IF I HAD A WEBSITE . . .

I’d explore the topic of Hillary hatred. On the internet we find a whole range of Hillary-hate, and I do not use the term ‘hate’ lightly --- as many do, using it to stigmatize simple disagreement or reservations about a current dogma. Having reservations is not hate; being reluctant to jump on a particular bandwagon is not hate. To mischaracterize anything from nuanced disagreement to blundering stupidity as ‘hate’ is a favorite liberal sleight-of-hand --- or fallacy --- it is the liberals’ equivalent of the ‘communist’ smear which was the right’s favorite tarbrush in the 1950’s. ‘Communist’ was applied to everything from union activism to simple kindness to common sense.

However, Hillary hatred is real and widespread, and by listening to its enthusiasts and promoters we can gain an insight into the human condition --- a sad and disturbing insight.

Today’s extravaganzas of mischaracterization take me back to the early 1990’s --- to Bill’s first term --- when Hillary was widely portrayed as the communist bitch from hell who was manipulating her amiable dunce of a husband into turning the United States into a communist nation. Nowadays, of course, she is viewed as the capitalist tool whose mission, on behalf of the 1%, is to divert and bury progressives’ hopes --- all the while enriching herself through bribery and favoritism. And, of course, LYING about it all. That’s a long journey to make in one lifetime.

Let us start at the bottom. “Hillary is a lying cunt, she should be taken out and shot.” Posters of this type are usually on the right. They go on and on, a phonograph needle stuck in one groove, and squeeze repeated pleasure from finding new and inventive ways to acid-scald their target. It reminds me of those movies where the detective finds & searches through the killer’s hideout: the killer has found a dozen ways to stab and deface the photograph of his next victim, and post it on the wall. These movies ring true because they visually depict the inner world of a person whom we find all around us, a person whose inner life we intuit but prefer not to think about, a person whose vibes penetrate our world --- but, so long as we can do our job and get through the day, take care of our business, we prefer not to let them affect us.

The serial hater has bonded with a favorite devil-image --- “She will have you KILLED, over 150 people have been murdered by the Hillary hit team” --- he’s married to that idea --- he (or she) derives psychic sustenance from bathing in it on a daily basis. Every day he/she must stick pins in their private voodoo doll. This type of person is distressingly common. We see, for instance, in print and and video, certain blacks’ depictions of whites. Whites are daily seeking ways to destroy black people’s minds and economic progress. White people stole everything from black culture and conceal the theft --- they cunningly conceal their ill intent behind masks of friendship. Look at how they destroyed Bill Cosby.

To the true believer, then, ‘evidences’ can always be found. ‘Evidences’ stick to the hatemonger like lint to hairballs or dust to static electricity. There is an ineluctable attraction between the diseased mind and fake evidence. Once attached, they cannot be pried loose. These ‘evidences’ or allegations become items in a deranged psychic ecology --- they assist the flow of energy from one point to the next. There is no point in presenting contrary evidence, no point in debunking.

It makes you wonder, of course, what is the nature of this psychic ecology that shunts hate from the nervous system to the public sphere, and out into the daily celebration, the devils’ carnival where haters meet up with one another in grateful union. How did people get this way? Hate mimics the forms of moral outrage and so tries to seduce others who are less hip-to-the-game to join it. “The Clintons run a vast criminal conspiracy through bribery and murder and payoffs.” The only counter-appeal is to the listeners’ sense of reality --- and if their sense of reality is already lame or corrupted then there is nothing one can do. In this world, if you do not fall howling into the void of crazy, then you are ‘sheeple’, too meek to admit the truth, or to take the leap.

So the reasoned presentation of evidence, argument, explanation, and debunking will get you nowhere, because soon as one hydra head is cut off, the hater will dip into his core and bring forth a dozen more silly notions. So we must ask, once again: how did people get this way? What sick path of inner life did they follow to finally plop down in the sewers, locked and loaded, believing they are the One Last Holdout? Most especially, what kind of parent/child interactions prevailed in the household they grew up in? What was missing from the psycho-spiritual atmosphere, and what was all too present in it?

