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1. The Lupines and the Poppies
The State of California passed an anti-miscegenation law in 1850 outlawing marriage between whites and blacks or mixed-race individuals (overturned in 1948). This song tells the fictional love story of a Welsh coal miner and a Black woman in the Mount Diablo Coal Fields’ town of Somersville in the 1870s. Boys as young as eight, often miners’ sons, worked in the mines along side their fathers, augmenting family income. The boys pushed the coal down the greased “slope” to coal cars and sorted the soft coal (lignite) from the waste rock (bone). Mitchell Canyon is on the edge of Mt. Diablo State Park. The indigenous fairy lantern wild flower is abundant there and was believed to provide guidance and relief for the distraught. Lupines and poppies bloom together on the oak hillsides throughout the area.
When the lupines and the poppies come in bloom
Wash the hills with blue and gold
Then my thoughts return to you
And the life we made there in the fold
When first I set my eyes on you
Dancing on the village square
Love came streaming in my heart
Sunlight flashing through your hair
Chorus:
When the lupines and the poppies come in bloom
Wash the hills with blue and gold
Love comes streaming in my heart
For the life we made there in the fold
We roamed the old Diablo Range
Far from Gossip’s prying eye
On Mitchell Creek we made our vows
Where the fairy lanterns reach the sky
We married in the month of May
Underneath the live oak tree
No church would open up its doors
T’was the law that said we were not free
Chorus
They swore no doctor could be found
They’d called the midwife out of town
I buried them together side by side
Outside the Somersville burying ground
I work the old Black Diamond vein
I labor in the slope alone
I dream my son works by my side
To sort the lignite from the bone
Chorus
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2. Rent War
Rent War depicts an incident in the uprising in the 1840s of upstate New York farmers against the large landowning “patroons,” descendants of the original Dutch settlers. Farmers disguised as Indians (in honor of the Boston Tea Party) in calico outfits to make recognition impossible when they resisted the eviction notices served by the local sheriff on behalf of the landowners. Written in 1974. See Henry Christman, Tin Horns and Calico.
Oh Sir, oh Sir, the levy is too high
The livestock and grain I cannot supply
The harvest was poor, the land it is bare
If you do not relent, for your poor life I fear
Your father was “good,” why are not you the same?
The Helderbergs ring with your ill-fated name
We farmers want peace, this land our reward
We are nothing but serfs, to an old feudal lord
You’ve the law on your side for the sheriff we’ve seen
Collecting your rents in Schoharie and Green
With his band of bolds toughs we will not comply
The Calico Banner once more will fly
The tin horns were blowing in the high mountain towns
Calling Indian warriors to make haste and come down
The sheriff and his bullies were in Clarksville ’ere noon
To the pass with great haste, we will fight the patroon
With pitchforks and rakes and a musket or two
The Calico warriors would not let them through
When shots were exchanged, the sheriff did flee
With three wounded men, back to Albany
Come one and come all out to Thompson’s Lake
To retell the tale for our children’s sake
Those old days are gone, lost through the years
When our fathers stood tall against Van Rensselaer
3. Just A Single Life
Based on a true story as recounted by an Alameda friend of my wife in a phone call from Arizona where the couple had moved after retirement. The chorus about a lost vacation comes from a planned trip that my wife and I cancelled when my mother was hospitalized.
