I often get the feeling that I'm
talking to the wind
And no-one hears, no-one listens in Then I start singing songs
And the music makes the whole world feel like home
Sing a song and you're not alone
The longest week of my life was in the summer of 1969 when I
strung together "Jack Bauer" - type days like blurry boxcars. I
was trying to honor my obligation to the Arizona Air National
Guard while simultaneously working full time, so that I wouldn’t
have to waste my vacation on active duty. Consequently, I was
putting in a 103 hour week: forty hours at KVOA; sixty-three
hours at the Air National Guard. I’d wake up before dawn, dress
for the day at the Guard, and take a change of civilian clothes
with me. At the end of my day at the Guard base I’d change into
civilian clothes and drive to the TV station where I worked on
the production crew until sign-off.
I handled it fairly well until my Grandfather died in
California. I was able to obtain bereavement leave, but that
meant I had to drive my parents and I to Yucaipa for the
funeral. We left after sunset and I was losing it by the time we
were approaching Yuma. I pulled over and asked my Dad to drive
for a while. I napped for about an hour, then took back the
wheel until we arrived at Yucaipa and checked into a motel.
We all got up early the next day and dressed for the service.
After it was over, I took a commuter helicopter to LAX, then
flew back to Tucson. I don’t recall if I took a cab back into
town or if I had already stashed my car at the airport. All I
remember is how tired I felt, how I ached from stress and lack
of sleep, and how I somehow went beyond tired to another state
that was beyond fatigue and nearly beyond consciousness. I
decided to buy a record album. I stopped at the Revco drug store
at Glenn and Campbell where albums cost only $3.57. I picked out
an album, bought it and took it home, put it on the stereo, and
then fell onto the couch. The album was called California
Bloodlines.
Lilly McLean, you are standing in the rain
And you are cold, you are hungry and afraid
You are waiting for a sunrise
A sunrise makes you feel so very small
Darling Lilly, aren't we all?
The music washed over me and into my fading consciousness like a
light mist. It lifted me out of myself, carried me off on
strands of song, stories, and melodies. As I lay there at the
twilight of sleep the songs wove their way into my dreams and I
couldn’t tell where the music ended and the dreams began.
Oh I'm believing, believing
Believing, that even when I'm gone
Maybe some lonesome picker will
Find some healing in this song
When Kris told me this morning that John Stewart had died I
flashed back to that exhausted afternoon nap on the couch and
the wonderful soundtrack behind it. I can’t tell you why, but
that moment, the first time I played California Bloodlines,
burned into my memory the way the Kennedy and King
assassinations were burned in, the way certain personal moments
of joy and pain were burned in, the way seeing my child being
born was burned in. That’s a fairly rare gallery.
I first heard John Stewart’s voice when he fronted the Kingston
Trio. My Dad and I both loved “The Reverend Mister Black.”
After John left the trio he traveled with Robert F. Kennedy
during the 1968 presidential campaign, acting as campaign
troubadour until Kennedy’s assassination. John rode the long
train ride afterward and years later issued a limited release
album called The Last Campaign that was dedicated to
Robert F. Kennedy and the 1968 campaign. I’ve only played my
copy three times because I don’t want to damage it. John’s
autograph is on the cover.
Julie get the gun, Julie throw it in the river
Let it roll far on out to sea
Let it carry the confusion
The hatred and the worry here in me
River rolling out to sea
I saw John Stewart in concert six times, all of them in Tucson,
starting with a small venue in the Student Union and ending with
a fairly unpleasant outdoor venue at the Cushing Street Pub. The
acoustics were terrible, the barriers didn’t cut the wind and
some idiot sat in the front row smoking a clove cigarette. John
asked if anybody else smelled smoke and several people pointed
to the clove-smoker, who proudly announced that he was smoking a
clove cigarette. “Well,” said John, “fucking put it out!”
After that, John never returned to Tucson, which was a shame
because Tucson and Phoenix were two of his best markets and
Tucson led the way in the 1970s. At one point in the 1970s he
got so big that he held two concerts in a row at the Arizona
State football stadium. The live double album The Phoenix
Concerts came out of that. John also flirted with big time
stardom in the 1980s with Bombs Away Dream Babies and the
hit, “Gold.” He wrote and published more than 600 songs and
composed many hits for others. He once observed at a concert
that most of the groups he had written for had broken up,
including The Monkees and The Lovin’ Spoonful. “I’m working on a
song for Nixon and Agnew,” he joked.
Oh I'm believing, believing
Believing, that even when I'm gone
Maybe some lonesome picker will
Find some healing in this song
John Stewart was only 68, which was far too young to lose his
remarkable talent and the words, melodies, and paintings he gave
to the world. However, as noted in a friend’s
touching obituary,
John had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease last year and
had even lost his California driver’s license. So, at least he
was spared the slow agony of the “long goodbye.” And his gift to
the world is the body of work he left behind, work that
continues to lift our spirits and heal our darkest moments.
Maybe some lonesome picker will
Find some healing in this song
