Frank Beacham's Journal

Harvey Brooks: On Playing Bass on Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited

Bob Dylan at a Highway 61 recording session

Photo by Don Hunstein

 

The Highway 61 Sessions

by Harvey Brooks

It was July 29, 1965. I was playing a gig with an unknown pop trio at the Sniffin Court Inn on East 36th Street in Manhattan. During a break, I went next door to my usual hangout between sets, the Burger Heaven, where I got a phone call from my friend, Al Kooper. “Can you play bass tomorrow on a recording session with Bob Dylan?” I responded, “Who is Bob Dylan?” Al filled me in, and I took the gig.

After my morning coffee, I drove from my parents house in Queens to Manhattan in my recently acquired 1965 Ford Mustang 2+2. I parked in the indoor garage on 54th Street and crossed the street to 799 Seventh Avenue. I then took the elevator to the seventh floor, where Columbia Studio A was located. It was there that I would record Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited album.

I opened the door to the control room, took a deep breath and entered. A thin, frizzy-haired guy dressed in Levi jeans and boots was standing in the front of the mixing console listening to a playback of what turned out to be “Like a Rolling Stone.” I assumed this was Bob Dylan. I spotted Al walking toward me from the back of the control room and introductions were made. Dylan affirmed my existence and went back to his listening.

Al then walked me around to the control room to meet the producer, Bob Johnston, and Albert Grossman, Bob’s manager. Grossman was a Ben Franklin look alike who had a long gray ponytail and wore round wire-rimmed glasses. With introductions over, it was time to set-up. I walked into the studio, plugged into an Ampeg B-15 bass amp and began to tune.

Though I was only 21-years-old, I had already been on tour and had performed with many R&B acts, which included the Brooklyn Apollo with Chuck Jackson, Baby Washington and the Exciters. I had worked with varying styles and felt I could adapt to about anything on the fly. For that reason, I was looking forward to any musical challenge Bob Dylan would throw my way.

Abruptly, the studio door burst open and in stormed guitarist Michael Bloomfield, an intense spark of pure energy. He was wearing penny loafers, jeans and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He had a Fender telecaster hanging over his shoulder and his smile was electric. Though it was the first time we had met, I felt an instant simpatico with him

The other players on the session included Bobby Gregg on drums, Paul Griffin and Frank Owens on piano and Al on organ. At the first session, Joe Macho Jr. or Russ Savakus had played bass, but Dylan wanted a more sympathetic feel for the rest of the sessions. He was looking for a bass player that felt comfortable with the bass line and had the ability to pick up changes quickly. Al knew I was a good choice, which is why he recommended me to Dylan. It was not enough to be a skilled studio musician in a Dylan recording session.

In talking to Bob, I admitted to him that I hadn’t heard any of his music before the session, but was very impressed with Like a Rolling Stone, which I heard when I walked into the studio. “Well, these are a little different,” Bob responded. I assumed he meant from his past work, but Bob was bit vague. He gave me a kind of crooked smile and then lit up a cigarette.

Tom Wilson, who had produced Like a Rolling Stone a couple of weeks earlier, was replaced for unknown reasons. The new producer was Bob Johnston, a Columbia staff producer from Nashville who was already producing Patti Page when he got the Dylan assignment.

Johnston had a documentary-style “keep the tape rolling” approach to producing, which allowed him to capture a live feeling and special moments that happen between takes in the studio. He was frustrated by the technical bureaucracy at Columbia and ordered several tape machines brought into the control room, so he could keep one running at all times in order to capture anything Dylan might want to keep. This tactic worked quite well for both Bobs.

Though the first session for Highway 61 Revisited had been recorded two weeks earlier, a lot had happened in the interim. Like a Rolling Stone, recorded at the first session, had been released and caught on like fire. Four days earlier, Dylan had been booed by the crowd when he had gone electric at the Newport Folk Festival. It was a pivotal time in his career. He was in the transition from being a “pure” folk artist to becoming a rock and roll legend!

Here I was at the second session, uncertain and waiting to hear what was on Bob’s mind. In a few minutes, he came out of the control room and started to sing the first of three songs we would work on that day. Johnston had setup three-sided baffles, leaving the side that faced the band open so we could see him. Bob sang the first song, Tombstone Blues, a few times. There were no chord charts for anyone. It was all done by ear. As a habit, I made a few quick chord charts for myself as I listened to him perform the song. Everyone focused on Bob, watching for every nuance. Then, the band went for it.

As we began recording, Bob was still working on the lyrics. He was constantly editing as we were recording. I thought it was an amazing way that he worked. His guitar or piano part was the guiding element through each song. Every musician in that room had their eyes and ears glued to him, yet his poker face never revealed what he was thinking.

It might have taken a couple of takes for everyone to lock in. There were mistakes, of course, but they didn’t matter to Bob. If the feel was there and the performance was successful, that’s all he cared about. In real life, that’s the way it is. If the overall performance happens, it’s a keeper. Bob would go into the control room and listen. Bob Johnston may have been the producer keeping the tape rolling, but it was all Bob Dylan deciding what felt right and what didn’t.

As we played, I quickly learned about the different members of the band. Bobby Gregg was a very good, straight ahead studio drummer. He was the kind of player that let you create your part of the music by setting up the rhythmic pattern of the song and keeping the tempo relaxed.

The phrasing of Dylan and Bloomfield was very sympathetic. An explosive player, Bloomfield was aggressive and played a little bit in front of the beat on rhythm parts. My goal was to find a bassline that made the groove happen. Bob set the feel and direction with his rhythm and my bass parts reflected what I got from the rhythm guitar or piano and Bobby Greggs’ drums. It was necessary for me to play simple and solid so that all the energy coming from Bloomfield was maintained. If everybody were to rush, the tempo would be fluctuating back and forth. Bob loved Michael, who was a unique guitar player. He was not your relaxed, in the pocket groove guy. He went for it all the time.

Most of my previous playing experience had been in R&B bands that performed tunes by Wilson Pickett, Jackie Wilson, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Playing with Bob Dylan was much more personal because he was writing new songs about people and events. Next, we recorded “It Takes a Lot to Laugh” and “Positively 4th Street” the same way. Masters for the three songs were successfully recorded on July 29. “Tombstone Blues” and “It Takes a Lot to Laugh” were included on the final Highway 61 Revisited album, but “Positively 4th Street” was issued as a single-only release.

After we recorded Positively 4th Street, I sat down in the control room and really listened to the lyrics. This was not a love song. This was not Kumbaya. He was telling somebody off in no uncertain terms.

