The rest of Josh White’s 1960s went something like this:
1961: Is invited to the inauguration of John F. Kennedy, who has been a fan since college. Also appears on a TV show called “Dinner with the President.” In June, has a heart attack and is hospitalized. (As when he broke his leg in high school, he makes the best of a bad situation. Says his wife Carol, “There were times I walked into the hospital in Chicago and got very angry, because the doctor wanted him to rest and I’d walk up there and he’d have maybe six nurses sitting on his bed.”)
1963: Plays at the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom on the Capitol Mall organized by Bayard Rustin, opening for Martin Luther King. “I admire Dr. King and the passive resistance movement,” he says. “But I don’t like to be hurt and if somebody jumps me, that business about turn the cheek isn’t for me.”
The Story of John Henry — which came in the form of two 10-inch , 33 1/3 RPM vinyl records — was a big success and led to Josh White making more albums for Elektra. A lot of them featured re-recordings of his old songs, which had previously been released on shellac 78s that were now obsolete. As with the CD boom of the 1990s, a new medium is good for business.
The medieval English ballads were left behind on favor of a steady diet of folky blues and bluesy folk. This made the records easier to market, and reflected White’s general mid-career shift into something of a nostalgia act. The folk and blues revival that would come to full flower in the late 1950s and early 1960s was already underway, and provided a reliable stream of educated customers with spending money.
Some of the material seems intended to position him as a sort of blues/folk Frank Sinatra, not entirely without success:
Even so, it took a while for him to climb back to solvency. Apparently he had a network of women he could fall back on when things got rough; according to one lady friend,
A great many of the women that he was with had money, and that was his purpose. I’m being blunt about this, but he would by the first to tell you. He’d say to me, “I have to spend some time with so-and-so,” and suddenly he would have money again to take care of everything. It sounds brutal, but it’s true. He did what he had to do to survive.
We open Act 3 with Josh White in Europe, where he has gone to find refuge after the trauma of the blacklist and his unpopular decision to testify. No one in London, Paris, or Rome cares about un-American activities; there, all activities are un-American, and they like it that way.
He was particularly popular in the UK, says Elijah Wald. “The British public loved his blues and spirituals and were equally enthusiastic about his versions of old English numbers like ‘The Riddle Song’ and ‘Molly Malone.‘”
His career in the U.S. was not dead, just fraught with complications. He played at several revived versions of Café Society (none of which lasted very long), and was still a reliable concert draw who — because of the troubles — could be had by promoters at a surprisingly reasonable price. He spent the first half of the Fifties bouncing back and forth between the States and Europe, and took to spending a lot of his downtime in the hospital. He did have real health problems: ulcers, migraines, laryngitis, bursitis of the shoulder, and psoriasis of the fingernails that made it painful for him to play guitar. But according to his wife Carol,
A lot of times, when Josh would come home, the doctor would put him in the hospital just to make him be quiet… and also to eliminate some company. When he was on the road he would neglect himself, and by the time he got home he was just so out, so tired, so run down. He never knew how to say, “No, I can’t go tonight, I have to go back to my hotel and go to sleep.” So the doctor would put him in just to cleanse him. He had to be disciplined.”
Though he’d done some recording in England and Italy, by 1954 it had been seven years since White had released an album in his home country. That was when he met Jac Holzman, who had recently launched an upstart label called Elektra Records. The fledgling enterprise and out-of-fashion veteran performer took a chance on each other, and the result was a collection called The Story of John Henry, the centerpiece of which was an extended piece combining spoken narrative with pieces of various blues songs.
Since this runs to 23 minutes plus, it should get you a good way into the cocktail hour. We’ll pick up the story tomorrow.
We now fast-forward to the end of act 2 — the crisis. In Josh White’s case, as for so many of his contemporaries, this came in the form of the blacklist.
He had been on top of the world, playing to packed houses in New York (sometimes with guest appearances by his young song Josh Jr.), touring, acting in plays, appearing in movies:
He had been known as the “Presidential minstrel” during the Roosevelt administration, and remained close to Eleanor after Franklin’s death. In fact, says our friend Wikipedia,
White had reached the zenith of his career when touring with Eleanor Roosevelt on a celebrated and triumphant Goodwill tour of Europe. He had been hosted by the continent’s prime ministers and royal families, and had just performed before 50,000 cheering fans at Stockholm’s soccer stadium. Amidst this tour, while in Paris [actually London] in June 1950, White received a call from Mary Chase, his manager in New York, telling him that Red Channels (who had been sending newsletters to the media since 1947 about… artists who they warned were subversive) had just released and distributed a thick magazine with subversive details regarding 151 artists from the entertainment and media industries whom they labeled communist sympathizers. White’s name was prominent on this list.
Over the last few weeks I’ve ended up spending more time than I would have expected sorting through the various versions of Josh White songs. There is a wide variance in quality, and what you see is not always what you get. You might think, for example, that tracks from The Complete Recorded Works — an actual professional release that they ask money for — would not sound like shit. But you’d be wrong.
So rather than have all that effort go to waste, I decided to create a YouTube playlist, starting with tracks from the 40s that have fallen through the cracks one way or another, and demonstrate the depth and breadth of the man’s repertoire. We’ll start with “Waltzing Matilda,” which he learned while appearing at a benefit concert on a bill with the Royal Australian Air Force.
This is my first time embedding a playlist, so let me know if it gives you any trouble. Peace.