I saw a woman on CNN the other night. She was exultant. She thought her Moment Had Come. Blazing with triumph, she announced that Hillary’s ‘pay for play’ scheme had finally been uncovered, her vast criminality brought to light. No evidence, of course, just deranged belief, but throw out carelessly as if it were fact. Slander must, of course, be tolerated by Democrats lest they get a name as Bad Sports.

The fact is, something new has entered the world. It is feeling its oats, discovering its power and, beyond that, the wider extent of its influence. It is like a cancerous potato in the body of humanity, with eyes and shoots and a root system hidden below the soil. ‘Nice’ people are not equipped to understand it of call it by its name, because it has none yet. It has learned how to mimic the appearances of moral outrage and wised-up realism, but these are only the guises it assumes --- its pullovers, its slipcovers.

To call it ‘hate’ is too simple.

2

Every day, during the 1990’s, on the syndicated radio shows, and their crude local imitators, we heard (pretended) outrage at Hillary’s very presence in the White House. “No one elected her!” What was she to do, go back to Arkansas or Illinois, or be sealed up in an attic? Every caller seemed to have a special, knowing insight into her depravity, her un-American-ness, her slinking wickedness, her affairs with staffers, both male and female, and of course, her hand in running the Clinton murder empire. Any fantasy a right-wing loony chose to float into the public sphere was taken up as fact and proof that the liberal press was too biased, too prejudiced to follow up on what all listeners knew to be true; knew it because it felt so right. Why did it feel right? Because it enabled a dark vision to expand: a snarled mess of bile to be ejected, hurled out into the world to drip off a target of convenience. This toxic mess lived in the belly, poisoning the caller/listener. Only by expelling it could the listener/caller live another day without it clogging the system. Talk radio served this unmet need. It was embraced by a species of human being that had hitherto been invisible, unheard, and powerless. It was a subhuman species, true, but it had rights too. We want to live! they proclaimed. We hate, therefore we are! The liberal media will not let us live!
The target of convenience shifted as the months went by, but Hillary Clinton was always close to the top of the H Parade. Saul Alinsky, it was said, had taken the burning red coal of radicalism from his mouth and placed it on Hillary’s tongue, a livid and obscene act of Satanic communion. “A woman like that in the White House!”

Well, if ‘liberals’ thrived on building hate-castles in the air, then we had opportunity to have done so during the Reagan presidency. Nancy was publicly exposed as a cold, unfeeling mother by two of her own children; she adored Ronnie but little else. She consulted astrologers and was said by Peter Lawford to have gone on a road trip with him and another friend (back in the day) and to have spent their drive time fellating them both. She was said to have pleased the studio executives in this manner. If someone wanted to mount a moral crusade about bringing “that kind of woman” into the White House, it certainly could have been done --- but ‘liberals’ get no pleasure from these snarling witch-hunts. At most, we were mildly amused. It did not become an item on the daily hate parade. Because --- surprise! --- WE DON’T HAVE ONE. We get agitated about real issues.

  There is some sort of shrunken moral dwarfism about what today calls itself ‘conservatism’, parading about in the dead flayed skin of that fine old name. I call myself a ‘liberal’ in practical matters and a ‘left-wing conservative’ in my heart, and I do not know these monsters who have appropriated half my name. They offend me by their sound and smell, by their very presence on earth.

3

Lately, Hillary hatred has morphed --- every innocuous incident is seized upon and turned into an ‘evidence’ of moral depravity or inhuman greed --- a new theory for every incident. No longer is she the hard-core communist, guiding her malleable husband. Now she is the witch of capitalism, an ally of the 1%. Now she is the cold personification of greed. Now she dumps nuclear secrets on the internet a la Snowden for the whole world to see. The Limbaugh/Hannity dinosaurs have united with the Sanders kids. . . . strange bedfellows. The kids are almost forgivable . . . but not quite. They show a fundamental ignorance that does not speak well for the future. They fling themselves down the pit of crazy because it feels so good.