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is to see you

OUCH!!

At the close of the session that first night, Bob attempted to record “Desolation Row,” accompanied only by Al on electric guitar and me on bass. There was no drummer, as Bobby Gregg had already gone home. This electric version was eventually released in 2005 on The Bootleg Series Vol. 7 album.

Bob Johnston had a love of and even a bias toward Nashville musicians. It became an underlying topic the entire session about how great they were. He kept talking about how cool Nashville is. With his repeated comments, I felt it was bit disparaging for us. I felt Johnston thought of us as New York bumpkins. His Nashville bias played into Desolation Row. In my opinion the version without drums that Al and I had done that night was slower and definitely more soulful. Clearly, Johnston thought otherwise. On August 2, five more takes were done on Desolation Row!

However, the version of the song ultimately used on the album was recorded at an overdub session on August 4. This time, Johnston’s personal friend, Nashville guitarist Charlie McCoy, who is a great player, was visiting New York City and was invited to contribute an improvised acoustic guitar part. Russ Savakus played bass. We were gone by the time the final take was recorded.

Johnston’s love of Nashville would eventually take him there. After a couple of years in New York City, he became head of Columbia Records in Nashville. He finally joined the session musicians that he liked so much. After our album, Johnston’s relationship with Dylan was cemented. He went on to produce Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde in 1966, John Wesley Harding in 1967, Nashville Skyline in 1969 and both Self Portrait and New Morning, another Dylan record I played on, in 1970.

When I left the studio after the final session, I didn’t have any sense of whether or not we had created a hit record. I did know, however, that all the songs felt good. They felt solid. I now understand why Highway 61 Revisited was a successful record. Bob got it. It’s an amazing talent when one knows what to go for. He’d check it out. When he got what he wanted, he’d say “that’s it...next.” Occasionally, someone would suggest trying another take. But most of the time Bob was in control. In looking back, my childhood friend Al Kuperschmid/Kooper had given me a step up in my career.

(This is an excerpt from View From The Bottom, a soon to be published book by Harvey Brooks and Frank Beacham)

Harvey Brooks Remembers the Recording of Bob Dylan's New Morning Album, Released 47 Years Ago

Coming only four months after the controversial Self Portrait, New Morning, released on Oct. 19, 1970, won a much warmer reception from fans and critics. It reached #7 in the U.S., quickly going gold.

Harvey Brooks played bass during the final sessions for New Morning, after having performed on Dylan’s Highway 61 album a few years earlier.

Here is Harvey’s account of how he became involved on the session.

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On the recording of Bob Dylan’s New Morning

By Harvey Brooks

One sunny afternoon in the Fall of 1970, I was upstairs working in my Woodstock house on a painting. It was inspired by some dying flies falling off the large picture window directly in front of me onto my already abstract canvas.

The phone rang. It was Levon Helm calling to tell me he had given Bob (Dylan) my new phone number. Was it all right? About an hour later, Dylan called. He said if I wasn’t doing anything he would stop by — if I was alone. I was and he did.

We sat in my living room and started talking about what was going on in Woodstock. I made some coffee and as we talked, Dylan’s eyes seemed to be capturing a picture of the room that stopped at the chessboard. I asked, do you play? His answer came in his move to the table where my chessboard sat.

I’ll give you Queen odds in the first game, he said. If you win, we’ll make it rook odds. We both laughed, lit up a joint and Bob made the first move across the board, with our back and forth repartee about our former manager, Albert Grossman.

Bob’s stories about Albert and their falling out centered on management fees and publishing. I left working for Albert because we did not have a signed contract and he never wanted to pay me what I thought I was worth. Albert was an arrogant and assertive guy. He managed Peter, Paul and Mary, Janis Joplin, Richie Havens and Todd Rundgren. Most of his relationships ended bitterly.

Oddly, Albert is still a good part of what Woodstock is today. He created the artist colony that is still a haven to many musicians and his Bearsville Theater complex continues to prosper.

As we continued across the chess board, Bob suggested that I read the book, The Death Ship. It is a novel by the pseudomonas author known as B. Traven. The setting, as Bob shared it, was the predicament of a merchant seaman who had lost his passport/citizenship papers and cannot find any legal residence or employment in any nation.

The character in the book is repeatedly arrested and deported from one country to the next by government officials who do not want to be bothered with helping or jailing him. Bob embellished the story of the ship by saying that the workers from around the world were treated as expendable slaves. B. Traven also wrote The Treasure of The Sierra Madre. I do not remember if Bob or I took the game!

A few weeks later, I got a call from Al Kooper booking me on a series of sessions for Bob’s New Morning album, being recorded at Columbia Studio E. Prior to my being called for the session, Bob had gone through many players. They’d done a lot of recording in Nashville and New York, but still hadn’t gotten the tunes the way Bob wanted them.

Al knew that we were all comfortable together, and hoped that the sessions would go smoothly. There was a lot of burnt out emotion in the studio when I got there, and I couldn’t miss the frustration that Bob and Al were going through. The room was like sitting in a pressure cooker that was ready to blow! It took awhile for everyone to settle into a groove.

I played on If Not for You, Day of the Locusts, One More Weekend, Father of Night and The Man In Me. My performance is pretty much about the feel of the song.

What I do is listen to a combination of the rhythm and chords and find a basic part that fits. Then I evolve the part as the song comes together. It’s just moving and bridging sections so that the tunes becomes comfortable.

That’s what I did on New Morning and it worked.

 

Bob Dylan's Motorcycle Accident — 50 Years Ago!

On July 29, 1966 — 50 years ago — Bob Dylan crashed his 500cc Triumph Tiger 100 motorcycle on a road near where he was living in Woodstock, New York.

The accident ended the “rat race” for Dylan, and allowed him to end his world tour in 1966.

Dylan wouldn’t go on the road again for eight years.

While living in Woodstock after he recovered, Dylan began the informal recording sessions at Big Pink of over 100 songs with the future members of The Band. The songs became the “Basement Tapes.”

Here’s what Dylan wrote about the accident in Chronicles:

“I had been in a motorcycle accident and I’d been hurt, but I recovered. Truth was that I wanted to get out of the rat race. Having children changed my life and segregated me from just about everybody and everything that was going on. Outside of my family, nothing held any real interest for me and I was seeing everything through different glasses.”

This photo, made on a snowy day in 2011, is the approximate location on Striebel Road of Dylan’s motorcycle accident.