It started with a case of the sniffles
The kind that you get every year
We didn’t pay much attention
They said there was nothing to fear
A few days later the fever spiked
The cough and the aches and the pains
When the ambulance crew knocked on the door
Every breath was a gasp and a strain
Chorus:
Just a single life to share
Just a quick go ’round
You get one chance to get it right
Before you’re eternity bound
They stormed in the house in their hazmat suits
Like something from the Twilight Zone
They said that I couldn’t go with him
I had to quarantine here at home
I never was able to see him again
And he couldn’t talk on the phone
Surrounded by his hazmat healers and tubes
He died in a bed all alone
Chorus
We could not gather to grieve him
The funerals had all been banned
Maybe we’ll do something later
But I don’t have anything planned
I still don’t know where we got it from
Nobody traced the spot
We hardly took any chances at all
We wore our masks more often than not
Chorus
No, I don’t plan to get the vaccine
It’s some kind of crazy trick
They say that it gives you a fever and chills
What the heck, I’ve already been sick
I don’t get out of the house these days
I just sit here wondering why
Wiping the doors and countertops
In case anybody were to drop by
We never made it to Mesa Verde
The pueblos or Canyon de Chelly
The forbidden art at Hotel La Fonda
The O’Keeffes in Santa Fe
Chorus
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4. Martin Short
Loosely based on a true story from 16th century France as depicted in the film The Return of Martin Guerre, of an imposter who, for several years, successfully impersonated a local villager. My memory of the film plus a few purely invented details departed substantially from the film leading me to rename the protagonist, and thus, the song. See the book The Return of Martin Guerre by Natalie Zemon Davis on which the film was based.
He first appeared in winter, his clothes no more than rags
His spare and few belongings carried in a pair of bags
He said that he was Martin Short ten years gone off to fight
The town cried out in wonderment at this unlikely sight
Some said to them there was no doubt, he’d called to them by name
And mentioned childhood memories and even secret games
But others could not fathom how a Short had grown so tall
Or how the village shirker could now work to beat them all
Many more were doubters, the suspicions did abound
The war had ended years ago now suddenly he was found
More than one had coveted the winsome widowed bride
And hoped to add her acreage to his own green pasture-side
One evening in the wedding bed she said you are not he
I knew it from the moment that I set my eyes on thee
You labor with much purpose in all the work you do
And unlike him you have stood by me and proven to be true
Be sure I won’t reveal or denounce you come what may
I have gained for you affection when in your arms I lay
But I fear the coming trial and the evidence they claim
If you are rendered guilty I have no doubt you will be slain
Martin answered slowly for he knew what was in store
I met your rightful husband when we were off at war
I envied him the stories of his village and his life
When he said he never would return, I vowed to take his wife
The judge asked him to write a passage taken from a tome
Then compared it to a letter that Martin had sent home
The writing was a likely match that anyone could see
It looked as if our Martin would surely be set free
The investigating magistrate tried Martin to ensnare
And called on all the village to shed light on this affair
His wife she did defend him and swore he was her man
He was undone by a birthmark that was missing from his hand
The sentence was delivered with a minimum delay
He was hanged before the village and left there on display
For her desperate ploy to find a taste of happiness
She was locked into a convent for the Good Lord now to bless
Thus ends the sorry story of the impostor Martin Short
And of his willing partner with whom he did consort
They did no one any harm and instead found plenitude
But the law could not abide their love and breach of rectitude
5. Jamiens Played on the Harmonica
Written using quotes and paraphrases from a newspaper account, this song recounts a murder in the Mt. Diablo coal-mining district in 1873. The backstory about Hattie Davis is invented based on oral histories from the mining towns. Sydney Flat, the original location of Somersville, is now the administrative office, museum and a parking lot for the Black Diamond Mines Regional Park. The song is dedicated to the San Francisco Folk Music Club.