Perhaps we need to unite by projecting all evil onto one person and agreeing, communally, to make that person the exemplar of all that menaced us when we were children, or of all we sense within ourselves but try to resist. Our need to speak to ourselves about these matters, these private woes, to speak through vivid and compelling dramas we create and project, is stronger than our need to know actuality. The Monster From The Id must be summoned up and terminated. It is fun to lob stones at the accused adulteress who is buried up to her neck in the sand. She cannot hurt us. We affirm our higher morality that way. It’s fun to be bad in the service of good.

4

On TV we see the down-home folks give their assessments of Hillary. These are the salt of the earth, the Okies, the horny-handed workers whose native virtue and earthy good sense endeared them to a generation of left-wing folksingers. We see Woody Guthrie’s people show us their contempt for Woody Allen’s people. And we do not know what to do.
  Not just Woody Guthrie’s people. There are real-estate brokers and small-town investment schemers, farm equipment dealers and beauty-shop dressers and gilders, all a generation or two or three removed from actual labor. They are, in Marxist terms, the petit bourgeoisie. They are doing okay. They hate Hillary. They are wearing “Fuck that bitch” t-shirts. They are Trumpistas. They have found a common language that unites them. They seem to have created a stick-witch for burning that bears no relation to the actually existing Hillary. The actually existing Hillary is irrelevant. She is an impediment that must be ignored. The dry crackly stick-witch is the more exciting figure. As they describe her --- her conniving nature, her overarching greed, her constant lying, her untrustworthy stab-you-in-the-back nature, her shallow desires --- pearls and bank accounts and social prominence ---
You realize they are describing a woman who is all too common in their environment --- a woman who will get close to you and pretend to be your friend, just to steal your boyfriend --- a woman who’ll say one thing to your face and another behind your back --- a cold, self-obsessed woman you might have looked to once, hoping for her grace or generosity or approval, till you realized she had none to bestow --- a woman who might have been (let us whisper it) your own mother, or any one or all of the pack of girlfriends you fell in with in high school; or the woman, one social step above you, who was determined to marry the big house and once married, to keep you at arm’s length --- it is more important that this woman, all fifty or a hundred of whom surrounded you when you grew up and who surround you to this day --- must be named and embodied (in Hillary) and STONED TO DEATH. She has nothing to do with the actually existing Hillary Clinton and everything to do with you and the predatory sisterhood, a member of which you’ve half become. But why can’t you see the actually existing Hillary, who is not that hard to see, and feel some shame for what you’re doing?

  I think it is because people like HRC and motives like hers do not really exist in your world. You cannot believe in what you’ve never encountered, unless it’s a TV preacher or a self-described billionaire who --- improbably --- LOVES YOU. You are Cinderella and he is the prince who will not marry you because he already has a 10 but can make you wealthy too. He will throw fairy-dust out from the TV and jobs will spring up all around you. You sent for that prayer-cloth a decade ago, didn’t you?

All the hate from personal disappointment must be channeled into Hillary. All those bitches! All your dreams of the prince who’ll rescue you, or the lord of the manor who will fall for the serving-girl or governess, just like in the harlequin novels --- that is the wonderful Donald. That he is an ignorant boor makes him all the more sympathetic. He’s like the bullet-headed boy who mocked you in grade school, or the lout by the grease rack who mumbles sexual innuendo just below your hearing-level, but you know what he’s saying anyway. Donald is REAL but he’s a billionaire and that’s why he’ll see you and rescue you. He’s the guy, or the devil, that you know. Hillary, you don’t know what the hell she is, she’s a puzzling blank page, and onto her line-drawn outline you will scrawl the most lurid crayon-colors you can lay hold of, breaking the tip every time. You resent her --- why? You’d best answer that yourself --- and she’s a convenient scapegoat for ALL THOSE BITCHES.

Now I don’t want to overplay the Cinderella angle just because it’s a fun trope to work with. If it misses the mark even by 10%, then that miss weakens my argument, which must depend on Truth, the Truth which resounds like the bong of a cast-bronze bell. There’s some truth yet to be found. But before we go there, let’s say just what HRC is and what she isn’t. She isn’t hard to see.