Striebel Road runs between Route 212 in Bearsville up to the Glasco Turnpike (Byrdcliffe). Albert Grossman, manager for Dylan and The Band, lived on this road.

Photo by Frank Beacham

Forest Hills and the Hollywood Bowl: The Days After Bob Dylan Went Electric

 

By Harvey Brooks

After recording Highway 61 Revisited, I got a call from Bob Dylan’s manager, Albert Grossman, asking that I come by his Manhattan office to sign some papers and talk. When I got there, Albert wanted to know what I thought of Dylan and was I available for more work. I told him I was available and had become a real Dylan fan since the recording session.

Albert said Bob likes your playing and wants you to play some concerts with him — one at the Forest Hills Tennis Stadium in Queens on August 28th and the other at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles in early September. I quickly signed on and our conversation was over. He said thanks for coming by and ushered me out the door.

Michael Bloomfield, who had played on the album wanted to keep his gig playing the blues with the Paul Butterfield Blues Band and passed, as did drummer Bobby Gregg, who was over-committed with studio sessions. Just after the Highway 61 Revisited session, Dylan had heard Robbie Robertson, a guitarist, and Levon Helm, a drummer, in a band called The Hawks at a small club. He was so impressed, he hired them on the spot as the guitar and drum replacements.

About a week later, I got a call from Dylan’s management office to be at the Carroll Music rehearsal studio at 625 West 55th Street to begin preparation for the two concerts.

It was here that I met Robertson and Helm for the first time. They had a Fender Bassman for me at the rehearsal and it was also my amp on stage for the concerts. We began what would be two weeks of intensive rehearsals for the Forest Hills concert.

The new guys totally changed the workings of the band from what we had in the studio. Robbie Robertson and Mike Bloomfield are both very energetic guitar players, but totally different in style. Bloomfield was spontaneous with his parts, while Robertson was stiffer and far more precise.

Where Bobby Gregg was a solid drummer right in the pocket, Levon was always on the edge. It’s always ‘oh, oh, are we gonna make it? Yeah!’ You always made it. But there was always a natural tension with everything Levon did. It’s a style that helped to create the sound of The Band later on. Dylan really related to it.

Because the songs were so strong in their identity, the addition of Robbie and Levon added to what Al and I had originally worked out in the studio. The truth is I never really thought about what the other guys were playing because I was locked into Dylan.

After some rehearsal, we began to relax. But it was tense until we got familiar with each other. Levon and I spent some time hanging out together in the village after rehearsal just talking about what was going on in our lives at that time — the women, the complications, the opportunities, getting high and Dylan’s music, which neither of us knew much about except that we both liked it.

Levon and I were at The Dugout on Bleecker Street eating some steak tidbits and taking it all in. Later, we walked by the Kettle of Fish on MacDougal St. and saw Dylan, Al Kooper and Bobby Neuwirth hanging out. But we opted to continue our conversation and new friendship over a cup of coffee downstairs at the nearby Gaslight Café.

With two weeks of rehearsals behind us, we were ready for the Forest Hills concert. Originally built in 1923 as the home of the U.S. Open Tennis Tournament, Forest Hills Stadium had hosted the Beatles and Barbara Streisand the year before. The Rolling Stones, Simon & Garfunkel, Jimi Hendrix, The Who and Frank Sinatra would play there around the time of our concert.

                                                                     Rehearsal photo by Gloria Stavers

August 28 was a typically hot and humid time of the summer, but on this evening the temperature began to drop. It soon became cold and windy. The stage where we were to perform was set back some distance from the stadium itself, which held about 15,000 fans.

Due to the stage lighting, we couldn’t see the audience — only the deep green lawn in front of us. Since Dylan had gone electric a few weeks earlier at Newport, uncertainty about what would happen here — his first live performance since Newport — was running high. The audience was self-righteously hostile and they didn’t hide it.

                                                                                 Photo by Gloria Stavers

The show got off to a surreal start when the crowd learned that the master of ceremonies was “Murray the K” Kaufman, a rock impresario and Top 40 disc jockey. This didn’t sit well with the purist folk music audience there to see Bob Dylan. The audience instantly greeted Kaufman with loud boos and jeers.

Al Kooper and I were standing next to Albert Grossman, who had this Cheshire cat expression on his face like he was enjoying the spectacle surrounding his artist. This moment was the first time I sensed Albert’s sense of humor and his take on the music business. He knew that all audience reaction — good or bad — boosted Bob’s notoriety and uniqueness.

The show began with Bob doing his all acoustic solo set. He opened with She Belongs to Me and did Gates of Eden, Love Minus Zero/No Limit, Desolation Row and It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue. The closing solo was Mr. Tambourine Man. The opening set seemed to calm the crowd.

For me it was like being a Roman Coliseum gladiator waiting in the wings while the crowd held its collective thumb in a middle neutral position. The thumb was pointing up after Bob finished his acoustic set, but as the amps and drums begin to make their appearance on the stage the thumb started to drop.

During the intermission, Dylan cleared the backstage area and called the band into a huddle. “I don’t know what it will be like out there,” he told us. “It’s going to be some kind of carnival and I want you to all know that up front. So go out there and keep playing no matter how weird it gets!”

As the band walked onto the stage, the temperature dropped further and the wind blew harder. We could hear the ominous grumbling of fans waiting to sit in judgment. Though we couldn’t see them, we could feel the tension in the cold night air.

We kicked off with Tombstone Blues to loud jeers and boos, which faded into mixed approval and applause by the end of the song. It was during the fifth song, Maggie’s Farm, that some of the fans jumped out of the seating area and ran across the green grass toward the stage. I only noticed it when I saw numerous security guards tackling folks as they came onto the stage. Bob never missed a beat and the band played on!

I watched Al fall to the stage, as his organ stool was pulled out from under him. Levon held his own as the crowd rushed at him. Bob, Robbie and I were towards the front of the stage. Robbie and I moved closer to Bob, who had a maniacal grin on his face.

When we got to Ballad of A Thin Man, Bob played the intro over and over again until the audience quieted down. I added that move into my book of  “do’s and don’t’s” of on-stage tactics. The concert finally closed with the classic Like a Rolling Stone — drawing cheers from the same audience that had booed us earlier.

The moment the show ended, Bob disappeared. He had left the stadium immediately in his limo leaving us sidemen to fend for ourselves. I left with Kooper, after weaving our way through the crowd, experiencing hot and cold crowd recognition for the first time.

