Nice Country You Got There. Shame if Something Should Happen To It.
Or: the American King worth emulating.
On Wednesday June 4, I drove over from my current home in Hurley, just outside Kingston (named for a British King, though the British burned down what had now been declared the New York State Capital during the Revolutionary War, all of which makes for an interesting geographical preface into the thoughts that follow) and out along Route 28, towards the Bearsville-Woodstock area. I was headed to my fave massage therapist to try and get my over-trained/tired body limbered up for the forthcoming weekend’s road marathon, and then to check out a recording studio.
It’s a short drive from here to there, 20 minutes usually, rendered a little longer that day by a bridge closure that necessitated me coming round from the west. This longer way involved what had once been my back route off Route 28 to our old home in Mount Tremper, ascending the steep southern climb up the Glenford-Wittenberg Road and then dropping down the lazier northern side, often in neutral gear for the fun of it, and I admit to feeling a pang of desire for the old life, the house on the hill, the ability run mountains and take cooling dips in the creeks, all before breakfast.
The nostalgia was helped by the weather. It was a stunningly beautiful day, and it was early afternoon, and being early June, the entire landscape of mountains and valleys alike glistened with a life-affirming floral green set against the big sky’s brilliant blue as if the global palate had been reduced to just two vibrant colors. It was the kind of day that makes one fall in love with nature and with one’s physical surroundings, the kind of day that attracted me to the Catskills to begin with, the kind of day when you can forget your troubles and all can feel right with the world.
And then, as I descended into the last dip of that hill, I noticed that an impending driveway was decked with a vast flag, and I knew by its own brand of defiant blue what it would say, or at least what the dominant five letters would be. It’s always the flags with these people, constructed on a scale to rival those stars-and-stripes that stride over city landscapes from car dealerships. They’re a show of force, a provocation as much as a political statement, and this far out from an election that went unchallenged by the vanquished, let alone violently insurrected, they carry an even more stigmatic stench of vindictiveness – a F**K You to everyone who carries a torch for equality and kindness rather than the professed Thank You to the devil that the flagbearers will follow into hell, dragging us reluctantly along with them. That these flags represent the minority in this area renders their oversized presence all the more petty, and thereby true to form.
And as I passed by that flag of fealty to a man who would be King but who operates like a Don, I found myself returning to a catchphrase that seems too obvious for me to have invented, but which I don’t see in widespread use: Nice Country You Got There, Shame If Something Should Happen To It.
Tony Fletcher, Wordsmith, posts twice a week, usually about popular culture and primarily in that culture’s musical form. Please subscribe so these posts land in your Inbox. To fully support the writing and ensure its continuation, please consider an upgrade to monthly or annual patreon model.
Nationhood, as I wrote a short while back in the piece “Looking For A Home”, is a temporary state of affairs at best, an insult to mankind’s universality at worst. But like the systems of government that each of these nation designates us worthy of, it’s what we’ve got. I was born in the disunited Kingdom, I live in the equally disunited States of America (an irony of commonality not lost on me), and I have passports for both.
That’s because I fell in love with something about the USA and made it my adoptive home around the same time that I fell very much out of love with the UK that was my birthright. It’s interesting to observe that this change of affairs was close to 40 years ago now, which is a considerably longer period than that which bracketed the entirety of the 20th Century’s two World Wars, whose eventual conclusion left European empires in tatters (including the British Empire), elevating the USA to global superpower status in the process.
That status was never predicated on sheer kindness – certainly not in the backroom shenanigans between the CIA and the anonymous powerbrokers of capitalism who fervently endorsed military coups and death squads – but there were enough positive effects as a result of economic might and soft power alike that the USA remained, rightly or wrongly, that mythical beacon upon the hill - not just the land of supposed opportunity, but the birthplace of cool, the prime proponent of popular culture, from jazz to Elvis, country to Johnny Cash. Or, if we want to be present in the moment, from surfing to the Beach Boys, from soul music to the Family Affair.