Sydney Flat was the bane of the county
And the source of unending complaints
From temperance, suffrage, and vigilance groups
But had prospered with little restraint
Despite the pronouncements and posturing
Of officials in all of the towns
Those “dens of corruption and breeders of vice”
Had never been forced to shut down
Scattered about were the tents and the shacks
For those who were new to the town
Those who arrived and were on their way up
And for those who were on their way down
Chorus:
Jamiens played on the harmonica
A sweet little old Spanish tune
To curry a favor or maybe a coin
By the light of the waxing moon
Hattie Davis had landed in Frisco
At a brand new luxury hotel
She was toasted and showered with pinches of gold
It was rumored she had done quite well
With age her beauty had faded
With the pox her value declined
The hotel put her out, leaving no doubt
She was bound for the Somersville mines
As a recent arrival from the city
Hattie could charge a bit more
Here at the mines, at the end of the line
Like her dreams, she’d been pushed out the door
Chorus
Hattie tumbled out of the brothel
There in the dead of the night
On the arm of an American miner and then
Two Mexicans trailing in sight
She made a rambunctious commotion,
She was loud, she was lewd, she was sharp
Through all the words could plainly be heard
The Mexican playing his harp
The patrons rushed out of the brothel
On the other end of the Flat
Except for a few respectable men
Who slipped out by the tunnel in the back
Chorus
In the lead was Mr. James Carroll
And another fellow named Green
Hattie had asked Green to escort her home
He now tried to intervene
When they reached Miss Hattie and her miner
Green went to turn her around
The American miner would not yield
And Green knocked the miner down
The Mexicans joined the assembly
Jamiens still playing his song
Carroll took a bottle of whiskey from the boy
And knocked him about headlong
Carroll then turned upon Jamiens
And raised his pistol instead
Jamiens cried out, “I am shot through the head”
And within a few hours was dead
Chorus
The jury of inquest was formal
It was death by a pistol shot
Fired by the aforementioned Mr. James Carroll
Just two days on the Somersville lot
Seeing a rope in his future
Carroll made a plea for his life
He’d been only two months in the golden state
In Penn he had left a young wife
He said he was just twenty-one years old
Not trying to harm anyone
Though Jamiens was playing on the harmonica
He thought the “musical toy was a gun”
Chorus
Carroll was sentenced to twenty years
It was murder in the second degree
And Jamiens paid with his only life
For his ill-fated musical spree
The Gazette praised Jamiens’ character
Know as Frank he could hue a fine scarp
He worked in the Somersville mining camps
And was murdered for playing the harp
6. Scuppernong Day
This song is dedicated to Don and Susan Wrighton who introduced us to scuppernongs and fought a lonely battle for environmental justice. The scuppernong is a wild native grape that grows throughout the South. It was cultivated 400 years ago on Roanoke Island, North Carolina. A thriving scuppernong wine industry, led by Virginia Dare Wine, collapsed during prohibition, but has recently been revived. Large industrial timber operations decimated ancient forests before collapsing as well. The first English colony in North America was at Roanoke Island in 1587, where the first English child, Virginia Dare, was born before the entire colony disappeared. Romantic literature of the 19th Century produced many legends related to Virginia Dare, including the one incorporated into this song, based on the 1901 poem by Sallie Southall Cotton, “The White Doe: The Fate of Virginia Dare.” In recent years the Virginia Dare story, improbably, has been appropriated by white supremacists.
If you go out to the Scuppernong River
If you go down to the mouth at Bull Bay
Winding through old Tyrrell County
Scuppernong, scuppernong, scuppernong day
Grab your pan in the early morning
Please don’t wait ’til the afternoon
Long-sleeved shirt and water proof foot ware
A broad-brimmed hat and a picking tune
Hold the grape with the stem scar showing
Squeeze the pulp right on your tongue
Skins are tough and seeds are bitter
You’ll pay the price for your scuppernongs
Chorus:
Scuppernong jam, scuppernong jelly
Scuppernong pie and scuppernong wine
Can’t repair the broken hearted
Can’t restore this love of mine
Come on down to the Kenansville Festival
Twenty-five vineyards, cellars and wines
Or pick your own ’til mid October
Make your own jam, jellies, and pies
Virginia Dare was a scuppernong wine
Number one seller in the USA
Failed during prohibition
Changed the name and they moved away
The mother vine on Roanoke Island
A gnarled foot and canes unfurled
Four hundred years and counting
The oldest vineyard in the new world
Chorus
I met her first at the Scuppernong River
We fell in love ’neath the scuppernong vine
Shared a glass of that sweet nectar
Bittersweet taste of the scuppernong wine
Her daddy worked at the Branning saw mill
Cut eight million feet a year
Boilers whistled, blades a whining
Logs fed through those grinding gears
They poled the logs on down the river
On the Norfolk and Southern they did arrive
They shipped the lumber, staves and shingles
The whole east coast they could supply
The mill closed down, the trees exhausted
Machines packed up and shipped away
Her family moved to the Georgia piney woods
Vowed her love, but she could not stay
Chorus
The white doe roamed primeval forests
That no man could penetrate
Two hunters stalked her unrelenting
Rivals to decide her fate
The two persistently pursued her
Determined to release the girl
Their arrows pierced her heart together
One of silver one of pearl
The pearl arrow woke the maiden
One last kiss in her lover’s arms
But the silver arrow of the empire
Doomed her to her cloven form
Chorus
If you go out to the Scuppernong River
Down by the banks where the muskrat play
See the ghostly white doe prancing
Virginia Dare as she flits away
Many would release the maiden
Locked forever on the winding shore
They are driven close to madness
There is no pureness to restore
Virginia Dare was an immigrant girl
First-born child of a foreign race
Vanished with the Roanoke Colony
The Native People they would displace
Chorus
Scuppernong, scuppernong, scuppernong day
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7. Sardines!