After locating my car, we made our way back to Albert Grossman’s apartment on Manhattan’s lower west side for the after-show party. There we found a smiling Bob Dylan and a very satisfied Grossman.

Soon, we headed to Los Angeles, where our second concert would be held on Sept. 3, 1965 at the Hollywood Bowl. Robbie, Levon and I were told we were flying across the country on a private plane. At first, we were very pleased.

What we weren’t told, however, was the flight was aboard Albert Grossman’s Lockheed Lodestar, a World War II puddle jumper that would take 12 hours and would make three or four stops for fuel. Essentially, we would be keeping the band’s equipment company.

This was my first trip to Los Angeles. I exhaled on landing and took the tour of the LA freeway system as we weaved our way to the Hollywood Sunset Hotel on Sunset Blvd. Al and I were roommates. We stayed just down the hall from Dylan’s suite — arriving two days before the concert.

P.F. Sloan had called Bob to set up a meeting. Sloan had written a tune called the Eve of Destruction, which was a big hit for Barry Maguire. The song was obviously a Dylan imitation. Bob — playing the role of the spider drawing a fly into his complex web — was prepared for a “slice and dice” meeting. I had seen him use the same cutting down-to-size device in tandem with Grossman many times before. Both Bob and Albert enjoyed the edge of a mutual sarcastic banter.  

When I was with Bob, I mostly listened to his conversation since most of what he was saying was dramatically different than what I was used to hearing from others. I was in awe of Bob’s intellectual prowess. For me, playing chess with him years later in Woodstock, was a reminder that life is always a game and we are all still playing.

As we drove up the long driveway to the entrance and then the backstage area of the Hollywood Bowl, I could see the Dylan fans entering the venue. I couldn’t help but notice how different their attire and attitude was than those fans at Forest Hills. The California audience was laid back. They got what we were doing right off the bat.

I was standing next to Bob about to play for a mix of movie stars, folkies and hippies. It was thrilling. I kept my cool and casually took in the surreal view from the stage. At the Hollywood Bowl, there is a moat that separates the audience from the stage area. But I could make out the faces of the first two or three rows, spotting the likes of Gregory Peck, Mel Brooks, Peter Fonda and Johnny Cash watching from below.

We started off with Tombstone Blues, the same as Forest Hills. Except, this time there were smiles and people dancing in the audience. The set was loose, but we all followed Bob and met all the endings together.

Bob started blowing on his C harp — I forget which tune it was — but he couldn’t get the harp to play. Bob asked “Anyone out there got a C harp?” Within seconds, someone in the audience threw a harmonica across the moat that separated the fans from the stage. It landed right at Dylan’s feet. He picked it up and began to play. It was sublime intervention if I ever saw it.

The Hollywood Bowl concert was a major success. Kooper had sped off in the limo with Dylan while I was backstage talking to a young lady named Bobbie who was an actress in LA beach bunny movies and some of her friends. She offered to give me a ride to the hotel, but somehow we took a slight detour and I ended up at the beach in Malibu swimming with her in the moonlight. When I got back to the hotel, the after-concert party had ended.

I had to get to the airport the next day to fly back to New York City to rehearse for a three-week gig in Detroit with vocalist Chico Holiday that I had booked before I met Bob. It was not the best time to leave town for three weeks, but the gig was booked and I was committed.

Later, when I checked in from the Cadillac Square Hotel in Detroit as to when the next rehearsals would start, I was notified by Grossman’s office that the rest of Levon and Robbie’s band, “The Hawks,” would be replacing Al and myself on future shows. That is showbiz.

It turned out that the Hawks, who would soon change their name to The Band, were the perfect fit for Bob Dylan. The rest of the story is rock and roll history.

                                                                            Photo by Daniel Kramer

Folk City Exhibit Opens with a Party at The Museum of the City of New York

The Museum of the City of New York held a party on June 16 for the opening of Folk City: New York and the Folk Music Revival, a celebration of the city’s role as the center of the folk music revival from its beginnings in the 1930s and 1940s to its heyday in the 1950s and 1960s.

With a wide array of memorabilia, photos, video and sound recordings, the exhibition documents the music and movement that helped transform Greenwich Village and spread as a major cultural phenomenon.

Folk City remains on view through Sunday, November 29.

Many notables from the folk era were present at the party. Here are some images, all by Frank Beacham.

Fred Hellerman, the last surviving member of The Weavers

Oscar Brand, now 95, sings along with the band

Noel "Paul" Stookey of Peter, Paul and Mary sings to the crowd through reflected glass

John Cohen, performer, photographer, filmmaker and jack of all trades checks the audio board

John Hammond Jr., blues performer, with Terri Thal, early folk music manager of Bob Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, Danny Kalb and others

Tom Paxton

Dominic Chianese, actor and former emcee at Gerde's Folk City

Orangeburg Massacre Remains Unresolved in South Carolina After 47 Years

Racism is a very ugly thing. In the 1950s and 60s, it was far more overt than it is today. Jim Crow laws were openly defended in the South and those demanding civil rights for all citizens were despised, beaten and arrested.

The federal government — then on-board to stop racism — played catch-up in going to court to address the many violations in every aspect of life. For years, there were glitches in civil rights enforcement all over the nation.

One of those glitches happened in Orangeburg, S.C.. In 1968, a loophole in the Civil Rights Act passed four years earlier led to some delay in forcing All Star Bowling Lanes to admit blacks. With two black colleges in Orangeburg and nowhere else to bowl, the bowling alley became a target for civil rights advocates. The black students at the colleges wanted to bowl there and staged a demonstration.

All this might be forgotten today if this racist act hadn’t led to the brutal massacre of several black students by white highway patrolmen. Even worse, it all led to a cover-up of the shooting that continues today — the 47th anniversary of what is known as “The Orangeburg Massacre.”

A conservative Southern governor, wanting to appear tough to his white constituents, overreacted to the civil rights protest ordering a massive show of armed force. As emotions frayed and the situation veered out of control, nine white highway patrolmen opened gunfire onto the campus of South Carolina State College — killing three black students and wounding 27 others.

All the students were unarmed and in retreat from the highway patrolmen at the time of the shooting. Yet, without warning, they were shot in their backs with deadly buckshot.

Until the shooting, South Carolina was a southern state that had proudly celebrated a record of nonviolence during the turbulent civil rights years. It was all a façade. Nonviolence was equated with racial harmony in a white community with a paternalistic attitude toward its poorer black citizens. Equal rights were another thing.