It should be lost on nobody that the passing of Sly Stone and Brian Wilson this past week, both at the age of 82, represented two equally complementary yet contradictory visions of America, each of those visions created in different coastal cities of California, but each originally rooted in American optimism and harmony. And yet each grew dark when their visions met the realities of the American psyche, let alone the temptations that come with the affliction of being born genius.
Brian Wilson may not have been made for his times (per the video above), but Sly Stone most certainly was; not only was his group’s performance at the 1969 Woodstock Festival arguably the musical highlight and, not coincidentally, just about the only performance by a Black band (see video below), but two years later, he and his Family Affair topped the album charts with a record entitled There’s A Riot Goin’ On. Like The Smiths, who achieved similar chart-topping status in the UK in 1985 with their own second studio album Meat Is Murder (which we discuss on the new Crossed Channels here), this was more which was more than mere musical metaphor: in Sly’s case, it was a social-political answer to Marvin Gaye’s more critically celebrated question from earlier that year. Pet Sounds, by comparison, struggled to make the US Top 10 upon release in 1966. (Few of my Substack colleagues successfully wove the music of these two great American octogenarians together in their obits; Matt Madurski was the major exception, and his excellent piece is here.)
Back in my early 20s, though shockingly I was already the same age as Brian Wilson when he wrote and produced Pet Sounds, I was still impressionable enough to fall in love at first sight – specifically, with New York, as much of a sensual, enticing, dolled-up, sexually provocative (indeed, an often slutty) city as any in the world. I was never, not remotely, naïve enough to fall for the shill of the USA being the greatest country in the world, let alone as some (usually those who have never traveled) like to label it, the greatest country the world has ever seen. I knew that its history was steeped in violence, in discrimination, in patriarchy and the flexing of military muscle. And that was just internally.
Externally, like the colonialist European empires before it, the USA could be a bully, frequently picking on the weaklings in the school yard of nations while forging alliances of conveniences with the other bullies – but nonetheless occasionally getting its ass righteously and royally kicked by those set-upon small fry all the same. I sometimes scratched my head at my own inconsistency - that I had consciously opted to leave behind a Britain that voted thrice in a row for Thatcher, only to choose in its place a country that had already voted twice for Reagan and was about to follow suit with his VP Bush (Senior) - but I was too busy scratching my own itches in Manhattan to give it that much thought. Manhattan was an island within a city that felt like an oasis. I was fascinated by the rest of the USA, but I didn’t live there; I did not have to make excuses for it.
Along the path of the four decades that followed, I came to a set of truths that seemed self-evident, and which were occasionally spoken by Dem politicians to bring the point home. “We the people” stood for the notion of a true democracy, however frail its inclusionary status at the time of its uttering. “All men are created equal” planted a seed for true equality, even if the phrase was created during a period of patriarchal slavery. It can be argued – and I am doing so here – that the USA’s one and only perfection came in those moments when it recognized those imperfections and sought to correct them: not in its defense of an imperfect Union, but its pursuit of a more perfect Union. That quest is there in Martin Luther King Jr.’s fabled line, “The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice”.
Google will tell you that King uttered those words on March 31st, 1968, at the National Cathedral, as part of a speech entitled Remaining awake through a long revolution, four days before he was shot dead in Memphis, on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, a place that embraced black and white alike in a city that did not, a place which the musicians of the nearby Stax Studios treated as their “club house” and where some of the greater soul anthems were written, a place that now houses part of the National Civil Rights Museum and which – please, I implore you – should be #1 on your list of sights when you make it to Memphis.
However, video footage I have sought out for confirmation of King’s wording places it in Montgomery, Alabama, on March 25, 1965 (see below). He also used the phrase in June, in a commencement address for Oberlin College in Ohio, in a speech that was entitled Remaining awake through a long revolution, and which referenced King George III, George Washington, Washington Irvine, Rip Van Winkle and therefore, to my delight and surprise, the beautiful Hudson Valley. (Reminder, kids, don’t just Google it; confirm it. It’s usually more interesting that way!)
Regardless of origins, President Obama was fond of quoting that King line. I thought he had done so in his farewell address of January 17, 2017, on the very eve of the first Trump Presidency, but I just did a word search on its official archive and though he mentioned justice several times, the arc of it was not among the references. Searching for a quote to pull out, I instead found myself reading the whole speech.
