It turns out that most of the time I was recording this, the mic was unplugged and the computer was defaulting to its built-in microphones. Hence the very clipped bouzouki, even more clipped than the hand-muting would normally deliver.

Cm, bouzouki and vocals. Song by Lluis Llach, translation by anonymous internet contributor. Internationally famous song of resistance to dictatorship and fascism.

L'Estaca (English)

Kropotkin was buried in Moscow on 13th of February, 1921- barely two months after the leadership of the Revolutionary Insurrectionary Army in Ukraine were arrested and executed at a meeting with Red Army commanders, several years into the process of subordinating the workers' factory committees to top-down management, and just before the workers' strike in Petrograd demanding political freedoms for socialist parties and a redress of food supply grievances would lead to the Kronstadt Uprising. This winter was the last stand of the Russian anarchist movement, and it was a grim sign that in burying Kropotkin, the movement had to ask the government to release  their imprisoned comrades, and asked for permission to carry their anarchist banners and slogans critical of the state. In asking for such permission, the balance of power was already painfully clear. Anarchist prisoners, such as Aaron Baron, the co-editor of the Nabat paper in the Free Territory, were released from jail for this single day; after burying Kropotkin, they  would be interned into the prison system never to see freedom again. Others, such as Grigori Maksimov of the Anarcho-Syndicalist Federation of Russia, would flee in exile. Many of the architects of their demise, among the Old Bolsheviks, would themselves fall victims to the purge as their own rivals and enemies took power within the party.

Kropotkin's Funeral

For legal purposes, this track is a joke.

Cells of Fire

Adaptation of Il Bombarolo by Fabrizio de Andre

The boss says that I’m lazy, always dragging through my shift
But my after-hour hobbies are where I put my gifts
My baby’s almost ready, and I’ve nursed through every glitch
Now he make his grand debut, with a detonator switch 
My little Pinnochio, my dear handcrafted son
The physics are ideal although it’s short a couple tons 
I won’t get shining medals like Verdun or at the Somme
I’m not an general, no- I’m the man who sets the bomb
 
I double check each recipe before I will proceed
And step lightly with the package- I’m not here to die shahid! 
When in my hand’s the power, by my wit and my chutzpah
To grant the state forgiveness or to make the coup de grace 
There are those who throw us under so they don’t get overthrown
Those who wait out in the rain so they don’t have to cry alone 
Or who get their kicks with marches and the drummer’s rom-pom-pom
Thats not the life for me- I’m the man who sets the bomb

Today’s stale dinosaurs were yesterday’s avante garde 
My theory’s not in ink; but on the marble it is charred
Let them foresee revolution in their dialectic charts
I’ll make my own solution with self taught destructive arts
I’ll track those class enemies, who you’ve battled over tea
Then take my place among the lumpen when I’m finished with my spree
But as long as I am out there, it’s not me who’s on the run
I’m the spectre haunting everywhere- the man who sets the bomb

They took our pride and power, they seized our minds and reins
And they poured it back down on us from the bellies of their planes 
I’ve come to pay the masters back their breadbaskets and toys
The terror of confusion, the fire, dust, and noise 
If I’m not completely right, then at least I’m barely wrong 
And history needs some dynamite to help it move along-
The revolution is not coming on a breeze that lifts a song
But on the breeze that reeks of powder, says the man who sets the bomb

The Man Who Sets the Bomb

Translation of a Yiddish partisan song celebrating the sacrifice of Itzik Vitnberg, who gave himself up to the Nazis to save the entire Vilna Ghetto from immediate extermination. Your people have outlived fascism, Itzik. 


Dm 
The soldiers have found us
Gm Dm 
Like wolves circle ‘round us
Bb A
My Mauser is coiled in my hand
Bb F
But wait! The Gestapo
Gm Dm 
Through the darkness is dragging
F A Dm 
In chains, our brave commandant

The flash of the lightning
‘Round the Ghetto is tightening
A howl through the streets seems to haunt
Our comrades have risen,
Flying free from the prison
And vanished with our commandant

Night passed, cold and storming
Death hangs in the morning
The face of the Ghetto is gaunt
Tired brows knit and fret
At the Gestapo threat-
Choose death or your commandant!

Itzik then spoke
Words that struck us awoke
“For my sake, I never should want
That your lives be delivered
To the hands of those killers
To his death, strode our Commandant!

The soldiers have found us
Like wolves circle ‘round us
My Mauser is coiled in my hand
May the flash of my muzzle 
Light the path through the the struggle
Death, you are my Commandant!

Itzik Vitnberg

This translation of Dan Berglund's Swedish song for those killed in the workplace is dedicated to Björn Söderberg, murdered by fascists for exposing their infiltration of his local union. The struggle is against both the paramilitary violence of the fascists, and the daily structural violence of capitalism.