Sardines! relates the rise and fall of the sardine industry in Monterey Bay between about 1900 to 1945. Both the canners and the fishermen had first worked the salmon runs out of Black Diamond (renamed Pittsburg) on the Sacramento River until the salmon stocks declined in the 1890s. Initially, the sardines were boiled in oil and then packed in hand-soldered cans before automated canning and diverse industrial uses increased demand for the previously disdained sardine. Doc Ricketts was a marine biologist who had a business capturing and selling marine life for scientific and display purposes. He is featured in several works by the author John Steinbeck.
High in the tower on a moonless night
Searching the horizon with a scoping sight
Out on the bay there’s a glimmer and a flash
Blow the whistle, it’s the fish at last
The fleet sets sail with the gulls in tow
Fish boats loaded nets are to and fro
Bless the fleet on a moonlit light
Sail through the dark to the “patches of light”
Sardines, the fish are running
Sardines, what a luminescent sight
Sardines, get the purse seiners loaded
We’ll go to sea tonight
The cry went out, it’s the fish at last
Every canner had a special blast
Down they poured from the New Monterey
On foot, on bikes, on the new trolley
The wives and the girls in their starched uniforms
The men and the boys boots and slickers worn
Down to the stink and the stench of the wharves
Down past the gamblers, the bums, and the whores
Sardines, the fish are running
Sardines, out in the bay
Sardines, fire up the boilers
We’ll can sardines today
Automated canning made production soar
Demand was insatiable, the country went to war
The catch was stored in the pens offshore
A pipe sucked the fish to the boiler floor
At the height in ’39 there were 30 canneries
And 70 more reduction plants for home and industry
Poultry feed and fish oil, salad oil, and soap
Paint and fertilizer, vitamins and hope
Sardines, the fish are disappearing
Sardines, into the wild blue
Sardines, pray to Santa Rosalia
Pray that your hearts be true
The government warning came in ’24
The fish stocks were falling, shouldn’t fish no more
But the lure of getting all those fish for free
Couldn’t put a brake on the sardine spree
Some said it was plutonium in Seattle Bay
Some said it was the currents that coursed the other way
Some said it was pollution or the call for a ban
Old “Doc” Ricketts said, “They all left in a can”
Sardines, the fish have vanished
Sardines, the canneries are shuttered tight
Sardines, the boats are rotting
Good night sardines, goodnight
One by one the canners closed
Fishermen playing cards and the boats were sold
All that remained were the tales and the woe
’Til the tourists came along creating Cannery Row
Sardines, the fish are running
Sardines, what a luminescent sight
Sardines, in our imagination
We’ll go to sea tonight
Sardines, sardines
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8. Big River
Big River is a nostalgia driven song based on my memories of living in upstate New York along the Hudson River decades ago. There are references to the vibrant folk music scene in the area, including Caffe Lena in Saratoga Springs and the all acoustic Fox Hollow Folk Festival organized until 1980 by the Beers family on their farm in Petersburgh, New York.
