Horse of a different color.

Tom Lehrer made an astute observation lo these 64 years ago: "the reason that most folk songs are so atrocious is that they are written by the people." This was in the late 1950s, when the scourge of folk music was sickening the might of this great nation. Since then we're had a lot of other things to sicken us. 

But if there's one folk group I have a soft spot for, it's Britain's Steeleye Span. Their nation being much older than ours, they have a better excuse to sing folk songs, because Brits were around long before professional songwriters got into the business. Also, Span went electric in 1971 like Bob Dylan did at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965, which probably offended the most annoying folk-loving people. And third, they had the angel-voiced Maddy Prior, who would have elevated any group of singers. 

Maddy did not sing lead vocals on the song I draw your attention to today, however, which I bring up on account of this being the Kentucky Derby day, the first leg of the Triple Crown. That song is "Skewball," a folk song of long and confusing lineage.

 

According to Dr. Wikipedia, "Skewball" was the name of a racehorse of the 1700s, and the song is about the animal's greatest challenge. Now of course, being a folk song, every damn thing about the story is completely folked up. "His name has been recorded as 'Squball', 'Sku-ball', or 'Stewball'" says Wiki, and I sure hope it was not Stewball, which sounds like a dish made with the leftover parts of a gelding. So the song is sometimes called "Stewball," which remains unappetizing. A skewbald horse is patchy white on a nonblack coat, so that name makes more sense. 

Like so.

Also, the name sounds like screwball, a more recent Americanism but one that sets our hero up as a zany character, and helps put the race in a kind of Seabiscuit vs. War Admiral, David vs. Goliath frame. 

You gallant sportsmen all, come listen to my story
It's of the bold Skewball, that noble racing pony

In the song, performed with gusto and tension by Steeleye Span (the late Tim Hart on lead vocals), Skewball has been brought to Ireland from England to race, and is the underdog against the great mare Griselda, whose very name is fearsome. Our hero has one advantage -- a delightful owner, a sportsman of a type vanishing today:

Arthur Marvel was the man that brought bold Skewball over
He's the diamond of the land and he rolls about in clover

A popular and lucky man, in other words, wealthy and cheerful, the kind to take losing and winning with the same grace, and nowadays you'd know he's the murderer in the first ten minutes of the movie. But back then, they knew even a rich white guy could be a decent sort. Was that the real name of the owner at that time? It hardly seems possible, Arthur being such an important English name and Marvel coming into the English language in the 14th century meaning something that causes astonishment. Seems very appropriate, certainly.

Soon heavy bets are placed and the race is on. Skewball quickly demonstrates another interesting and dare I say zany quality, by chatting with the jockey:

Then halfway 'round the course up spoke the noble rider
"I fear we must fall back for she's going like a tiger!"

Up spoke the noble horse, "Ride on my noble master!
For we're halfway round the course and now we'll see who's faster."

Well (spoiler alert!), Skewball wins the day, overtaking the mighty Griselda. Then he and the jockey order booze and toast their worthy opponent: 

Past the winning post, bold Skewball proved quite handy
And horse and rider both ordered sherry, wine, and brandy
And then they drank a health unto Miss Griselda
And all that lost their money on the sporting plains of Kildare

And that's the story, and it's a neat little song. If more folk songs were like this, there'd be more to love about them. But no, they were always about tools and jails and fights and sung by lily-handed middle-class communists, at least back when Tom Lehrer was turning his gimlet eye toward them. 

Just remember, kids, that hard liquor is not good for horses. If you actually have a talking horse, however, then he might be different. Just make sure you haven't been drinking before he starts talking, or the cause of his loquaciousness might be suspect. 

Kick it into high gear!

You're sick of Christmas already?

That's a shame.

Because tomorrow is December and we're kickin' it into high gear!

I was in the supermarket yesterday and it was all holiday-themed music on the PA. I was disgusted to hear a cover of the second-worst Christmas song ever, Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime." I wanted to find out what idiot would sing that stupid song, so I looked it up when I got home to find that 23 idiots have covered that song to one degree or other. To rub salt in the wound, not five minutes later the PA played the McCartney original. I think it was Mark Steyn who questioned the lyrics:

The choir of children sing their song
They practiced all year long
Ding dong, ding dong
Ding dong, ding dong
Ding dong, ding dong

Who the hell has to practice all year long to sing "Ding dong, ding dong"? Is this a choir of particularly slow children?