Unlike his successor’s word salads, it is concise, and it sticks to the script. It is filled with the same Hope that Obama rode into personal prominence upon a decade earlier, the same unerring belief in goodness that marked – to the point of weakness – his eight years as the most powerful man on earth. It celebrates his own successful prodding of that moral arc in the direction of justice even though he, of all people, must have known that it would be forced to bend back over the next four years when his chosen successor won the popular vote by millions but somehow contrived to lose the Electoral College by mere thousands.
But having gotten through those subsequent four years, and somehow having gotten through the events of almost exactly four years later, January 6, 2021 – a genuine insurrection and rebellion against the authority of Government, a true act of domestic violence, not a manufactured crisis as we have seen carved out with Machiavellian forethought for LA the last couple of weeks - surely none of us were expecting the door to be left open, through a series of grand political mistakes and gross legal misjudgments that will be analyzed for centuries to come should humans somehow survive that long, for the return of the man who would bend that moral arc so far back that it is about ready to snap.
Trump 2.0 is the man who would be King, alright, but only the kind of King who, in a Britain of not that long ago, would send his disloyal Royal courtesans or more overt challengers off to be hung, drawn and quartered, their body parts scattered to the corners of his Kingdom as a warning to the rest of his subjects. He would never, could never be confused with the likes of a Dr. Martin Luther King, who practiced non-violence even when he could foresee his own early death as a result of it.
Going back further, I remember well the night that Obama was elected President, just as I remember how, earlier that day, I had cast my first vote as a US citizen. That was a moment of great personal pride, and for all that the process of citizenship was one that I could have enacted a solid decade earlier, a process I had only engaged in once I left the densely Dem-leaning New York City of my wild years behind and recognized that I now lived somewhere where every. vote. counted., at least my (dual) citizenship was celebrated in person, in song, with none less than the Boss – the real people’s Boss who wears the honorific with humility and grace, and is prepared to challenge the pathetic Don of a President who insists his capos kiss his ring in public. (Read about “American Land” here.)
We were watching Comedy Central that night of November 4, 2008. It was a tag team between Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, two whip-smart politicocomedians who had helped us all somehow laugh together through the increasingly crazed realities of the last eight years (and, in Stewart’s case, cry together after 9/11). The two had hunkered down for a long night of Indecision that was cut short 40 minutes into the show when Obama was declared victor already. Almost immediately we were shown footage of people dancing in the streets of the big cities, and though my family lived in the countryside, I could not contain myself; I headed into the village of Phoenicia, where the Sportsman Cantina (ironically a.k.a. The Alamo) always stayed open late, and sure enough, people (alright, Obama voters) were converging on it from miles around.
It felt like progress. Real progress. And for a while that progress was put into practice. President Obama even brought the Stax artists into the White House for a night of soulful celebration (above), something Montgomery’s own Eddie Floyd could hardly have envisaged when he was a child in the racially segregated city that would birth Dr. King’s pastoral career, nor could the Memphis musicians when King was shot there and their clubhouse - indeed, their communal spirit - killed with it.
Less than seven years later, in my role as School Board President (I took my newfound citizenship and ran for office almost immediately), when offered the unusual invitation to address the graduating class of 2015, I spoke of how the Supreme Court had just, that very day (ironically my own Wedding Anniversary), legalized Gay Marriage, and a large cheer went up from the student body if not all the parents. This in a relatively rural area. Could I imagine that back in my London schooldays? Damn no!
I still knew the imperfections of my American surroundings; we could always feel the pushback. But we’d elected a Black President. We’d legalized Gay Marriage. On both those fronts, that was more than in the UK. Progress remained a struggle. Always. Continuously. But that moral arc, it was leaning towards justice.
