FTX-916 - STACKALEE - Penitentiary Blues, Hollers & Work Songs

15 songs with some interviews with the lead singer, recorded by Alan Lomax at Parchman, Mississippi. Lomax, with his father, had recorded on disc at the penitentiaries in the thirties, but, in 1947, he went back to record with the first tape machine that came on the market after the war. He says: "In these worksongs one feels the incredible vitality of the slave turned John Henry". The singers are black prisoners, serving time, working on the huge State cotton plantation.

1. LAWD, I WOKED UP IN THE MORNING (Solo) - 2'45"

2. Talk: Is the the work easier when you sing ? What makes a good leader? - 2'04"

3. EARLY IN THE MORNING (Chorus with wood chopping) - 4'38"

4. Talk: How did you get in the pen? - 1'22"

5. TANGLE EYE BLUES (Solo) - 2'55"

6. STACKALEE (Solo) - 3'47"

7. PRISON BLUES (Solo with mouth harp) - 2'20"

8. MURDERER'S HOME (Chorus) - 0'48"

9. NO MORE, LAWD (Solo with chopping) - 2'08"

10. OLD ALABAMA (Solo & chorus) - 2'59"

11. BLACK WOMAN (Solo and chorus) - 2'55"

12. JUMPIN'' JUDY (Solo and chorus with chopping) - 4'08"

13. WHOA BUCK (Solo with some speech between) - 3'47"

14. PRETTIEST TRAIN (Chorus with hoeing) - 3'39"

15. OLD DOLLAR MAMIE (As previous) - 3'21"

16. IT MAKES A LONG TIME MAN FEEL BAD - 2'37"

17. BE MY WOMAN, ROSIE (Chorus with chopping) - 2'45"

Recorded by Alan Lomax 1947. Edited by Peter Kennedy & first published on Folktrax Cassettes 1976.

One must not forget that the deep South was carved out of the wilderness largely by forced Negro labour, and to sounds like those recorded here. The tradition of singing at all work, the solo-chorus style, the subtle rhythms, the part-singing, even some of the scales and tunes, are part of the African musical tradition which the Negro slave brought to the New World. In these worksongs one feels the incredible vitality of the slave turned John Henry; one tastes the bitter anger which has driven him to so many acts of violence, and filled his heart with fantasies of aggression. One learns of his often casual and brutalised relationships with women; one listens to verse after verse of sardonic irony and of veiled protest.

Here is the dark fertile soil which gave rise to the Blues. In the Southern Penitentiary system, where the object was to get the most out of the land, the labour force was driven hard. The men rose in the black hours of morning and ran all the way to the field, sometimes a distance of several miles, with their guards galloping along behind them on horseback. The swiftest workers headed each gang and others were compelled to keep pace with him. Anyone who did not keep up, or who rebelled, were subject to severe punishment. Men worked till they dropped dead or burnt out with sunstroke. So in these camps the rebel was turned into a hardened criminal or brought to his knees.

Every Southern negro knew, at least by hearsay, what "going down river" (going to the pen) was like, and it was the shadow3 of the penal system which kept the rural negro in a state of outward subservience over the years. In the pen itself, the songs, quite literally, kept the men alive and normal. As the gangs "rolled under the broiling sun", the roaring choruses revived flagging spirits, restored energy to failing bodies, brought laughter to silent misery. The leaders were always improvising something new about women, faithless and faithful - women coming with pardons - women - a worrysome and wonderful thing to a poor prisoner. He laughs to think:

When she walks, she reels and rocks behind

Aint that enough to worry a convict's mind?

Then his mind turns to his own despair:

I'm choppin in this bottom with a hundred years

Tree fall on me, I don't bit mo' care

Many of these prisoner rhymes reveal their artistry only when one hears them sung. The flow of the vowels is music in itself. The syncopated clash and bite of the consonants creates its own counterpoint to the rhythm of the work. The imagery is often brilliant, the language Homeric and dry in its directness:

Be my woman, gal, I be yo' man

Ev'ry day be Sunday, dollar in you' hand

Alan Lomax 1950