The Trumpistas I see interviewed on TV or hear, by the many dozens, on talk radio, do not have any idea what she actually is. They root through their vulgar slanders like pigs in mud because . . . why? Because of a failure to understand? Because of resentment? Or because understanding was never that important to them in the first place --- I believe that’s it --- the scientist in his lab may seek to understand, but that sort of understanding is of no use to most people. Only the creation of thrilling images is, of dramas that stir up the primal flood of alarm and animosity. And the image of choice is the wicked stick-witch, ripe for burning: it draws their minds like shit draws flies. It waves its beacons in the air and guides their thoughts down to a predestined runway. The thoughts, flying through the heavens, home in. The free mind has been subordinated to a compelling inner need.

What is it they need?

They have long since forgotten. It was something they needed as infants, but did not get. They could not form as whole beings without it. Instead, they had to congeal like curdled milk under a hardened surface, a surface formed to rebuff rejection and contain pain. They could not reach the stars or the high windy places where the mind is taken up by the spirit and the two whirl up into the loving hands of God. They had to become troglodytes, and they resent it.

Now to describe the actually existing Hillary, because she is not hard to see. She is one of my own people, or close to it. Born into comfortable-enough surroundings, she grew up out of her hometown Republicanism (as millions of us did) because she saw that it protected the security of an insular class: the people with the nice houses. The 60’s did this for all of us, if we had open eyes. She was a grind, a hard study, a library late-nighter by nature, she pursued her degree while harboring severe doubts about the rightness of the whole Western project --- to subordinate the world to the thirsty greed of capital. But what was she to do, then, with her degree? Well she would serve the Good, and through incrementalism --- by fighting small necessary battles, one by one --- she would improve the lot of People Who Were Having A Hard Time. This was a common choice for the achievers of our generation --- turning our backs on corporate America. Apparently it was a choice that the Hillary-haters find hard to imagine. They never made any such choice in their own lives, so they cannot believe it is a real choice anyone ever makes, except for PR reasons. It is a choice that shames them and shows them up, because every goal they ever pursued has been for their own advantage, and they have pursued it by grab-and-hold and show your teeth in a fake smile. So the kind of disinterested, generalized good will that is the guiding principle of so many of us has got to be beaten out of the popular discourse, mocked to death if possible. It doesn’t exist.

She had met and married Bill, whom she knew was going to run for president, while he, seeing her ability, told her that she could reach that goal too. This was their little secret. She would work hard and do her homework and serve well in every capacity, serve well and faithfully, and one day her time would come --- they’d both work toward this end, she would help him and he would help her.

I don’t think this is too hard to see.

She and Bill just didn’t figure on the army of grotesques, of drunks and crypto-segs, posing as Good Old Boys, that would arise to accuse them of outlandish crimes at every turn. Nor did they figure on the shamelessness of the national Republican party whose leadership, knowing that the slander-fantasies of Bill and Hillary as the Don Genovise and Lucretia Borgia of Arkansas were bullcrap --- catnip for mental defectives --- promoted the accusations anyway, with a smirk and a knowing wink. And lastly, they didn’t figure on the ambition of reporters --- galvanized by the success of Woodward and Bernstein --- who dreamed of a Pulitzer plaque on their walls if they could pull off the same success with a take-down of Bill that W & B pulled off with Nixon. The scent of a future Pulitzer is like blood in the water. The idea that the press gave Bill a free ride is part of the jack-off ‘Poor Us’ meme that the party of Gingrich and Limbaugh uses to stir up its army of --- what shall we call them? The Perpetually Aggrieved, who are outraged that anything more graceful, intelligent, and humane than themselves can exist anywhere in the world and it’s not kissing their ass.

Now: what I just said is sweet honey for the horseflies of the right --- the people who make it their business to shape the understanding of their compliant audience --- by misrepresenting anything and everything said or done. Their favorite technique is to invoke class-shaming --- “You think you’re better than us!” Using this accusation, they arouse the shames implanted in the less well-to-do, the shames that country-club Republicans, all unrepentant materialists, proud owners of two-story Georgian boxes, curators of furniture museums, paymasters of the gardener, the lawn man, and the pool man --- the shames that the success-worshippers impose on those less successful. The people with the broken swing-sets in the back yard must be carefully taught that it is the Democrats who look down on them --- who are responsible for their fate --- not the setters of credit-card rates and bank fees, not the manipulators of finance, not the stockholders who will soon ship their jobs to Mexico. They must be trained to resent the miserable weak let-us-help-you Democrats and to support the rip-you-open-and-sell-your-organs-on-the-open-market Republicans. Toward this end they must cultivate and drive home every day the image of the frivolously fashionable wine-and-cheese-party Democrats who despise them for their clothes, their manners, etc. The less well-to-do are always a fertile field for these resentments --- they are already self-shamed, they live with a big soft wound, by comparing themselves to their more successful age-peers, to movie stars, to the Kellys, Carmens, Brads, and so on. Living with these glorious examples of genetic good fortune is shame enough, but they can tolerate it through living a fantasy-life through them.

