight­in’ man.” It wasn’t until the mid sev­en­ties, as I tran­si­tioned into a life in fac­to­ry jobs and labor activism, that I real­ized how pro­found Seeger’s con­tri­bu­tions were. I dis­cov­ered “Talk­ing Union,” a record album of the Seeger-led Almanac Singers, with the labor songs that sit­down strik­ers and fac­to­ry-occu­py­ing indus­tri­al work­ers sang across Amer­i­ca in the 1930s and 1940s. They called them­selves the Almanacs after Lee Hays remarked that “back home in Arkansas farm­ers had only two books in their hous­es: the Bible, to guide and pre­pare them for life in the next world, and the Almanac, to tell them about con­di­tions in this one.” I was sur­prised that I knew many of these songs from the Civ­il Rights move­ment, and dis­cov­ered that they were indeed trans­port­ed by Seeger and oth­ers from Flint and Pitts­burg to Sel­ma and Mont­gomery. Pete believed singing gave peo­ple the strength and resolve to main­tain courage and dig­ni­ty in the face of clubs, mace, jail and vio­lence. “Like a tree stand­ing by the water” was rel­e­vant wher­ev­er your fight. Through­out his life, he brought music to every are­na of pop­u­lar strug­gle. He believed in the pow­er of music. He also believed deeply in the pow­er of indi­vid­u­als to rise above their dai­ly lives and join in a strug­gle for the greater good. Quite sim­ply, he believed in two facets of soci­ety no longer men­tioned in polite com­pa­ny. He believed in “the mass­es” and he also believed in “the work­ing class.”

In the late sev­en­ties, a friend of mine whose father had fought in Spain invit­ed me to a reunion of the Abra­ham Lin­coln Brigade. We entered the dark, wood­en lodge-like old union hall in the East Bay of San Fran­cis­co, to encounter per­haps 50 old­er, some­what griz­zled men sit­ting on fold­ing chairs around tables. Sit­ting casu­al­ly amongst them was a tall, slim Pete Seeger, pluck­ing a ban­jo, and chat­ting ami­ably with his table of mil­i­tary vet­er­ans, those who chose to fight pre­ma­ture­ly against fas­cism. No gen­er­als, politi­cians or Cham­ber of Com­merce peo­ple to thank these vet­er­ans for their ser­vice, just Pete Seeger, who stood lat­er dur­ing the evening and roused them with the songs of their mil­i­tant youth.

Years lat­er, while on a vis­it to the squat­ted com­mu­ni­ty gar­dens of the “Loi­sai­da,” the rem­nants of a once work­ing-class and Nuy­or­i­can Alpha­bet City on the Low­er East Side of Man­hat­tan, I spied the man ahead of me walk­ing with an instru­ment case. As I approached from behind, I could see it was not a gui­tar, but a ban­jo. The man turned into a small pock­et park, and short­ly ahead was a group of per­haps 25 school chil­dren, sit­ting in the park in a semi-cir­cle. It was Pete Seeger, of course, who ser­e­nad­ed the kids of the neigh­bor­hood with children’s songs. I spoke with him after his casu­al per­for­mance, sit­ting in a wood­en gaze­bo in the park, while he packed up his ban­jo. “I try to get out here as often as I can, to play for the chil­dren, and to vis­it the neigh­bor­hood.” He left unac­com­pa­nied, on foot, just an old man and a ban­jo.

Years lat­er I found myself begin­ning research on the pol­i­tics and his­to­ry of coun­try music, which I believe is right­ful­ly the pro­gres­sive voice of the rur­al and work­ing poor, not the right wing, cow­boy hat, pick­up truck lis­ten­ers of Nashville pop. Prepar­ing to exam­ine the long his­to­ry of coun­try music, I was stopped short in the late 1940s-ear­ly 1950s. That was pret­ty much as far back as music called “coun­try” went. Before that, it was called “folk.” All the music we would call “coun­try” today was list­ed on the charts as “folk.” Hank Williams, the stan­dard by which every self-respect­ing coun­try musi­cian holds them­selves (What would Hank do?) con­sid­ered him­self a folk musi­cian. Coun­try music only showed up in the midst of the McCarthyite and HUAC assault on pop­u­lar cul­ture, whose impact is wide­ly known on the film indus­try, some­what known on the tele­vi­sion and radio indus­try, but fair­ly unex­am­ined in the music indus­try. As Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, the Weavers and oth­ers who would dare sing about the strug­gles of poor and work­ing peo­ple were dragged before HUAC and oth­er un-Amer­i­can inves­tiga­tive com­mit­tees, the indus­try read the lyrics on the wall. Their self-preser­va­tion stance was: We don’t do “folk” music, we do “coun­try” music: God, guns and beer, not coal min­ers, share­crop­pers and strik­ers. Almost overnight, the indus­try charts and lists sep­a­rat­ed “folk” from “coun­try,” with Nashville as the home­land of coun­try. Folk music with sus­pect lyrics were mar­gin­al­ized and pulled from the air, while the now safe coun­try music hit the charts. So, coun­try music—that’s Pete’s fault.