Key of Bm, performed on a bouzouki, D pennywhistle, and bodhran.


Bm A Bm 
I ate my oats, and read the morning news
D A
Kissed my wife goodbye, and then put on my boots
F#m A Bm 
Underneath the stars my footprints in the snow
Bm A Bm 
Marked the road that 13 years have seen me come and go

On that day, the north wind blew around
We were welding on a platform, 30 meters off the ground 
I heard a crash, and someone shouted Sven
It disappeared in blood and fire and darkness fell again

As I woke up, in a box made out of pine, 
I figured I’d be damned, it’s the end of the line 
My wife’s was pale as ice and tears fell from her eyes
While the priest prayed unto god with his nose turned to the sky

And I was lowered into my simple hole
Twiddling my thumbs in the midnight of my soul
“Dear Comrade and Corpse”, some distant voice there said
Welcome to the Free Republic of the Murdered Dead 

And there in the rocks, roots, sand, and soil
People lay in rows, the whole ground was full 
Of women and men who’d worked on everything
And the earth shook from their voices as they all began to sing 

We are the dead of the factories and the mines, 
Of fisheries and lumber mills, butchered like swine  
500 every years, bled out from the herd
And the greatest of the murderers in Jacob Wallenberg

We are the ones who ran the factory lines, 
Carried out like firewood and stacked up in the pines
We bowed before our killer and made sure his belly grew
While the parties and the unions were spit-shining his shoes 

Now we shout for revenge, so everyone can hear
Our bitter song in the roar of engines and of gears
In the whisper of the pines, and in the north wind’s breath
Demanding you to do your duty and avenge our death

We sing for you through the noise of the machines, 
Let every strike carve out for us the pathway to be free 
Class against class, that’s the battle we must fight
And we will rise in silence and be marching at your side

Free Republic of the Murdered

This is my demo for a song about the Jewish anarchist, Sholem Schwarzbard, avenging the murdered Jews of Ukraine by assassinating Petliura in Paris. The highly publicized trial shone light on the persecution of Jews in Eastern Europe and resulted in his release from prison, fined one franc to Petliura's widow. Schwarzbard, a watchmaker by trade and anarchist by conviction who had served in the French Foreign before being wounded and fighting as a revolutionary in Ukraine, would be known as "Ha'nokem", or The Avenger, for his actions that day in Paris. He wrote Yiddish poetry under the name Baal-Khaloymes, or The Dreamer. 

I wrote the tune while fooling around on the classical guitar I recently recovered from the family farm, and wrote the eight verses of lyrics in a single sitting earlier today. I'm thinking of being a bit more intentional about the tempo and beat, and making this work as a tango-style piece.

Since the initial upload, I overlaid a mandolin accompaniment in one take, and uploaded the version with this accompaniment. If you would prefer the file without the mandolin, contact me and I'll send it to you. 


Am Bm 
Your honor the judge and gentlemen of the jury, 
Dm C 
I do not deny the deed, but let me explain- 
G Am 
Boulevard Saint-Michel should never have seen such fury 
E Am 
This matter should have been settled back in Ukraine 
(repeat last two lines)

My Croix de Guerre, I earned in the Artois trenches 
As part of the Legion, my nation I had to forget 
But when in the Vosges, a bullet ended my service 
Reborn from my wounds, I yearned for my homeland yet

Black was the earth of the steppes and the little shtetls
Black was the flag of the anarchists, bringing new life 
And black was the smoke where the White Army columns came burning
Or where my people were cut by Petliura’s knife

I have walked in the ashes where families have burned together
Seen lovers and friends marched to die while soldiers there jeered 
Was hunted by men through the narrow streets of Odessa 
And escaped ‘cross the sea, my heart overflowing with tears

When the salt wind bit at my wound on the Black Sea rolling
It wasn’t the bullet where pain twisted ‘round like a screw
But fourteen holes in my breast for my family murdered, 
Fourteen stars in a sky full of our martyred Jews

As a worker in Paris, I let all my anger lie fallow
But news of Petliura’s arrival stole all of my peace
What terrible providence let him slip loose from the gallows? 
And escaping Ukraine, delivered this duty to me? 

Is not a Jew also chilled by a cold wind blowing?
Do not the same passions, our hearts either suffer or mend? 
If you should cut us, will not our blood come flowing? 
And if you wrong us, have not we the right to revenge? 

You honor the judge, and gentlemen of the jury 
I do not deny the deed, but this is my defense 
I have killed an assassin, the murderer of a nation 
A nation whose voice cried out through my gun for revenge

Sholem Schwarzbard

In memory of Amir Locke, and in solidarity with the struggle for justice after his murder. 