Well, that’s enough of that digression. The relentless promotion of Democrats as people-who-despise-you by right-wing talk-radio hosts is item number one in the Republican playbook. Truth can’t argue with a workable lie, one that gets oiled every day, cranked out and churned out and broadcast, especially when the chumps are already self-despising. Externalize that feeling, project it on Them.

No, the Clintons didn’t figure on the inventive many-handed animosities of the Republican party, using all the tricks the Devil taught it. So ‘scandals’ clung to them? ‘Scandals’ that were revealed to have no substance? These empty ‘scandals’ were repeated as fact because a substantial portion of the electorate had abandoned the world of reality and sunk down into a secret oily pit, a crawl space beneath the house where they could cohabit with a dark eel-monster --- twine around it and rub their skin up against it and exchange bodily fluids --- they feed on it and it feeds on them.

Where does the impetus come from for the never-ending trap-shoot at Bill and Hillary --- daily, every hour, they are flung up into the air and blasted apart by the waiting crew of shotguns --- a certain part of the electorate cannot wait for its daily blast, then ejection and reloading. They compete with each other to create thrilling images of annihilation; today’s winners get to carouse and join the crowd as it heaves like an ocean chanting ‘Trump the bitch’ or ‘fuck that bitch’ or ‘lock her up’ or ‘shoot that bitch for treason’. Their dream-come-true is a public celebration of human destruction, a party like they used to have when they tore the lynching-victim’s fingers off and passed them around as souvenirs. We people who discover ourselves to be decent human beings are not proud, nose-in-the-air puritans; instead, it is a sad and unnerving discovery as we see our fellow human beings pull away from us and circle up for the devil’s carnival. We didn’t know people were like this. Our separation is not one of stiff rich-people’s false pride, pride in money and manners, as the propagandists of the right like to drill in to their credulous audience; it’s one of despair. We really didn’t know human beings were like this, and we become quiet, distressed, sad, and try to re-calibrate our relation to the world and to those around us.

Where does the impetus for this behavior come from?

There is a dangerous region we don’t allow ourselves to enter. Don’t go there, is our sensible warning to ourselves. But we live in a world where people we don’t understand go there freely and easily with no compunctions, no moral hesitations. This is the world of differentiation, in which We are Better Than Them, or at the very least, Different From Them. We are wary of this frame of mind, this train of thought. Yet we are accused of luxuriating in it by people who appear no better than drooling hate-mongers, whose very identity rests upon differentiating themselves from decent humanity and priding themselves on being neither as weak nor immoral as they see others --- as the rest of us ‘sheeple’, ‘libtards’, ‘bleeding-heart liberals’, ‘poverty pimps’ and ‘tree-huggers’ are. Their very identity rests on jeering. So yes, I will take the fearful and dangerous step --- we are indeed different from them, but we do not feel this difference a cause for celebration, let alone jeering. Rather, it makes us sad, quiet, and careful, and gives us a solemn overview of the human race & situation. We are fatally aware of the dangers of pride --- all our alarm bells are ringing as we walk this narrow pathway --- be careful, don’t fall off either side --- but it must be walked. What my interest is, is to discover the developmental pathway that led them to this state of spiritual deformity, in which they have a dark squirmy thing inside and they cohabit with it nightly.

3

HILLARY AND THE MILLENIALS

Talking to a 30-something girl --- pardon me, woman --- the other day. She said 1/ she didn’t vote for Hillary, she voted Green, and 2/Hillary is bad & corrupt, she discovered it by her research on the internet; 3/she mentioned Benghazi.