To help protect its “progressive” self-image on racial issues, a web of official deceptions was created by South Carolina’s young governor — Robert McNair — and his administration to distort the facts and conceal the truth about what happened in Orangeburg.

The state claimed the deaths were the result of a two-way gun battle between students and lawmen at the college. The highway patrolmen insisted their shooting was done in self-defense in order to protect themselves from a attacking mob of students.

To bolster that claim and deflect responsibility from its own actions, the state hastily devised a media campaign to blame the riot on Cleveland Sellers, a young black activist working to organize area college students.

Time would prove none of it was true.

At first, the state’s cover-up worked. Later, upon outside scrutiny, it began to unravel. Then, with his legacy threatened, McNair broke nearly forty years of silence in 2006 in an attempt to put the pieces back together.

Ignoring facts proven over the years in court cases and through the first person accounts of eyewitnesses, McNair used local media and friendly “historians” as a tool to help members of his community lie to themselves about their own history. For the last year of his life, he deliberately fogged and distorted the story of the Orangeburg Massacre.

One man who knows the truth minced no words about what happened in 1968.

“They committed murder. Murder…that’s a harsh thing to say, but they did it,” said Ramsey Clark, U.S. Attorney General in 1968. “The police lost their self control. They just started shooting. It was a slaughter. Double ought buckshot is what you use for deer. It’s meant to kill. One guy emptied his service revolver. That takes a lot of shooting. The (students) are running away. Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow!  My God, there’s a murderous intent there. We are lucky more weren’t killed.”

Clark said the student deaths were caused by police criminal acts. “The provocation for the incident was an absurd, provocative display of force,” he said.

Gov. McNair responded to Orangeburg with excessive police power because that was the politically expedient thing to do in 1968, the former attorney general said.  

“Fear, anger, a sense of self-righteousness to justify hating began to be seen as successful politics.” When the tactic backfired, Clark added, state officials fabricated stories that many South Carolinians believe to this day.

After 47 years, the story of the Orangeburg Massacre still simmers, unresolved. It is the chilling saga of the horrors of law enforcement motivated by racism and hatred — and the inability of a Southern state to admit the truth.

The central theme is “mendacity,” the web of lies a community spins in a desperate attempt to maintain it’s self-image and dignity when confronted by its own prejudice. It’s a culture where words are constantly being redefined in order that a people can more comfortably deceive themselves.

Today, that racism still exists in South Carolina, as in other places in the country. It has been dressed up and made more sophisticated by the policies of a Republican-controlled legislature that still refuses to even investigate the massacre.

The sad story is after 47 years, the state of South Carolina will not admit it committed murder in the shootings at Orangeburg.

The complete story of the Orangeburg shooting and its cover-up is the subject of my multimedia e-book, “The Legacy of the Orangeburg Massacre.” The price is $9.99. (ISBN-9781629218762).

The book is available at Apple’s iTunes, Amazon’s Kindle book store and Barnes & Noble’s Nook store. It can also be bought directly from the store at Vook at http://store.vook.com/ and read online there on Macintosh and PC platforms.

Photo by Bill Barley

It's the 80th Anniversary of the Chiquola Mill Massacre in Honea Path, South Carolina

On the morning of September 6, 1934 — 80 years ago — in the tiny town of Honea Path, South Carolina, friends and neighbors came to blows in a labor dispute. When it was over, seven people were dead and 30 others wounded.

The bloody riot at the town's cotton mill on that warm Thursday morning shaped the lives of two generations to follow — not because of the shock of what was known, but by what was unknown. Fear, threats and intimidation were used to silence the story of the greatest tragedy in the town's history.

This September is the 80th anniversary of the murders at Chiquola Mill in Honea Path. Honea Path will not commemorate the anniversary. It would rather forget the tragedy. The story has been erased, not only from the history books, but from the public consciousness of those people most affected by it.

An instrument of fear was so powerful that parents were afraid to tell the story to their own children. It formed a lifelong social contract for the entire community's survival.
 
My name is Frank Beacham. I grew up in Honea Path. My mother was the town's history teacher. My father sold textile supplies. My grandfather, I later learned, organized the posse of gunmen who fired on their fellow workers in 1934.

In order that the murders in Honea Path not be forgotten, I have produced this 48-minute audio documentary. You can listen or download it. I hope you will listen. It will be posted during the month of September.

Audio Program

The 80th Anniversary of the Murders in Honea Path

My e-book, a full multimedia account of what happened in Honea Path is titled Mill Town Murder ($9.99) (ISBN-9781629218465). It’s available at Apple’s iTunes, Amazon’s Kindle book store and Barnes & Noble’s Nook store. It can also be bought directly from the store at Vook here and read online there on Macintosh and PC platforms.

45 Years Ago Today: The Apollo 11 Moon Launch

Forty-five years ago today, Apollo 11 was launched at 9:32 a.m. from Cape Canaveral, Florida, on the first historic journey to the surface of the moon.

After traveling 240,000 miles in 76 hours, Apollo 11 entered into a lunar orbit on July 19.

As a young reporter, I was at Cape Kennedy to cover the launch. Security in those days was remarkably light and we had access to virtually every part of the Kennedy Space Center.

I photographed the astronauts leaving for the launch pad and was driven by NASA to the Saturn V rocket carrying Apollo 11 during the night. As we waited in line for press credentials, I drank coffee with a young Norman Mailer, who was there to write his novel, “Of a Fire On the Moon.”

The next day, at 1:46 p.m., the lunar module Eagle, manned by astronauts Neil Armstrong and Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, separated from the command module, where a third astronaut, Michael Collins, remained. Two hours later, the Eagle began its descent to the lunar surface, and at 4:18 p.m. the craft touched down on the southwestern edge of the Sea of Tranquility.

Armstrong immediately radioed to Mission Control in Houston a famous message, "The Eagle has landed." At 10:39 p.m., five hours ahead of the original schedule, Armstrong opened the hatch of the lunar module. Seventeen minutes later, at 10:56 p.m., Armstrong spoke the following words to millions listening at home: "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." A moment later, he stepped off the lunar module's ladder, becoming the first human to walk on the surface of the moon.

Aldrin joined him on the moon's surface at 11:11 p.m., and together they took photographs of the terrain, planted a U.S. flag, ran a few simple scientific tests and spoke with President Richard M. Nixon via Houston. By 1:11 a.m. on July 21, both astronauts were back in the lunar module, and the hatch was closed.

