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Notes from Joan (updated 12/01/09) Watoto, Bamboo, and Chai Two thousand-plus very damp people peered happily out from under umbrellas, tarps, sheets of plastic, and soggy sweaters. Some seemingly enjoyed the rain on their heads, while some sat covered on top, their bottoms and feet resting in puddles accumulated in waterproof blankets. These happy folks called themselves Seattleites, and they were there to enjoy a Joan Baez concert. The concert in August of this year was being held at the Woodland Park Zoo Amphitheatre in Seattle, Washington, a beautiful location, with the occasional call of a wild bird cutting through the gray skies. My friend Lily Tomlin had alerted me to the plight of the three elephants living at the zoo and the efforts to transfer them to a sanctuary in Tennessee, where they could live out their lives in surroundings more expansive and humane. The close quartered conditions at the zoo have resulted in foot and joint issues, among other chronic conditions for these magnificent creatures. The elephant barn was a short walk from the backstage area, and I had an hour to spare before the concert. As I approached I could see the ample rump and switching tail of one of them from about twenty feet away. I closed my eyes in an attempt to divine the thoughts in that great head of hers. What I saw when I closed my eyes was simple and made up of fragments of what I had seen on film - baby elephants wobbling around under their elder's feet, others flinging dirt into the air and sliding in mud holes, the adult's ears flapping. But then I saw chains and heart shouting, and I felt a great sorrow, which grew and grew until it was too deep to fathom. When I opened my eyes the big girl had turned in her tiny prison of a barn stall and was looking straight into my eyes. The elephant caretakers were kind enough to show me around the barn and introduce me to Watoto, Bamboo, and Chai. I blew into their trunks, and they blew back. We fed them carrots through the bars. They had almost no room to move, and when let outside they had only a tiny amount of barren ground to pace. The concert was a huge success, not in small part because the Seattleites treated the rain as though it were a call to enjoy the wonders of Mother Nature. I dedicated a song to the elephants, making up the words as I went along, to the spiritual "Pilgrim of Sorrow." Watoto, Bamboo, and Chai were left pacing their unhappy quarters. Hopefully, if indeed elephants never forget, they can remember the happier times of their former lives. Better yet, with your help, they might be able to once more live in open space. With a concerted effort I believe they can be moved, and the ugly little secret of abused elephants at the zoo will be removed with them. Seattle is too wholesome a city to sustain such a blight under its generous skies. If you are concerned and want to become involved in bettering the lives of these three elephants and perhaps others, please contact the Friends of the Woodland Park Zoo Elephants. You can also become a fan on their Facebook page.
(updated 08/15/09) Michael Moore Under a full moon, after a skinny-dip in Michigan's Green Lake a few of us were driven off to visit with filmmaker Michael Moore in nearby Traverse City. He was in his studio finishing his latest film, "Capitalism, A Love Story," which chronicles the collapse of said system the USA. The film highlights, among other things, the shocking and widening disparity between the ultra rich and the disenfranchised poor. The work again bears his stamp of genius, making mighty complex issues bearable to the most reluctant and resistant observers by presenting them with his caustic yet touching humor. As impressive as his moviemaking endeavors are the changes Michael has made for himself, losing eighty pounds, looking and feeling like a candidate for his own love story with this, the country he has loved for as far back as he can remember.
(updated 08/14/09) Idaho Falls It felt like a throwback to the early seventies for me, but for the four elderly Vietnam veterans picketing my concert in Idaho Falls, it is still their lives - lives of great distress and difficulty. Their signs were uncomplimentary at best, and untrue. To blame me for adding to their pain is a shameful misunderstanding, but that is not the point. They have stories to tell that have not been heard: stories of real bravery, of deep sorrow, violence, killing, and death. We who have not experienced what they have can never understand their dilemma, and have no right to stand between them and the honor, respect, and compassion they deserve. I of course opposed the Vietnam War. I oppose all wars. I do not expect most people to understand that fact, certainly not the four soldiers who stood in front of me with signs reading "Joan Baez, Soldiers don’t kill babies, liberals do" and "Joan Baez gave comfort & aid to our enemy in Vietnam & encouraged them to kill Americans!" However, the anger and disrespect they have mistakenly placed upon me is far less compromising than that which was placed upon them when they returned from the jungles of Vietnam. We spoke for a long time. Dan Scarborough displayed 5 purple hearts and 2 medals of Honor on his chest and has suffered 6 strokes since he returned from the war. He and the others all spoke of being mistreated, disrespected, spat upon by "demonstrators" when they arrived back in the States. They endured names like "baby killers," and cited these things as the source of their resentment toward me. As we spoke they softened considerably, saying they appreciated my stance on civil rights, and women’s rights. My son Gabe and other members of the band were with me. Jim Stewart, our six foot four merchandise man appeared by my side and locked arms, defending me ferociously. Jim is a Vietnam veteran, and though he never speaks about it, lived through his share of horrors. He felt the rage I did not, at their signs and their disrespect. We each had unique reactions to this bizarre confrontation, which dared to become genuine communication. Mine was one of sorrow at their unresolved struggle, their rage, and the amount of time they’d spent trying to get their lives back. At their request I autographed their signs (on the back). I also dedicated a song to them during our concert that evening. Even though they continued to picket for a brief while, I felt I had made four new friends and come closer to mutual understanding.
(updated 08/07/09) Newport Folk Festival Newport, Rhode Island was overcast. Fifty years ago it poured. It poured both rain and good fortune on my head. As a very young girl I was plunked in front of a microphone and an enthusiastic public. It was a revolutionary time in musical and political history, and as a gifted maverick I was soon thereafter on the cover of Time magazine, sitting barefoot, holding my guitar. I had gone from being a college dropout to an internationally known folksinger in a matter of months. I was terrified, thrilled, cock sure of my politics and my God-given voice, and unsure of everything else. My life lurched forward into what became an unimaginable series of destinies. Fifty years later. It's Sunday, the third day of the festival. Yesterday I spent two hours talking with a man from the London Telegraph for a big spread in August. Earlier today I was interviewed via satellite by a press corps in Los Angeles about the new American Masters documentary that will air in October. It is about my entire life. How exhausting. Not the interview as much as the life. I wasn't able to watch most of the artists/groups that performed. But I heard the strength of their youth and the beauty of their music from the various places I was herded in and out of, and I embraced them and their work. It had still barely sprinkled when my band and I went on to perform. The mist was so thick that the boats sailing past in the harbor looked like ghost ships floating through the air. The public was sunburned from the day before, happy, expectant, and wiped out. I wore a Las Vegas looking shiny silver and black jacket and black jeans to establish myself as totally in the present, in order to dip comfortably into the past at will. The band and I flew through the decades. The thrill is still there. The terror is gone. Some things take time. For our encore we did "Angel Band," just the five of us standing around one microphone singing in four-part harmony. It's a forceful hymn. We unleashed our voices to their fullest. Afterwards we were told that Pete Seeger, at ninety years of age, had climbed the rafters in the sprinkling rain to see just who was creating the heavenly sound. Now that's something worth celebrating. |
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