I wrote this song the night the video of Amir Locke's murder by the MPD came out. I struggled for several days to fit it to music- the initial melody I wrote it for did not sound right, emotionally, when I played it. The question of how a white artist approaches the subject of a black person's murder by the police or by racist vigilantes is difficult. We must present an unflinching and honest portrayal of the violence behind white supremacy and policing to a society that loves to make excuses for that violence, to avert its gaze from the brutal cost of enforcing white supremacy. At the same time, we must respect the dignity and personhood of the victim of the murder, and not treat their death in a voyeuristic way- black pain and death must not be commodified for anyone's consumption. We must also be aware that black artists are working to reflect on these same injustices, and be ready to make way for and help platform black voices. We must be conscious, also, of the trauma that the subject matter of these songs brings to the surface. 

All of these make the subject of police murders of Black people very difficult for white artists to make music about. Yet, through the decades, attempts have been made- Bob Dylan's "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carrol" and "The Death of Emmet Till", Sinead O Connor's "Black Boys on Mopeds", Abel Meropol's "Strange Fruit" stand as examples. Previously, I wrote "Trouble the Water", about the murder of George Floyd and the subsequent Minneapolis uprising, in collaboration with and for the voice of my bandmate, Jessica Garraway. 

I do not know if this song will sit right in the aftermath of Amir's murder. As a survivor of police brutality and as someone who has struggled and faced arrest by the MPD in fights against their racist violence, I have written it in a spirit of solidarity. I am open to criticism, to change, or to withdrawing it if it does not fulfill its purpose. 

I hope it works as a means to confront the listener with the reality of the violence and horror that a no-knock raid inflicts on its victims, and the impossible split-second choice Amir was forced to make when confronted with multiple armed intruders. Still being woken up from bed, Locke had a firearm in his hand, and did not point it at the police or put his finger on the trigger. A responsible gun owner, Amir Locke did not ready himself to fire his gun, as he was not able to positively identify the threat to him and what lay beyond it. In those few moments of terror, the police who had entered his home and kicked the couch he was sleeping on to wake him, shot him dead. He had no time to comply. Amir Locke was murdered.

“No Knock”, or the Murder of Amir Locke
Am C
No knock, just the shots, and the door was locked, 
G Am 
but the men were through the door 
Am C
The lights cut bright glaring in the night 
G Am 
And the boots pound over the floor 
F C G Am
No time to ask, no time to think or fight or run 
F C G Am
The boot kicked him awake and then the man fired the gun 
C G Am 
Nine seconds, since they came through the door

No knock, and the slide of a glock that shudders and rocks 
And it spits out the round 
It breaks through a body that shakes as he stutters awake,
Ears split by the sound
Wrapped in a blanket, like a burial shroud 
A pack of killers, did they make the city proud
In those nine seconds since they came through the door? 

No knock, just the shots, and the cops 
killed Amir Locke, still in his bed 
Another raid, one more early grave, 
Another poor kid dead
A warrant for a murder, that was their excuse this time 
He wasn’t on the warrant, he’s the victim of the crime
Just nine seconds since they came through the door

No Knock (Nine Seconds)

Reggae/oi! work in progress for the Stepping Razors, posted here for sharing with bandmates. 

Ivan Khutorskoy

Em 
Ivan was a good, good man 
Am Em 
He was the one to make a stand
Am Em 
But Ivan only raised his hand 
G B7
When he was defendin’
B7 Em 
Ivan wore the boots and braces 
Am Em 
He rumbled and he earned his laces 
Am Em 
Busting in the fascists’ faces 
G B7
He was the one to send in 

(Latinized: Vanya zaplital za svobodu, s'voyu krovyu. Druzhya, po-poem smert fashizmu, svobodu narodu)

(Trans.: Vanya paid for freedom with his blood. Friends, let's sing, death to fascism, freedom to the people!)

Chorus:
G Am 
Ваня заплатил за свободу 
Em B7
своей кровью
G Am 
Друзя, попоем: смерть фашизму, 
Em B7
Свободу народу

Ivan when they shot you down, 
That snowy night in Moscow town 
Who held the gun that fired the round? 
And who gave the order?
They couldn’t take you in a fight
With a boot or with a knife 
So they killed you in the night 
The bonehead’s a murderer. 

Chorus:
Ваня заплатил за 
свободу своей кровью
Друзя, попоем: смерть фашизму, 
Свободу народу

A couple of boot boys can beat 
The Nazi punk out in the streets,
But the men who fill the balance sheets
Are the suit-and-tie fascists
Oligarchs and siloviki
Mining bosses and the military
The Cosmonauts and FSB
Just boneheads with badges

Chorus

Ivan Khotorskoy Demo 1

Cross of Gold is a reflection on the Farm Crisis and its aftermath. After the "get big or get out" policies of Butz's administration under Ronald Reagan, the small farmers of the US were caught in a perfect trap of high debt and low prices. American agriculture has always suffered from crises of overproduction since the settlers colonized the prairies and cut much of the forests, and turned once-rich, biodiverse lands into vast swaths of crops planted in monocultures.