If you go down to Big River in the fall
The fireflies have blinkered off and the loons no longer call
Summer days have come and gone the chill is in the air
We’ll gather round a chimney fire with winter songs to share
If you go down to Big River just by chance
When the sugar sap is running and the quaking aspen dance
Trees are red and yellow, the maple and the birch
The air is crisp and cold, they feed the hungry at the church
Ice is on the skating pond but the warning sign is clear
There won’t be any skating ’til the turning of the year
Kids will all be older no skating with a chair
They’ll all be talking still about the sighting of the bear
The swimming hole lies quiet ’neath the Little Hoosic Bridge
Water rushing over slate tipped up by the ridge
A fisherman has cast a fly that ripples in the pool
No one else to bother with the children back in school
Canoes are all in storage the sealant’s been applied
The snowshoes have been taken down the rawhide’s been retied
No more lakes and portages ’til sometime in the spring
No more wretched black flies to terrorize a thing
Shots ring out beyond the hill a hunter is about
Stalking grouse and pheasant in a field that he leased out
Following a game trail for the wily antlered buck
Hoping that the morning will bring him better luck
Foragers are checking on their secret mushroom spots
The chanterelles and boletes more plentiful than not
They’ll sell them to the restaurants in Saratoga Springs
Or trade them for a ticket to a Caffe Lena sing
Over in Fox Hollow the music’s gone indoors
The campers and musicians have all fled to warmer shores
The Beers family will huddle on a coming frosty night
To sing in joyous harmony and usher in the Light
If you go down to Big River on the sly
To wash away the years and to brighten up your eyes
The cottage hasn’t changed a bit, there’s nothing much to see
You’ve grown a little older, you’re an upstate refuge
If you go down to Big River in the fall
The fireflies have blinkered off and the loons no longer call
Summer days have come and gone the chill is in the air
We’ll gather round a chimney fire with winter songs to share
9. Couldn’t Buy a House in San Francisco
Based on newspaper accounts and biographies of Willie Mays. Individuals mentioned are quoted directly or paraphrased. Other verses reflect common arguments used to defend racial discrimination in housing. In 1948 the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that while racial covenants in housing were not unconstitutional, they could not be publicly enforced. In 1963 the CA Rumford Fair Housing Act outlawed racial discrimination in housing. A year later the California Real Estate Association placed Proposition 14 on the ballot to repeal the Rumford Act and amend the state constitution to protect property owners right to sell or rent to whomever they liked. Proposition 14 passed with 65% of the vote, winning in all but one CA County. However, the State Supreme Court ruled that Prop 14 violated the equal protection clause of the U.S. Constitution. In 1967, the U.S. Supreme court upheld this ruling. In 1968 the U.S. Civil Rights Act prohibited discrimination in housing nation-wide. The building trade unions were segregated in the 1950s. The Council of Civic Unity of S.F., formed after World War II, mediated this incident and convinced the homeowner to sell to Mays.
In 1957 the biggest news around
The New York Giants were San Francisco bound
They had a center fielder named Willie Mays
Tearing up the diamond, setting the league ablaze
In the month of November out west they’d fly
Looking for a pretty little house to buy
They visited a few in the tony parts of town
But every single time the Mays were turned down
How do you do Mr. Mays, welcome to the city
You’re a credit to your race, your swing’s so pretty
We’d love to find you something, help you settle down
There’s not much available in this town
He couldn’t buy a house in San Francisco
Couldn’t buy a house in the city
He was the best ball player on the face of the earth
But, he couldn’t buy a house in the city
Then they toured a place on Miraloma Drive
Mays said it was the “flossiest” house alive
They made a cash offer, the owner said well
Then removed it from the market and refused to sell
‘Cause the neighbors were complaining when they understood
They didn’t want Negroes in their neighborhood
Blacks wouldn’t fit and values would fall
The realtor said they wouldn’t sell it at all
The owner said he feared for his livelihood
“I’m a union working man” and it don’t look good
I’d never get a job no matter what it pays
If I sold my house to Mr. Willie Mays
I’ll cheer him at the ballpark, toast him at the bar
Ask him for an autograph, I love that he’s a star
But I don’t want him living in my neighborhood
Once he’s here they’ll be here for good
He couldn’t buy a house in San Francisco
Couldn’t buy a house in the city
He was the young phenom, the impossible catch
But he couldn’t buy a house in the city
Mays played it cool, “I just want to have fun”
I want to play ball, “I’m not mad at anyone”
But his wife was seething ’bout the housing scam
How racist San Francisco was treating her man
She said “Down in Alabama [we] know our place”
It’s a whole way of life that’s based on race
In the North “it’s a lot of camouflage”
“They grin in your face,” but it’s just a mirage
Say Hey Mr. Mays, we’d like you to know
You’re not the only one that’s having housing woes