Of course, the worst Christmas song of all time is John Lennon's "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)," unless some fool thinks "Imagine," the worst song of all time, is suitable for Christmas. When I hear either song coming on I make Spencer Tracy's transformation to Mr. Hyde look like a walk in the park.

But lest I've left you with a bad taste in your ear, here's a seasonal ditty from another rock star you'll be sure to enjoy. 

 

Bob Dylan is the only Nobel laureate since Linus Pauling to record "Must Be Santa." Some people think Nicolaas Bloembergen was first, but he did "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus."

Merry Christmas!

What about Bob?

I don't have anything against Bob Dylan, really I don't. Okay, I hate folk music, and his voice has always annoyed the crap out of me, so I have two things against him. But he's written some songs I truly admire, although none of the ones you're thinking of, and he is definitely in my top five favorite Traveling Wilburys.

He's the one on the left.

But why the Nobel Prize hander-outers opted to give him the Nobel for literature this year completely bewilders me. The fact that he hasn't accepted as I write this actually puts him up several notches in my book. Even if he does eventually cave and go get the award---hey, $880,000 is $880,000---I will be grateful for him keeping the squareheaded jerks waiting for a long time over this.

Why do I care? I shouldn't, not when the Nobel gang has had such a checkered and sometimes stupid past of picking ludicrous nonentities or worse for its various awards, such as occasionally giving the Peace prize to those with no accomplishments, those who are flat-out liars, and those who are best described as bloodthirsty killers. But this lit prize is just books, right? Poetry, man. Who cares?

I care, and here are my reasons why.

1) Musicians get enough awards
Not to mention groupies. Musicians who have managed to clear the hurdles from living-on-sofas to one-hit-wonders to rock-institutions are always handing each other trophies. Isn't that enough? No one outside publishing has heard of most writing awards. I don't care if The Iliad was supposed to be sung as a performance piece; no one admires Homer for his snappy tunes. Giving a musician a literature prize is like giving a football player the Cy Young.

2) It screws over actual writers
Those of us who moil for gold in the barren fields of literature can't help but be repulsed by the idea of a wealthy man from a totally different discipline getting the big bucket o' golden dynamite. A really sensational author who is recognized only in small-press circles---he or she should have gotten the award this year, not someone who is in the Institutionalized Revolution of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

3) Triumph of the Boomers
We tend to think of the Baby Boom as an American thing, but it went on all over the postwar world. And they're all jerks. Oh, all right, they're not all jerks, but they have had an awfully strong tendency to want to think that the world began with The Howdy Doody Show and it's a thickheaded, immature wickedness that has now been passed to their children and grandchildren in spades. Bob Dylan's a talented guy, but the recipient of the world's greatest award for writing is supposed to go to someone who can stand with the titans of the written word. You know, your Shakespeares and Miltons and Flauberts and Tolstoys and Ibsens. That crowd. But when you think the world began the year you were born, you have no perspective.

4) Triumph of the Cult of Celebrity
This is the one that offends the most, the one that shows the corruption of the Nobel institution at the highest level. Our cult of celebrity has given us (and other nations) completely unqualified political leaders who win a following because of fame. The current presidential election in the U.S. is a horrible example, featuring two candidates unworthy of the trust of any nation. But we suck up to famous people because they're famous. Now the Nobel Committee has done exactly the same thing, overlooking some poor novelist eking out an existence somewhere so that they can swoon over another celebrity. It is the most wicked and humiliating thing the Literature judges could have chosen to do, but they're only understanding that now as Dylan has given them the cold shoulder.

I keep waiting for a bucket of cold water to wake everyone up, but I suppose we've gone into a celebrity coma. I don't know what it will take to replace the silly children who run the world with sober grown-ups.

(For the record, when I talk about worthy writers who have been overlooked, I'm not clearing my throat and looking skyward innocently. I think my books are dynamite, sure, but despite that I'm not Nobel material.)