It’s Much Too Late to Worry

In the aftermath of the recent elections, I have been reflecting on the coming socialist-tinted Congress we face in January. Not a pleasant prospect, so perhaps we can gain some historical perspective on Pelosi’s Politburo. For instance, we can meditate on the vagaries of the life of one Josef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, former seminary student and mass murderer. A little history to provide a vantage point from which to consider the next two years. Surely no one but Donald Rumsfeld will be sent to the gulag.

Some time ago, in the comments on this blog, I told the story of “Joe the Georgian” as it applied to the future Baron Bodissey. As most of our readers know, our family is devoted to the music and lyrics of Al Stewart, who is not only a talented musician but also an astute historian. He’s an amateur in the original meaning of the word. Frequent commenter Yorkshireminer is another — though he has never said that he sings.

I love this story, since it features the prodigious talents of my youngest child, and especially his powerful memory, as this anecdote will illustrate.

The story begins in February, 2002, a few short months after the Baron and I had been to New York City to stare into the hole at Ground Zero. 9/11 was a constant humming thought in the background, a frozen image with only the sound of death to relieve the silence.

We discovered that Al Stewart would be performing in Pennsylvania and hastily bought tickets for the show. It turned out to be a small venue — a college-town coffee house — where Mr. Stewart was to perform solo with an acoustic guitar. Long before then, the future Baron had memorized whatever lyrics he could find; he sang and played Al Stewart’s songs for fun, almost from the first time he learned to use a guitar (he’d been a piano man up to that point). He also liked to sing some of Stewart’s work a cappella. “Joe the Georgian” was one of those — I can still picture him at the age of ten jumping on the rebounder and singing about Stalin.

With that background in mind, here is the story of our one and only live concert with Al Stewart. Little did we know when we entered the coffeehouse that the fB — by then sixteen — was going to experience his moment of fame.

It wasn’t that he’d never performed before. He used to win local talent contests by donning a fedora, a vest, and chewing on a cigar while he noodled on the piano and sang “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” and “As Time Goes By.” Way back then, for someone who didn’t shave and whose voice hadn’t changed, he did a fair imitation of Hoagy Carmichael.

So in we went. The place was crowded and warm, smelling wonderfully of coffee on that cold February night. The first set had sold out, but we had tickets for the second. By the time we got in, we were grateful to be there. We found good seats — the place was small enough that there weren’t really any bad ones.

As Mr. Stewart performed, I remembered the future Baron singing “Joe the Georgian” for an old man who remembered Stalin well and was amazed by the song. It gave me an idea: as soon as the break came, I went over to Mr. Stewart and said my son had learned most of his songs by heart. Mr. S. was a bit skeptical; hadn’t he been hearing that since 1980 or so? But I insisted that the fB was particularly adept at “Joe the Georgian.” Mr. Stewart laughed. “That old thing? I don’t even remember it. I’ll tell you what — he can give it a try, but if he blanks on it, we’ll move on.” I agreed — perfect stage mother that I am — and then told the future Baron what I’d plotted for him.

He gulped and sat down at the bar. Then he proceeded to put his hands over his eyes and dredge up the words to “that old thing.” It might have been five years since he’d sung it. I could see his hands tapping, his lips moving. Would he be able to recall the whole thing before the end of the break?

What do you think? Would I be telling you this story if he had flubbed?

So the second half began and Mr. Stewart invited the fB up to perform. Mr. Stewart admitted he didn’t remember the chords; it had been too long since he’d performed it himself. So the Boy began on his own, his young voice amplified by the microphone and the P.A. system. After the first nervous line, he found his stride and took off. Mr. Stewart stood leaning against the wall, smiling in… what?… bemusement, perhaps? By the second verse, the crowd began clapping and stomping like Russian peasants — in fact, they supplied a surprising authenticity. And then Mr. Stewart recovered the lost chords to his own song and started strumming in the background. By the time the song finished with that magnificent last line — “When Joe the Georgian gets here, we will dance!” — it wasn’t just a performance, it was a rousing participation by everyone in the room.
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Later, several people came up and gave the fB some money for his effort. He had really revved the audience for the rest of Mr. Stewart’s set. And while I never harbored any desire for my son to become a full-time musician, it was a good moment for all of us.

The only other memory that stands out from that evening, besides the long, satisfying walk back to the car, was the man sitting at the table next to us. During a lull between songs, he leaned over and confided that he lived in New Jersey and was channeling the voices of the people who died in the Towers… since this was less than six months after 9/11, I decided that trauma does strange things to us.

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Here’s the song from that evening. I had always liked it (the future Baron was right: it makes good rebounder music), but now it has a special emotional resonance for me… I call it “The Night the fB Sang With Al Stewart as Backup.”

Joe the Georgian

by Al Stewart

Now I’ve got my payment
For the service that I gave
They’ve given me my ticket
To this place beyond the grave
I suppose it’s kind of funny
I suppose it’s kind of sad
Thinking back on all the times we had

But it’s kind of hot and smoky
In this ante-room to Hell
And I won’t make up a story
‘Cause you know the truth so well
It’s much too late to worry
That we never had a chance
And when Joe the Georgian gets here
We will dance, dance, dance
When Joe the Georgian gets here
We will dance

We all set off together
On this sorry ship of state
When the captain took the fever
We were hijacked by the mate
And he steered us through the shadows
Upon an angry tide
And cast us one by one over the side

But it’s kind of hot and smoky
In this ante-room to Hell
And I won’t make up a story
‘Cause you know the truth so well
It’s much too late to worry
That we never had a chance
And when Joe the Georgian gets here
We will dance, dance, dance
When Joe the Georgian gets here
We will dance

There’s Kamenev, Zinoviev,
Bukharin and the rest
We’re sharpening our pitchforks
And we’re heating up the ends
We’ve got a few surprises
For the mate when he appears
I hope he likes the next few million years

And it’s kind of hot and smoky
In this anteroom to Hell
And I won’t make up a story
‘Cause you know the truth so well
It’s much too late to worry
That we never had a chance
And when Joe the Georgian gets here
We will dance, dance, dance
When Joe the Georgian gets here
We will dance

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“Joe the Georgian” is from the album Between the Wars, which seems to be out of print. The last time I checked, there were five copies available on Amazon, starting at $51.00. It’s hard to understand why one of his finest CDs could go out of print.

The collection includes songs about the Spanish Civil War, William Randolph Hearst’s mistress, Charles Lindbergh, Britain’s inter-war prime ministers, and Woodrow Wilson — all different, each spellbinding in its uncanny ability to summon up a lost era. Ironically, it seems to be an era we are determined to relive: one just as filled with foreboding, just as prescient about the coming bloodshed, with people just as determined to go on with life as usual.