We’ve got restrictions for Asians and for Jews
The fact that you’re a ballplayer is all that makes it news
He couldn’t buy a house in San Francisco
Couldn’t buy a house in the city
He’d been rookie of the Year and the MVP
But he couldn’t buy a house in the city
The mayor got involved when the news slipped out
His future was riding on the Giants’ clout
He’d be a laughing stock when the word got around
That San Francisco was a minor league town
Now the mayor was looking like a closet and a broom
So he offered Willie Mays to use his spare bedroom
Stay with us Mr. Mays just as long as you like
Don’t tell the Giants you’re gonna take a hike
We’ll find you a home in another part of town
Where there are folks like you and you could settle down
A place where you’d be welcome and fit right in
Where you wouldn’t always have to take it on the chin
He couldn’t buy a house in San Francisco
Couldn’t buy a house in the city
Hit .345, 51 home runs
But he couldn’t buy a house in the city
The owner was informed it was his destiny
The City’s reputation was sinking in the sea
If the baseball star really was turned down
San Francisco was a bush-league town
They begged him to do the patriotic thing
This was front-page news in Moscow and Peking
Commies round the world jeered this ugly display
That shattered the myth of the American way
In the end the owner was a decent sort
Who didn’t want to sell his town and country short
Willie’d made an offer on the very first day
The owner reaffirmed that it would stay that way
He couldn’t buy a house in San Francisco
Couldn’t buy a house in the city
40 stolen bases and the Gold Glove
But he couldn’t buy a house in the city
The moving van arrived and the kids were awed
They all gathered round to see the baseball god
Their parents glared out through the window frame
Looking for someone that they could blame
From the truck they pulled Willie’s five TVs
A pool table, furniture, and his trophies
Mays drove up in his white Cadillac
Waving to the kids and the kids waved back
Prices didn’t fall, instead they hit the top
When tourist buses made the street a destination stop
But a bottle through the window with a racist tout
They packed their things and the Mays moved out
He couldn’t buy a house in San Francisco
Couldn’t buy a house in the city
He was the best ball player on the face of the earth
But, he couldn’t buy a house in the city
He was the young phenom, the impossible catch
Couldn’t buy a house in the city
He’d been rookie of the year and the MVP
But he couldn’t buy a house in the city
10. What Do I Owe My Neighbor?
This song discusses some of the repercussions of racism in housing in California, which remained legal until the 1960s (see previous song). It also weighs in on the topic of reparations for past racist housing practices.
What do I owe my neighbor, the one who never moved in
He could not even bid on the house next door because of the color of his skin
My house is worth a million more, most of my net worth
He could be renting in another part of town because of the hazard of his birth
There may have been a racial covenant buried in the depth of the deed
Or a pact among the real estate crowd to restrict by color and creed
Maybe the bank refused him a loan and referred him to the far end of town
Or another of the endless hurdles designed to keep a Black man down
Chorus:
What do I owe the neighbor next door
Who lives on in my guilty mind
He’s not erased by the passing of time
When I look at the house next to mine
Perhaps he bought by the refinery and was welcomed with open arms
His family suffered the ambient pollution and chronic health care alarms
His commute was an hour or an hour and a half, he always got home late
He never had time for his family in the evening, too tired to protest his fate
Perhaps we lived in a sundown city designed to be lily white
That did not let black folks settle at all or walk in the town at night
In a sundown city no Black could be seen out in the street after dark
Police would follow a colored man in a car or alone in the park
Chorus
My house keeps rising in value, his house worth so much less
His children went to a weaker school, our school was geared for success
His neighborhood struggles with crime and with drugs, mine has curbside allure
His streets have potholes in need of repair, my streets are safe and secure
Yes, I am so much richer, but I an ever so poor in return
I missed out on a friend of a different race from whom I had so much to learn
My kids only played with white kids, our neighbors were all like us
We might have dispelled the suspicion and avoided the rides on the bus
Chorus
Do I owe him a “Sorry good fellow” and a hearty old slap on the back
A footnote or two in the history books and a town-hall memorial plaque
You know that I wasn’t responsible, they were trying to prevent white flight
And nothing was ever as sacred as a man and his property rights
You know that I wasn’t responsible, it was only a sign of the times
We have laws that make everyone equal, why dig up this old racist slime
Some say that we owe reparations for all of our prior misdeeds
But, that will never repair a system that first values profit and greed
Chorus (repeat last two lines)
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11. Ordinary Killers
This song is loosely based on a real incident of racially motivated murder that occurred in 1980.