When somebody mentions Benghazi, that’s when the doors swing open in the forehead and the cuckoo pops out. No further conversation is necessary. In most cases, an obsessive, fixed notion has taken hold at a level way below the cerebral, and is impervious to discussion. An alien spiritual darkness has settled in, arranged the neural pathways about it, and is heavily defended --- has, in fact, become part of the personal identity. Truth and facts are irrelevant --- mere droplets of water on a duck’s back.

I saw this millennial dude on Youtube a few weeks ago. He was whipping up on Hillary. He spoke of her liking for regime change --- a valid point --- but then he went medieval. The true hate was popping out of his eyes. It was governing him, ruling him. He was carried away.

Why does this happen?

I believe it’s a millennial reaction against the boomers. They’ve lived under the moral cloud of the boomers all their lives. We’re the ones that faced the guns, that stopped the war, that threw Nixon out, that supported Black empowerment, that marched and got tear-gassed, arrested and jailed, left our places in the assembly line --- “Rise up and abandon the creeping meatball” --- dumped materialism, smoked dope, got dragged before the withered judges of Babylon AND DEFIED THEM. What have you done, you little wimps?

Demonizing Hillary is their way to jerk back some moral capital. Stop raining on our parade, they say. Plus, they don’t know how the boomers started out and where we had to go. They haven’t seen enough of life. Big blanks in their history. I remember Hillary making her valedictory address at Wellesley in ’69. She was in Time or Newsweek. I said, that girl’s got it going on. She’s pointed in the right direction. She’s gonna help us get to where we’ve gotta go. A person who could articulate our sentiments so precisely was speaking from the real heart & soul of our generational zeitgeist. She nailed it, and I looked forward to more help from her through the years.

So I’m like Merle Haggard. When you’re running down our baby, hoss, you’re walking on the fighting side of me.

Last night I read the whole text of her speech; the two hot lines was what the magazine quoted. On the whole is was so moderate it was unremarkable. It wasn’t Patrick Henry; it wasn’t Bryan’s Cross of Gold. She was being responsible. But on the whole it was the Ivy League class of ’69 serving notice on its progenitors: we’re here, and things are going to be be different.

MEDICINE MAN

In two days, we are going to win the great state of Pennsylvania and we are going to win back the White House. When we win, we are bringing steel back, we are going to bring steel back to Pennsylvania, like it used to be. We are putting our steel workers and our miners back to work. We are. We will be bringing back our once-great steel companies.

  Once, a hundred fifty years ago, when the Plains Indians were getting whipped by the U. S. Cavalry, and the buffalo herds had been wiped out by the white hunters who left great stacks of carcasses everywhere, a spirit teacher named Wovoka rose to meet the situation. He had a dream, a vision. The spirits of his ancestors, the spirits of the buffalo, came to him and taught him. They showed him a dance and made him a promise. If the remaining Indians learned the dance and performed it well, the plains would be re-populated with buffalo. The great herds would reappear. And the Indians themselves, they would become invulnerable to the white man’s bullets. The rifles and pistols could not harm them.
  So, inspired, he preached, and taught them the dance as it had been taught to him; the people believed, and the men practiced it. The next day, and the day after, week after week, the plains were still bare: no buffalo. Fearlessly, they rode into battle against the soldiers . . . and were slaughtered. The Ghost Dance, empowered by a belief in the past and disbelief in the horrible present, did not work. The plains were not transformed. The bullets struck deep, and the men bled out.

  Donald Trump is Wovoka, but more of a carnival barker con-man type than a mystic visionary. The masses will follow him just the same. He cannot turn back the economic laws that make it more profitable to hire an Asian whose daily pay equals an American’s hourly pay. He cannot make coal economically attractive when natural gas and renewables are beating it. He may hold back a few marginal companies by offering them seven-million-dollar bribes; they’ll take the bribes and then, when he’s gone, move anyway. My brother works in management at a steel company. The company expects that in twenty years there will be no more steel made in America. They are sending him around the world to open plants in low-wage zones; even so, they will have a hard time competing with the Chinese, who built their steel industry using the latest technology and government subsidy. Can they even hang on till the other plants are ready? That’s the question.