The following year, 2016, was the one my family spent traveling the world. I did so as both Brit and Yank, and when I told people of the latter, even those who couldn’t muster but a word of English still knew to say “Obama!” and put their thumb up with a broad smile. The President was a global hero, an Ambassador for the USA and its ongoing potential, and we were made welcome everywhere we went in partial result. In turn, I fell in love with almost every country we visited, so much so that I truly felt I could spend a year in any of them as a view towards permanence. (The one exception was Thailand, primarily because it was just so overrun with tourists.)
But when I reflected upon their governance, I knew that each outwardly hospitable country was as internally fallible as the next. From the crisis-ridden, hapless young democracy that was Nepal to the one-party Communist State that was Laos, from the corruption of Malaysia and Tanzania to the strong man rule of India and Sri Lanka, and from the historical inequities and genocidal tendencies of Spain (where gypsy-hunting was once a sport and the original sin of colonizing the Americas was founded in Catholic supremacy) to those of Australia (a country colonized by racists and built with intense violence towards its aboriginals, likewise hunted for sport in Tasmania if not also elsewhere), no country was an island uninhabited by the stench of its own history or contemporary conflicts with democracy.
Still, humans are social animals. We migrate by habit, and often mate with those we meet along the way. Everybody here, to quote another R.E.M. song from Accelerate (which we discussed on the previous Crossed Channels podcast), comes from somewhere, and those national passports we carry, the colors we declare our loyalty to, do not, or at least should not, dictate our daily lives. (This point was driven home in friendly football fashion earlier this week, when I watched Senegal’s Ismaïl Sarr put a goal past England’s Dean Henderson, and thought of how, even though both players surely took enormous pride in the highest honour of being selected at national level, that goal could not negate their friendship as teammates in red and blue, on the internationally colourful coalition of a Crystal Palace side that just won the FA Cup.)
Frankly (Mr. Shankly) I’d like to be anywhere but here right now, stuck in the USA. Except I like being right here, where I am, in the Hudson Valley. Most of the time – and I do mean the vast majority of the time – it’s as good as anywhere I’ve been on the planet that is not a thriving capital city. As such, running away to a more outwardly democratic and peaceful society is no guaranteed source of solace. The countries that seem so attractive now have not always been that way. The countries that seem so unattractive right now may yet lean (back) in the right direction. Democracy is not guaranteed anywhere on the planet that claims to offer it, but nor is there definitive evidence – especially in the USA – that the majority of people even support it. Some people voted for an authoritarian last year because they didn’t like the alternative; some because they are easily suckered; some because they have short memories; and some because they are openly racist. But some, far too many, voted willingly and eagerly for the election of a dictator who would do away with elections entirely given half the chance. Some people – and I saw it from Morocco to Thailand in 2016 – will willingly proclaim fealty to a King.
Not me, though. Not back in England, and most certainly not here, in Kingston and Hurley (nor Brooklyn beforehand), my hometowns that fought the frontline wars to free themselves of rule by British royalty. And so, I will be here, in my inconveniently named current home city of Kingston on this particular King’s official Birthday.1 I’ll get out to the Farmer’s Market in the morning, taking full advantage of living in the “Breadbasket” of the East Coast to stock up on my organic veggies and all-round positive cheer. I’ll no doubt take special note of the prominent Pride flags that always hang in a town that rightly sees nothing wrong with the words Diversity, Equity or Inclusion. I’ll soak up the murals that enliven the buildings, as typically commissioned as part of the city’s highly original festival of Art, Music and Wellness, O+. (Example below.)
And in the evening, I plan to get to a home match for the Kingston Stockade FC footie team for the first time this (short) season; they play at the same “stadium” where I ran on the track this very (Friday) morning, where I always see community members of different shapes, sizes and colors, and the club actively promotes this inclusive community spirit, embracing the strong LGBTQ+ element amongst its flare-lighting, drum-beating hardcore.
Inbetween these activities, I’ll attend the No Kings protests. After months of feeble whimpering by what is left of a defeated, disheveled, disorganized Democratic party, I am so glad they are taking place, that there will be a congregation of common-sense citizens challenging the President’s Penis Envy of a military parade. I am even more heartened that they come on the immediate trail of the anti-ICE protests, that there is finally some groundswell of citizen action and activism after months spent helplessly watching the arc of justice be forcefully pushed back in time.