The two men slept that night on the surface of the moon, and at 1:54 p.m. the Eagle began its ascent back to the command module. Among the items left on the surface of the moon was a plaque that read: "Here men from the planet Earth first set foot on the moon — July 1969 A.D. — We came in peace for all mankind."

At 5:35 p.m., Armstrong and Aldrin successfully docked and rejoined Collins, and at 12:56 a.m. on July 22 Apollo 11 began its journey home, safely splashing down in the Pacific Ocean at 12:51 p.m. on July 24.

There would be five more successful lunar landing missions, and one unplanned lunar swing-by, Apollo 13. The last men to walk on the moon, astronauts Eugene Cernan and Harrison Schmitt of the Apollo 17 mission, left the lunar surface on December 14, 1972.

The Apollo program was a costly and labor intensive endeavor, involving an estimated 400,000 engineers, technicians and scientists and costing $24 billion (close to $100 billion in today's dollars). The expense was justified by President John F. Kennedy's 1961 mandate to beat the Soviets to the moon, and after the feat was accomplished, ongoing missions lost their viability.

Four hours before liftoff, Neil Armstrong leads the astronauts into the vehicle for the ride to the Apollo 11 launch pad

Buzz Aldren leaves the astronaut quarters for the vehicle to the launch pad

In 1969, “security” was a foreign concept. If you had press credentials — which you could get for the asking — you could go practically anywhere. The times were different then.

That freedom included access to the astronauts and the Apollo 11 rocket before the moon launch in 1969. Between five and six in the morning — before sunrise — the astronauts entered a vehicle for the ride to the rocket on the launch pad. I was so close I could reach out and touch them.

In these shots, Buzz Aldrin leaves the crew building walking to the vehicle. The three astronauts, led by Neil Armstrong, enter the vehicle a couple of minutes later. It was less than four hours before these three men would be on their way to the moon.

The VIP seating area at the Kennedy Space Center. That’s Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon in the middle sitting together to view the launch.

Friends pose by the Saturn 5 that would carry Apollo 11 to the moon at the Kennedy Space Center. From left, Ed Riley, Bob Griffeth and Frank Beacham

After the launch on July 16, 1969, I went to my car to leave the Kennedy Space Center. It hit me as I pulled out that I didn’t have a souvenir of the launch. I looked up and there was a “Moon Parking” sign.

I stopped, grabbed the sign and put in the trunk of my car. I still have that sign to this day.

(With the exception of the "friends" image, all photos by Frank Beacham)

After 102 Years, Woody Guthrie's Impact Still As Vital As Ever

Woody Guthrie, the great American troubadour, is as revelant as ever in his 102th year.

Guthrie was a singer-songwriter and folk musician whose musical legacy includes hundreds of political, traditional and children's songs, ballads and improvised works. He frequently performed with the slogan “This Machine Kills Fascists” displayed on his guitar.

His best-known song is "This Land Is Your Land." Many of his recorded songs are archived in the Library of Congress. Such songwriters as Bob Dylan, Phil Ochs, Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp, Pete Seeger, Joe Strummer, Billy Bragg, Jay Farrar, Jeff Tweedy, Bob Childers and Tom Paxton have acknowledged Guthrie as a major influence.

Many of his songs are about his experiences in the Dust Bowl era during the Great Depression when Guthrie traveled with migrant workers from Oklahoma to California and learned their traditional folk and blues songs, earning him the nickname the "Dust Bowl Troubadour." Throughout his life Guthrie was associated with United States Communist groups, though he was seemingly not a member of any.

Guthrie was married three times and fathered eight children, including American folk musician Arlo Guthrie. Guthrie died from complications of Huntington's disease, a progressive genetic neurological disorder. During his later years, in spite of his illness, Guthrie served as a figurehead in the folk movement, providing inspiration to a generation of new folk musicians, including mentor relationships with Ramblin' Jack Elliott and Bob Dylan.

Guthrie was born in Okemah, a small town in Okfuskee County, Oklahoma. His parents named him after Woodrow Wilson, then Governor of New Jersey and the Democratic candidate soon to be elected President of the United States.

The young Guthrie seemed to have a natural affinity for music and easily learned to play a harmonica by ear. He began to use his musical skills around town, playing a song for a sandwich or coins. Guthrie easily learned old ballads and traditional English & Scots songs from the parents of friends. Although he did not excel as a student (he dropped out of high school in his fourth year and did not graduate), his teachers described him as bright. He was an avid reader on a wide range of topics. Friends recall his reading constantly.

At age 19, Guthrie met and married his first wife, Mary Jennings, with whom he had three children, Gwendolyn, Sue and Bill. With the advent of the Dust Bowl era, Guthrie joined the thousands of Okies who were migrating to California looking for work. Many of his songs are concerned with the conditions faced by these working class people.

During the late part of that decade, he achieved fame with radio partner Maxine "Lefty Lou" Crissman as a broadcast performer of commercial "hillbilly" music and traditional folk music. Guthrie was making enough money to send for his family. While appearing on the commercial radio station KFVD, owned by a populist-minded New Deal Democrat Frank W. Burke, Guthrie began to write and perform some of the protest songs that would eventually appear on Dust Bowl Ballads.

It was at KFVD that Guthrie met newscaster Ed Robbin. Robbin was impressed with a song Guthrie wrote about Thomas Mooney, believed by many to be a wrongly convicted man who was, at the time, a leftist cause célèbre. Robbin, who became Guthrie's political mentor, introduced Guthrie to socialists and Communists in Southern California, including Will Geer (who, in turn, introduced Guthrie to John Steinbeck).

Robbin remained Guthrie's lifelong friend, and helped Guthrie book benefit performances in the Communist circles in Southern California. Notwithstanding Guthrie's later claim that "the best thing that I did in 1936 was to sign up with the Communist Party," he was never a member of the Party.

He was noted as a fellow traveler—an outsider who agreed with the platform of the party while not subject to party discipline.

Will Geer invited Guthrie to visit New York. Arriving in city, Guthrie, known as "the Oklahoma cowboy," was embraced by its leftist folk music community. For a time, he slept on a couch in Geer's apartment. Guthrie made his first recordings—several hours of conversation and songs recorded by the folklorist Alan Lomax for the Library of Congress—as well as an album, Dust Bowl Ballads, for Victor Records in Camden, New Jersey.

Guthrie was tired of the radio overplaying Irving Berlin's "God Bless America." He thought the lyrics were unrealistic and complacent. Partly inspired by his experiences during a cross-country trip and his distaste for "God Bless America," he wrote his most famous song, "This Land Is Your Land," in February 1940; it was subtitled "God Blessed America for Me."