In the meantime, Trump will give huge tax cuts to every corporation, and to every 7-figure-a-year man, as per the Republican playbook. He’ll cut the social services network; when you lose your job and fall, you’ll go ka-whump on the floor. Good luck, ghost dancers.

Meeting Tonight . . . . Clara Ward Singers
It Won’t Be Very Long . . . Soul Stirrers
Come In the Room . . . Clara Ward Singers
Morning Train . . . . Peter, Paul, and Mary
Come By Here . . . . Clara Ward Singers
Come and Go to That Land. . . Soul Stirrers
Very Last Day . . . . Peter, Paul, and Mary
Touch the Hem Of His Garment . . Soul Stirrers
Where Can I Go . . . . Brother James Henderson
The Devil Has Thrown Him Down . . Sister Rosetta Tharpe
Somebody Sometime . . . Clara Ward Singers
Jesus Wash Away My Troubles . . Soul Stirrers
Go Tell It On the Mountain. . . Peter, Paul, and Mary
Don’t Take Everybody To Be Your Friend . Sister Rosetta Tharpe
Mean Old World . . . . Soul Stirrers
Traveling Shoes . . . . Clara Ward Singers
When I Walk On the Streets of Gold. . Evans Family Singers
If I Had My Way . . . . Peter, Paul, and Mary
Come On in the House . . . Clara Ward Singers
When the Saints Go Marching In . . George Lewis
On Revival Day . . . . Lavern Baker
Old Time Religion . . . . Phil Harris
The Day After Judgment Day . . Miss Rhapsody
Saved . . . . . Lavern Baker

What’s a Matter Baby . . . Timi Yuro
Dream Lover . . . . Bobby Darin
Baby It’s You . . . . The Shirelles
Queen of the Hop . . . Dion
Party lights . . . . Claudine Clark
Poor Little Fool . . . . Ricky Nelson
Hotel Happiness . . . . Brook Benton
GTO . . . . . Ronny & the Daytonas
Twist Twist Senora . . . Gary ‘US’ Bonds
Playboy . . . . . Marvelettes
Three-Window Coupe . . . The Rip Chords
You’ll Lose a Good Thing . . . Barbara Lynn
Wide Track . . . . Gary Usher
Ballad of PT 109 . . . . Jimmy Dean
It’s Up To You . . . . Ricky Nelson
Lovers Who Wander . . . Dion
Snap Your Fingers . . . Joe Henderson
I’ve Been Everywhere . . . Hank Snow
Little Star . . . . Dion & the Belmonts
Summer Means Fun . . . Bruce & Terry
School Is Out . . . . Gary ‘US’ Bonds
Having a Party . . . . Sam Cooke

Jamaica Farewell . . . . Harry Belafonte
Jean & Dinah . . . . Robert Mitchum
Stone Cold Dead in the Market . . Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Jordan
Crazy Like Mad . . . . Irene Williams
Limbo Rock . . . . Chubby Checker
Somebody Bad Stole de Wedding Bell . Eartha Kitt
Rum & Cocoanut Water . . . ?
Not Me . . . . . Robet Mitchum
Sweetheart from Venezuela . . Harry Belafonte
Run Joe . . . . . Louis Jordan
Limbo Like Me . . . . ?
Sparrow, Stop . . . . The Mighty Sparrow
King of the Ska, ’93 . . . Desmond Dekker
Let’s Limbo Some More . . . Chubby Checker
The Banana Boat Song . . . Harry Belafonte
No More Rocking & Rolling . . The Mighty Sparrow
Pickney Gal . . . . Desmond Dekker
Neighbor, Neighbor . . . Maya Angelou
Angelina . . . . . Harry Belafonte
They Dance All Night . . . Robert Mitchum
Houour Your Father and Your Mother . Desmond Dekker
Tin Spam . . . . Stubborn All-Stars
Rum & Coca-Cola . . . . Andrews Sisters
Bang-Bang Woman . . . Errol Danieel
Israelites . . . . Desmond Dekker

Old Time Gospel

Early 60’s Pop,
Rock, & Soul

Caribbean Music:
Calypso & Ska