Protests and marches only achieve so much, but when they have a singular sense of purpose… well, ask the legacy of Dr. King about that one. And though I started this article with the intent of working in my mafioso style summary of contemporary events, I will conclude with the reaffirmation that there are some Kings in this world that we would be wise to emulate. And may I offer as my final sentence the hope that that Arc of the Moral Universe remains blowing in the wind one way or the other, ready to resume its rightful lean towards justice.
If anyone is confused, this second Saturday of June is the British royal ruler’s “official” birthday, a second bite at the cherry apparently born of the fact that past Kings born in the eight months of constant British rain liked the idea of having a celebratory parade in the warmer months instead. History doth have a habit of repeating itself.
Well, here I am in LA. I saw a car driving on the highway with a Mexican flag, and it was obeying the law (at least staying in its lane). I saw someone running in a race draped in a Mexican flag. I didn't take offense. I assumed they were not advocating for a foreign sovereign to have special rights to send their citizens here without accountability. Rather I assume they were using the Mexican flag to signal that they care for family and friends in this community of immigrants. Now, my cousin who lives here pointed out that the extensive graffiti I saw in downtown LA was new. And a restaurant owner shared with us that these protestors were mostly well-behaved, but did sometimes "break things." But I accept that people are frustrated and angry. I would guess that they have friends who are here illegally and they worry that they might get caught and deported. I understand where they're coming from.
Now, the person whose Trump flag you saw -- I don't know who he or she is. I would guess -- and this is merely speculation -- that they feel sold out by the establishment, which is a common thread in populist causes. Which is not hard to understand, with millions of manufacturing jobs having been sent overseas in the last few decades. (Now white collar jobs are being sent overseas in similar numbers.) The fact the borders were wide open for four years may be contributing to this person's angst (I'm listening to Congressman Ritchie Torres D-NY make exactly this point). If someone feel hopeless, they might want to be represented by a fighter. Someone who's not necessarily nice. Maybe they voted for the wrong person, but I think we have to let everyone make that decision for the reasons that make sense to them.
Now you describe this flag as a "provocation." But so are protests, especially those which are "mostly peaceful" but not entirely so. You describe this flag-waver as a member of "these people," but do you actually understand who they are? You said that these flags represent a "minority" which makes them even more "petty" -- but I'm not so sure that's accurate for upstate counties, and even if it were, do not "minorities" deserve extra space to make their points?
These are the questions I was left with after reading the first part of your article.
This last couple of days has been Tony Fletcher Weekend for me!
I flew over from Berlin to Manchester for a gig, and am staying at a friend’s house, where I found your Keith Moon biography sitting on his bookshelf. And then a stroll around Didsbury found me encountering Boy About Town in Oxfam, which I duly purchased and was reading right up until I was distracted by this epic piece on democracy with a small ‘d’ and how, despite our best intentions to kill it, we shall, in the end, always overcome and return, perhaps only briefly and sporadically, to our better selves.
A terrific piece, Tony, and I look forward to diving into Boy and Moon when I return to Berlin; another great city that knows a thing or two about idolatrous fealty to a man and his madnesses.
Cheers!
PS Also very recently read your big piece on the Smiths here (can’t remember if I commented, but will go back now and ensure I do), and I will confess it made me rethink my ever less than favourable view of them. But my unease with, or rather indifference to, the worship they receive is borne out by my growing up in Manchester at the same time as young Stephen, and sharing some of the same experiences (I even met him once in 78-79?, but was more taken by Linder than I was him!), and loving the same music, but diverging completely with his view of what Manchester was and is today. But opinions are like the proverbial arseholes; everyone’s got one, and so I’ll just have to accept mine differs from his. And now, not that I feel vindicated in any way, his complete degradation into whatever he is today - racist, unpleasant, and contradictory for contrariness’ sake - makes a reappraisal of his and the Smiths catalogue problematic in the extreme.
But I have always conceded the brilliance of Marr, Joyce and Rourke. Just not little Stephen…ha-ha!
Anyway, again, I loved this piece. Ta!