Up in the Sierra on the edges of time
Out among the ridges, along the timberline
The icy winds of winter sweeping down from the north
Driving the herds down to the valley of man
Two men stepped out, out into the night
They were ordinary killers, they shot everything in sight
They were ordinary killers, they shot everything in sight
Deer hunters, they were set for the year
Armed with 30-30s and cases of beer
Some might call it poaching, though they did it for fun
For handling the cartridges and handling the guns
Not an animal moved, the valley was still
They would have shot a cow, but there was nothing to kill
They would have shot a cow, but there was nothing to kill
We can’t go empty handed, they both said with a grin
We gotta find something to replace the venison
What about the black kid walking into town?
I bet I can drop him with a single round
They stalked him with care, a child in the light
They were ordinary killers, they shot everything in sight
They were ordinary killers, they shot everything in sight
Frankie Lee Williamson walked home from the park
His world filled with silence even dogs didn’t bark
Staring in the distance for a train he couldn’t hear
Never once suspecting anyone was lurking near
Two shots rang out, Frankie Lee crumpled down
Death in an instant, he never heard a sound
Death in an instant, he never heard a sound
Up in the Sierra on the edges of time
Out among the ridges along the timberline
The icy winds of winter sweeping down from the north
Driving the herds down to the valley of man
12. Sixty Buckskin Soldiers
The Upper Sacramento River Massacre occurred April 5, 1846 during Captain John C. Fremont’s third survey trip. A topographer, Fremont disobeyed his orders and went to California to provoke the Mexican authorities and stir up support for war with Mexico, a cause championed by his father-in-law, Senator Thomas Hart Benton. Eyewitnesses estimated Indian deaths at between 200 to 800 or more. This song uses eyewitness accounts including direct quotes whenever possible. The primary source for this account, the quotes, and much of the argument is Benjamin Madley’s masterful and heartbreaking book An American Genocide (pp. 42-51). See also Robert F. Heizer and Alan Almquist, The Other Californians; Clifford E. Trafzer and Joel R. Hyer, editors, Exterminate Them!; Robert Aquinas McNally, The Modoc War.
Sixty buckskin soldiers Captain Fremont in command
Rode up the Sacramento in search of an Indian band
At Lassen’s Ranch the settlers warned of a coming Indian raid
They asked Fremont to chastise the band with his mounted defilade
The Wintu tribe was gathered for a Chinook salmon run
They “speared and clubbed and netted” fish then dried them in the sun
They traded with the other tribes, stored salmon for the fall
A village full of wives and babes, war was the last thing they would call
Ordered by the Army to track the rivers in the West
Fremont made for California a rebellion to invest
To secure the recent settlers for a war with Mexico
A timely show of force to intimidate the Spanish foe
Fremont had embraced the cause of Manifest Destiny
America should rule the soil from sea to distant sea
The Indians and the Spanish had not fructified the land
They would have to be removed to let the white man now expand
Though these Indians were peaceful, not all of them were so
They fought to save their life and land from this new invading foe
Deprived of their ancestral hunting grounds and fisheries
They depredated settler stock to feed their families
Settlers on the wagon trains feared the Natives they’d accost
Every family lost some stock, sometimes all the teams were lost
When they got to Oregon or to the California gate
Many thought that extermination was the proper Indian fate
Kit Carson and his Delaware were the scouts for Fremont’s host
With two California Indians and settlers from the trading post
Each soldier had a Hawkins rifle that could fire two hundred yards
Two pistols and a butcher knife for every Army guard
Fremont did not banter nor parlay with the foe
There was nothing to negotiate, no reason to forego
A battle so intended to teach a lesson dear
To drive the natives from the land and incur their mortal fear
Fremont did deploy his troops to surround the Indian lie
His “order was to ask no quarter and to give none” in reply
A single line of soldiers fired on the Indian entourage
Out of range of their bow and arrows in a deadly lead barrage
An advancing guard of thirty-six poured in a second volley