As I spent more time on research into coun­try music, I kept being dragged back to folk music, and to the role of Pete Seeger. For the film, I dreamed of inter­view­ing him. But how? After months of ask­ing around, all I could come up with was a PO Box in upstate NY. But he did not know who I was, or any­thing about my inten­tions. Why would he speak with the likes of me? One night I wrote him a let­ter and sent it off to the PO Box, not expect­ing any response. No response came and I quick­ly wrote off the pos­si­bil­i­ty. Then, nine months lat­er I had a voice­mail. “This is Pete Seeger, final­ly got around to open­ing your let­ter. Looks like an inter­est­ing project. Why don’t you give me a call and we’ll set some­thing up.” Then he left his phone num­ber. I imme­di­ate­ly called back and booked a plane for NY.

Pick­ing up a friend and his daugh­ter for tech­ni­cal sup­port, we drove from Brook­lyn up to his house in upstate NY in sub-zero weath­er, nego­ti­at­ing around dirt roads and frozen land­scape. We approached a com­plex of cab­ins at the top of a hill, not know­ing if we’ve reached our des­ti­na­tion or not, when we saw an elder­ly man with a knit cap split­ting wood on the side of the house. Pete, of course. He invit­ed us into his house, where his wife Toshi insist­ed that Pete “build that fire high­er, as it’s freez­ing in here,” so our crew pitched in split­ting and car­ry­ing wood to get the house warmer. We got to roll cam­era and talk for hours, about coun­try music, tra­di­tion­al music, rev­o­lu­tion­ary change. We heard the great sto­ries about writ­ing “Union Maids” with Woody Guthrie in the back room of a union hall in Okla­homa, about shar­ing “We Shall Over­come” with SNCC and oth­er civ­il rights activists, about his involve­ment in orga­niz­ing a com­mu­ni­ty push to clean up the Hud­son, about his opti­mism for the future.

Pete Seeger and Jesse Drew up the Hudson.
Pete Seeger and Jesse Drew up the Hud­son.

It struck me in the months after­wards that Pete Seeger embod­ied two of the most impor­tant char­ac­ter­is­tics I val­ue in a rev­o­lu­tion­ary. He tru­ly believed in the pow­er of ordi­nary peo­ple to act for social change on a mass lev­el. Many today give lip ser­vice to that idea, but Pete real­ly believed it. And why not? In his life­time he was wit­ness to rank-and-file work­ers stand­ing togeth­er and occu­py­ing their fac­to­ry, of com­mu­ni­ties sit­ting in and stand­ing up to bru­tal­ly racist attacks, of stu­dents who put down their books and took over admin­is­tra­tion build­ings, of young peo­ple who blocked trains of muni­tions head­ing for war, of thou­sands of young and old who occu­pied Wall Street. He’s advo­cat­ed for “the lit­tle drops that add up to buck­ets, that become a tidal wave of change.” And he sang for them all. The oth­er valu­able attribute I found in him: his polit­i­cal ideas were lived in his dai­ly life. His gen­eros­i­ty and respect to indi­vid­u­als was gen­uine, not rhetor­i­cal. While inter­view­ing him, I found there was a major film crew from Europe com­ing by the next day. Yet, it was clear my lit­tle pro­duc­tion was as impor­tant to him as that pro­duc­tion was. He remarked that just a few days before, “that fel­low Bruce Spring­steen” was sit­ting in the same chair, ask­ing him sim­i­lar ques­tions. I still had the impres­sion that my sit­ting there was just as impor­tant to him. Pete lived the pol­i­tics he believed in, he built his own house, grew a gar­den, chopped his own wood, was kind to peo­ple, and yet on top of it all still man­aged to change the world. And in the true tra­di­tion of punk rock, “he booked his own damn life” although he may have been many months behind!

In the weeks to come, there will be many eulo­gies to Pete Seeger. Many will down­play and san­i­tize who he was, strip­ping his pol­i­tics away and leav­ing a kind­ly man who played ban­jo songs about Amer­i­ca. Oth­ers will ques­tion and poi­son his motives, bring­ing in the spec­tre of the Com­mu­nist Par­ty, USA and when he broke from its Stal­in­ist past. One thing is for sure. A pro­found link with the long tra­jec­to­ry of rev­o­lu­tion­ary change in the US has been lost. Some­one who under­stood the links between labor, race, ecol­o­gy, peace, cul­ture and music. One who under­stood the impor­tance of bring­ing mass­es of peo­ple into the strug­gle, to be respect­ful, inclu­sive and invit­ing. These are all qual­i­ties we are in des­per­ate need of today. May his pass­ing inspire the ranks of many new Pete Seegers.

Author of the article

met Pete Seeger during the making of his documentary on the politics of country music. A rough mix of Open Country was screened and presented by Jesse and Glenda Drew at last January's Retort, during which they learned that the new Billboard category "Country and Western" was a McCarthy-era (December 1949) coinage intended to break the lineage with political "folk" (e.g. Guthrie, the Almanacs and the Weavers). Jesse himself worked as a sound engineer at Dolby Labs in San Francisco and recently as director of Technocultural Studies at UC Davis, where he specializes in digital arts, media archaeology, documentary studies and the history of labor. He contributed "The Commune as Badlands as Utopia as Autonomous Zone" to West of Eden (PM Press, 2012) where he described himself as "a young teenage runaway, who roamed the United States and thrived thanks to a strong network of urban and rural communes and collectives, spending many years as a labor activist in traditional smokestack industries before becoming involved in grassroots video production and the nascent digital arts movement."