The song reflects on the sacrifice of blood to the growing of corn- a tale which European colonizers told about the indigenous people as part of their justification for taking this continent. Yet, it is the cross of Gold which we live under, which demands blood sacrifice. 


D
That combine is a war machine, the widest yet I ever seen
A Bm
said get big or get out, they’re weren’t lying
G D
plant to harvest, life is filled with making ends meet at the mill
D A
and gettin’ out is just the same as dyin’
D
trawling fields like a golden sea, fish for corn or subsidies
A Bm
Fed into the silos by the tracks
G D
keep it going day by day, that river cuts the land away
D A
the rain digs out the soil deep and black
A G D
As long as the levees hold it back
Bm G D
And my father, said you’ve got two hands that you’re dealt
Bm D A
One you give freely when a neighbor falls behind
Bm G
And the other your hold pressed like a secret to your chest
D Bm
So when the plant was out he never crossed the line
D A D
Though said what’s yours is yours and mine is mine

My great grandpa was a refugee when he came from the old country
The King’s police were barking at his heels
In the city or on the land, either way you’re living by your hands
Either way the rich man finds a way to steal
The cavalry corp’s killing floor, stolen in the Indian war
The arrowheads still come up with the plow
he built the cabin out of sod and a rugged cross to a murdered god
To bless the crop, the sweat from off his brow
But you get nothing without more blood anyhow
God was a carpenter, built mangers for the shepherds.
He was a shepherd, trying to lead his flock to fold
But now the Romans own the rails, and these prices are the nails
And they crucify us on a cross of gold
They crucify us on a cross of Gold

The quarter’s on the auction block, some man buys land he’ll never walk
Another farm is fallen through the cracks
Boom to boom and bust to bust, everyone does as they must
Anything you’re given can be taken back
You each grow more, the grain gets cheaper, costs get higher, debts get steeper
Each auction is a player quit the game
The kids look through us and their sights are trained onto the city lights
Like a moth looks past the night into the flame
But this life’s already burned, so who’s to blame?
And the grass whispers the memories of a prairie
And the glass offers confessions from the rye
Waiting for the sun to set but it hasn’t got there yet
Watch it sinking in the corn fields like the price
The blood, God knows, has been the sacrifice

Cross Of Gold

Raw and electrifying field recordings from the Djemaa el-Fna. Recorded on location by Marco Tiara (Hive Mind Records) using an iPod classic with a little external mic. This from Marco’s notes: “My first taste of the exhilarating madness of the Djemaa El Fna was in 2003, some hours after arriving in the city. I was with my 3 children (our youngest was 3 years old) and we stopped to watch an acrobat who'd attracted a large crowd. He stopped his acrobatics and started to address the crowd in Arabic attracting some laughs; after some minutes it became apparent he was talking about me. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was standing in front of me and my boys, addressing me directly in a language I couldn't understand, becoming increasingly angry, to the point that I was drawing my sons closer to my side. He was almost shouting in my face when I noticed he was holding a small tea glass, the crowd was laughing and the whole experience was starting to feel pretty scary, when suddenly he held the tea glass up, his face a ferocious mask, and then smashed the thing against his forehead, shards of glass falling onto the ground between us. The crowd erupted in gasps and howls of laughter and we sidled away, shocked and a little overwhelmed. This was the start of my love affair with the place, a constant source of wonder, amazement and confusion. The music here is endless, the pipes and drums of the snake charmers start in the morning, the gnawi turn up in the afternoon, but as the sun sets groups from around the country set up and compete for the attention of the crowds. Banjo's or electric ouds are amplified through beat up old loud hailers or other makeshift speaker systems, men dance on upturned tin laundry buckets, violins, guimbri, the abrasive sound of the sawed rabab, and drums, never-ending drums...every night is unique but also the same as the last. These recordings were made during wanders around the square in March 2011 and March 2012. I'm sorry about the poor quality, but then again, I think you get a good sense of the energy of the place.”

DJEEMA EL-FNA [RIAFC 026]

Folk musician, carpenter, and anarchist. Former member of the Wooden Shoe Ramblers. 
Website: https://edoylemusic.weebly.com/
Bandcamp: https://emmettdoyle.bandcamp.com/album/rust-belt-ballads
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/emmettdoyle
WSR: https://woodenshoeramblers.bandcamp.com/releases

Itzik Vitnberg

Emmett Doyle

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