The melody is adapted from an old gospel song, "Oh My Loving Brother." This was best known as "When The World's On Fire," sung by the country group The Carter Family. Guthrie signed the manuscript with the comment, "All you can write is what you see, Woody G., N.Y., N.Y., N.Y."

In March 1940, Guthrie was invited to play at a benefit hosted by The John Steinbeck Committee to Aid Farm Workers, to raise money for migrant workers. There he met the folksinger Pete Seeger, and the two men became good friends. Later, Seeger accompanied Guthrie back to Texas to meet other members of the Guthrie family. He recalled an awkward conversation with Mary Guthrie's mother, in which she asked for Seeger's help to persuade Guthrie to treat her daughter better.

Guthrie had some success in New York at this time as a guest on CBS's radio program Back Where I Come From and used his influence to get a spot on the show for his friend Huddie "Lead Belly" Ledbetter. Ledbetter's Tenth Street apartment was a gathering spot for the leftwing musician circle in New York at the time, and Guthrie and Ledbetter were good friends, as they had busked together at bars in Harlem.

In November 1941, Seeger introduced Guthrie to his friend the poet Charles Olson, then a junior editor at the fledgling magazine Common Ground. The meeting led to Guthrie writing the article Ear Players in the Spring 1942 issue of the magazine. The article marked Guthrie's debut as a published writer in the mainstream media.

In September 1940, Guthrie was invited by the Model Tobacco Company to host their radio program, Pipe Smoking Time. Guthrie was paid $180 a week, an impressive salary in 1940. He was finally making enough money to send regular payments back to Mary, who was living in Texas. He also brought her and the children to New York, where the family lived briefly in an apartment on Central Park West.

The reunion represented Woody's desire to be a better father and husband. He said "I have to set ['sic'] real hard to think of being a dad." Guthrie quit after the seventh broadcast, claiming he had begun to feel the show was too restrictive when he was told what to sing. Disgruntled with New York, Guthrie packed up Mary and his children in a new car and headed west to California.

In May 1941, after a brief stay in Los Angeles, Guthrie moved the family north to Washington state on the promise of a job. While writing songs for a documentary, Guthrie toured the Columbia River and the Pacific Northwest. He said he "couldn't believe it, it's a paradise," which appeared to inspire him creatively. In one month Guthrie wrote 26 songs, including three of his most famous: "Roll On Columbia," "Pastures of Plenty" and "Grand Coulee Dam." The surviving songs were released as Columbia River Songs.

At the conclusion of the month in Oregon and Washington, Guthrie wanted to return to New York. Tired of the continual uprooting, Mary Guthrie told him to go without her and the children. Although Guthrie would see Mary again, once on a tour through Los Angeles with the Almanac Singers, it was essentially the end of their marriage.

Following the conclusion of his work in Washington State, Guthrie corresponded with Pete Seeger about Seeger's newly formed folk-protest group, the Almanac Singers. Guthrie returned to New York with plans to tour the country as a member of the group. The singers originally worked out of a loft in New York City hosting regular concerts called "hootenannys," a word Pete and Woody had picked up in their cross-country travels. The singers eventually outgrew the space and moved into the cooperative Almanac House in Greenwich Village.

Initially Guthrie helped write and sing what the Almanac Singers termed "peace" songs; while the Nazi-Soviet Pact was in effect, until Hitler invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941, the Communist line was that World War II was a capitalist fraud. After Hitler's invasion of the Soviet Union, the group wrote anti-fascist songs. The members of the Almanac Singers and residents of the Almanac House were a loosely defined group of musicians, though the 'core' members included Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Millard Lampell and Lee Hays.

In keeping with common socialist ideals, meals, chores and rent at the Almanac House were shared. The Sunday hootenannys were good opportunities to collect donation money for rent. Songs written in the Almanac House had shared songwriting credits among all the members, although in the case of "Union Maid," members would later state that Guthrie wrote the song, ensuring that his children would receive residuals.

In the Almanac House, Guthrie added authenticity to their work, since he was a "real" working-class Oklahoman. "There was the heart of America personified in Woody ... And for a New York Left that was primarily Jewish, first or second generation American, and was desperately trying to get Americanized, I think a figure like Woody was of great, great importance," a friend of the group, Irwin Silber, would say.

Guthrie was a prolific writer, penning thousands of pages of unpublished poems and prose, many written while living in New York City. After a recording session with Alan Lomax, Lomax suggested Guthrie write an autobiography. Lomax thought Guthrie's descriptions of growing up were some of the best accounts he had read of American childhood.

During this time Guthrie met Marjorie Mazia, a dancer in New York who would become his second wife. Mazia was an instructor at the prestigious Martha Graham Dance School, where she was assisting Sophie Maslow with her piece Folksay.

Based on the folklore and poetry collected by Carl Sandburg, Folksay included the adaptation of some of Guthrie's Dust Bowl Ballads for the dance. Guthrie continued to write songs and began work on his autobiography. The end product, Bound for Glory, was completed with the patient editing assistance of Mazia and was first published by E.P. Dutton in 1943.

It is vividly told in the artist's down-home dialect, with the flair and imagery of a true storyteller. Library Journal complained about the "too careful reproduction of illiterate speech." But Clifton Fadiman, reviewing the book in the New York Times, paid the author a fine tribute: "Someday people are going to wake up to the fact that Woody Guthrie and the ten thousand songs that leap and tumble off the strings of his music box are a national possession, like Yellowstone and Yosemite, and part of the best stuff this country has to show the world.” A film adaptation of Bound for Glory was released in 1976.

In 1944, Guthrie met Moses "Moe" Asch of Folkways Records, for whom he first recorded "This Land Is Your Land." Over the next few years, he recorded "Worried Man Blues," along with hundreds of other songs. These recordings would later be released by Folkways and Stinson Records, which had joint distribution rights. The Folkways recordings are available (through the Smithsonian Institute online shop); the most complete series of these sessions, culled from dates with Asch, is titled The Asch Recordings.

Guthrie served in the Merchant Marine during the war. In 1945, his association with Communism made him ineligible for further service in the Merchant Marine, and he was drafted into the U.S. Army.