Then “all rushed in with sabers” drawn to perpetuate the folly
“The settlers charged the village taking [families] by surprise”
“And never stopped as long as they could find [one still] alive”
Soldiers on the riverbank shot any reaching shore
Carson and the Delaware tomahawked many more
Fremont took no prisoners, survivors there were none
The dead lay scattered all about under the setting sun
They camped there on the river and gorged on the Indian food
The salmon they’d been fishing before they were subdued
They destroyed the native drying racks, the lodgings and the stores
To make it plain to all the land that Indians were welcome here no more
A witness called it slaughter, Carson said it was a “butchery”
They gunned down all the Natives, pursued anyone to flee
They taught a “wholesome lesson” of the willful white man’s wrath
That surely would deter the tribe from any future warlike path
Fremont’s expedition lost not a single man
To death or unto injury from any Native hand
Not a single casualty was there to report
This was wanton slaughter, a cowardly bloody sport
The customary rules of war were already well understood
No killing noncombatants or prisoners just for blood
But many thought that Indians were a poor sub-human race
Nor were they even Christians that the pious could embrace
Fremont wrote romantic tales of his exploits in the West
Published by the government they made best-seller lists
Thousands hit the new-blazed trails to seek their destiny
Lured by stories of fertile lands that could all be had for free
The U.S. signed the eighteen treaties but they were not ratified
So, the Indians were unprotected, they had nowhere to reside
Vigilantes tracked them down and scalped them for the bribe
There was no word for what came to pass, but we call it genocide
13. This Land Is Our Land
This song recounts some of the treatment inflicted upon Native Americans in California under Spanish, Mexican, and U.S. rule. See references for previous track. While historically accurate, not all the practices described here occurred at the same time. In 2007, the United States initially voted against The United Nations’ Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. In 2010, President Obama declared U.S. support for and signed the Declaration, holding a Tribal Nations Conference at the White House on a “nation to nation” basis, supporting the right to “self-determination” and “free, prior and informed consent” by Native leaders, but not the right to a Native veto over federal policies. The song is dedicated to Billy Trice, Jr. who pressed the United Nations Association of East Bay to lobby for the U.S. to sign the Declaration.
This land is our land you stole it from us
With your guns and with your lies
You said that we would live like brothers
But you planned for us to die
This land is our land you overran it
Poisoned the rivers, despoiled the earth
Your crimes are far beyond description
Your sovereign word of little worth
You first enslaved us on your missions
Claiming you would save our souls
We were imprisoned on your ranches
Worked in your mines to free the gold
You did not hold this land in honor
Did not respect its hallowed ground
You only stripped it of the treasures
Mined and chopped its forests down
We signed the treaties under pressure
But you did not keep your word
You herded us to reservations
Rapacious settlers were not deterred
Your raiders bought and kidnapped children
And sold them to white families
A child was only fifty dollars
Their freedom earned at their majority
You did not hold this land in honor
Did not respect its hallowed ground
You will face your day of judgment
Your house of cards will come tumbling down
You sent the soldiers to protect us
They did not come to our defense
Instead, the soldiers, they did abuse us
No white man paid for his offense
Your vigilantes tracked our people
They could not tell us apart
And so they’d murder with abandon
Collect the bounties and then depart
You took our children from their parents
Sent them away to distant schools
Banned our language, faith, and clothing
Made them work and obey your rules
You did not hold this land in honor
Did not respect this earth sublime
When will you be brought to justice
And pay the measure of your crime
This land is our land you stole it from us
With your guns and with your lies
You can finely start the healing
Sign the Declaration of Indigenous Rights
Sign the Declaration of Indigenous Rights