While he was on furlough from the Army, Guthrie and Marjorie were married. After his discharge, they moved into a house on Mermaid Avenue in Coney Island and over time had four children. One of their children, Cathy, died as a result of a fire at age four, sending Guthrie into a serious depression. Their other children were Joady, Nora and Arlo. Arlo followed in his father's footsteps as a singer-songwriter. During this period, Guthrie wrote and recorded Songs to Grow on for Mother and Child, a collection of children's music, which includes the song "Goodnight Little Arlo (Goodnight Little Darlin')," written when Arlo was about nine years old.

The years living on Mermaid Avenue were among Guthrie's most productive periods as a writer. His extensive writings from this time were archived and maintained by Marjorie and later his estate, mostly handled by Guthrie's daughter, Nora. Several of the manuscripts contain scribblings by a young Arlo and the other Guthrie offspring.

During this time Ramblin' Jack Elliott studied extensively under Guthrie, visiting his home and observing how he wrote and performed. Elliott, like Bob Dylan later, idolized Guthrie and was inspired by his idiomatic performance style and repertoire. Because of Guthrie's suffering Huntington's disease, Dylan and Guthrie's son Arlo later claimed they learned much of Guthrie's performance style from Elliott.

When asked about Arlo's claim, Elliott said, "I was flattered. Dylan learned from me the same way I learned from Woody. Woody didn't teach me. He just said, If you want to learn something, just steal it—that's the way I learned from Lead Belly."

By the late 1940s, Guthrie's health was declining, and his behavior was becoming extremely erratic. He received various diagnoses (including alcoholism and schizophrenia), but in 1952, it was finally determined that he was suffering from Huntington's disease, a genetic disorder inherited from his mother.

Guthrie, increasingly unable to control his muscles, was hospitalized at Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital from 1956 to 1961, at Brooklyn State Hospital until 1966, and finally at Creedmoor Psychiatric Center until his death.

When Bob Dylan, who idolized Guthrie and whose early folk career was largely inspired by him, learned that Guthrie was hospitalized in Brooklyn, he was determined to meet his idol. By this time, Guthrie was said to have his "good days" and "bad days."

On the good days, Dylan would sing songs to him, and at the beginning Guthrie seemed to warm to Dylan. When the bad days came, Guthrie would berate Dylan. Reportedly on Dylan's last visit, Guthrie did not recognize him.

At the end of his life, Guthrie was largely alone except for family. Because of the progression of Huntington's, he was difficult to be around. Guthrie's illness was essentially untreated, because of a lack of information about the disease. He died on Oct. 3, 1967 at age 55.

In the late 1950s and early 1960s, a new generation of young people was inspired by folk singers including Guthrie. These "folk revivalists" became more politically aware in their music than those of the previous generation. The American Folk Revival was beginning to take place, focused on the issues of the day, such as the civil rights movement and free speech movement.

Honoring a Long Overdue Southern Hero

April 11, 2014 was a historic day in Charleston, South Carolina. A monument was unveiled for a man whose brave actions involving civil rights 67 years ago caused him to be ostracized and run out of his home state of South Carolina.

Historically in Charleston, it has been a special kind of hell for black people. As slaves, blacks were publicly whipped, branded and hanged. Later, they were discriminated against on so many levels one couldn’t count them. Things are still far from truly equal.

In the late 1940s, before the rest of the nation started to fight for civil rights, this man — a federal judge who was the son of a Confederate soldier and presided in the city where the Civil War began — took some extraordinarily brave actions on the bench.

U.S. District Judge Waites Waring ruled in 1947 that South Carolina’s all-white Democratic primary was unconstitutional, and later, well before the U.S. Supreme Court got around to agreeing with him, that racial segregation in the schools was inherently unequal.

Waring's controversial opinions made him a pariah in the segregated South. A cross was burned in his yard, bricks were thrown through his windows and he received numerous death threats.

Congressman L. Mendel Rivers of Charleston called Judge Waring “a monster” on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives. The judge was shunned by his own relatives, forced to resign from his clubs and even from his own church, and finally from the federal bench. He and his wife fled to New York City for their personal safety.

In South Carolina, punishment for such “sins” is silence. The white people of Charleston made Judge Waring disappear. Largely forgotten in Charleston for more than five decades, Waring is finally being remembered today for the role he played in school desegregation.

A statue of Waring will be dedicated today at the federal courthouse where he heard his cases. Also, a historical marker about the Clarendon County, South Carolina case he presided over was recently placed outside the courthouse.

Waring's 1951 dissent in the Clarendon case was largely followed by the U.S. Supreme Court in its landmark Brown vs. Board of Education outlawing segregated public schools. The Brown ruling came after the appeal of the South Carolina case was combined with similar cases from Kansas, Delaware and the District of Columbia.

Waring was the first judge since the U.S. Supreme Court 1896’s decision in Plessey vs. Ferguson establishing separate but equal in race relations as the law of the land to write an opinion challenging the doctrine.

Waring wrote that beyond unequal facilities "segregation in education can never produce equality" and called it "an evil that must be eradicated." The Clarendon County case, he wrote, demanded a "strike at the cause of the infection and not merely at the symptoms of the disease."

When Waring and two other federal judges heard the Clarendon case in Charleston in 1951 — a case in which future Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall argued for the plaintiffs — hundreds of blacks lined up outside the courthouse hoping to get seats, although there wasn't room for all.

"They had come there on pilgrimage," Waring recalled in an interview at Columbia University some years later. "It's awfully heartening when you get poor, illiterate, ignorant people to suddenly sniff a little breath of freedom."

After Judge Waring arrived in New York City, he befriended the late CBS journalist Charles Kuralt. The judge was asked by Kuralt how he had come so far, considering his Southern background, to make such a brave ruling.

“Being a judge,” Waring told Kuralt, “I gradually became judicious.”

Kuralt, in his book “Charles Kuralt’s America,” said the next time Waring returned to Charleston was to be buried. Kuralt was at the funeral as a reporter on January 17, 1969.

“I remember no more than six or eight white faces in the crowd; white Charlestonians, including most members of his family, stayed home that day to show their contempt for him. Hundreds of black people stood there shoulder to shoulder to show their respect.”

Kuralt called Waring in his book “an unsung American hero.” And that he was.

South Carolina has changed in many ways since Judge Waring made his famous rulings. But it is far too soon to say that racism there is behind us. It has just taken on a different form in a harsh political establishment that is virtually all far rightwing Republicans.

But at least the silence has ended and Judge Waring got a public appreciation for his bravery and good works. In a political environment like the one in South Carolina, that’s a miracle in itself.

With thanks to the Associated Press and Charles Kuralt!