October 24th, 2005
The background to You Blackleather Pound
It started with a university professor whom I loathed nearly as much as he feared his students. It seems strange to think of a professor walking the less-than-hallowed halls of the AQ (Academic Quadrangle, or "The Quad" for short) in abject fear, but there was ample evidence his paranoia was more than mythical. Sometimes a student would walk up to him and as soon as he noticed that student, he would cower away, drawing up his arm reflexively to protect himself. Once, a fellow student rode his bicycle past him and the man jumped--practically dove--out of the way, even though my friend was several metres away ... and was getting ready to call out, "hello!" Even in class, he would be jumpy and nervous whenever a student stood up, or walked past him--even if he was seated on the other side of a table! Normally I wouldn't name someone like this, but I feel that if his paranoia still exists after all this time, he deserves to have it stimulated. His name was (perhaps still is) Ralph Maud, and he was by far the most unpleasant and timid, but otherwise uniformly unremarkable, teacher I've ever had the displeasure of sitting and listening to for 13 weeks (and considering Harold Brachman, my grade 8 math teacher, that is saying quite a lot).
Now Ralph Maud--Ralphie (do you mind if I call him that?)--"taught" poetry, including Ezra Pound. And at the time I was fascinated and repelled in equal amounts by Mod Rockers, who drove Vespa motor-scooters, which were made in Italy, which is where Ezra Pound was during WWII (and after), including during his incarceration days. Italy was fascist at the start of WWII, and fascist stormtroopers wore blackleather--but, of course, so did Mod Rockers. There was a similar sound between Ralph Maud and Mod Rockers, and I sort of thought of Ralphie as his own strange twisted brand of fascist teacher. Are you with me still? Here it is more graphically:
Right, so the connections seemed to be everywhere. At around the same time, my friend Martin noted how a poem that I had written around these somewhat loose connections (called "Blackleather") sounded a bit like a drinking song. The first line was, "Pound you, you blackleather pound". And he further suggested that I turn it into a drinking song.
A drinking song about Ezra Pound, eh? Why not? So I took Martin up on his suggestion, and the result is the song, You Blackleather Pound.
The recording
During the same period in my life as this dreary poetry professor, I had my own rock band known as The Disgruntled (or sometimes The Flatlanders, or some other times The Toe Pyjamas) and we would occasionally record rehearsals of ourselves in a practice room that was situated above a music store in New Westminster. On the day that we wanted to record You Blackleather Pound, we went downstairs to the store and called out to all the patrons:
"We are recording a song upstairs. If you want, you can come up and learn the chorus, then sing along to the band as we record the song. Oh, for free; we're totally broke."
And some people, fewer than ten, came up. We quickly went over the chorus notes and words, and then we recorded it in the second take. Frankly, I was a little disappointed at the peoples' singing: Everyone was a musician of some sort, and so everyone could carry a tune. I was hoping for a more out-of-tune and drunken-sounding chorus, but I could hardly tell people, "sing it out of tune, would ya?" because then they'd all sing too much out of tune ... and then it would sound more horrible that I was aiming for. Oh well.
The song was recorded on only two boom microphones standing between the band and the singers. The only cheating we did was with the bass, which was added later (we hadn't picked up Chris, the eventual bass player for the band, yet).
The lyrics
You Blackleather Pound
[Chorus]: Pound, Pound, you blackleather pound
White Vespa, William Blake etching in acid
Oh, Pound, Pound, you blackleather pound
Incarcerated, you're sitting not placid
Sitting in Pisa inside your cage
Trying to come to terms with your rage
"Wot's in the bibl, snag? Read us a page."
A legend in your own mind from an old age.
[Chorus]
Hugh Selwyn Mauberly - one that you wrote
You'd like to think that on you he would dote
Nothing but a bad historical note
Subconscious baggage that you have to tote
[Chorus]
Can't seem to unify what's in your mind?
You'll think of something, the public's so blind
Lump 'em together, nobody will mind
Call 'em The Cantos, be glad it's behind
[Chorus]
Pound was a poet, or so people say
I guess World War Two was your finest day
Informed the masses with your airtime play
Too bad they had to go put you away
[Chorus]
[Chorus]
The post-apocalyptic post-modern post-mortem
Well, if you listen to my voice on this recording I sound positively gleeful at taking the piss out of Ezra Pound. The glee was doubled at the thought that I deliberately mangled some of Ezra Pound's own words to fit the metre of the song. This was just to piss off Ralphie, who held Ezra in such high esteem, he practically revered the man and his works.
By contrast--and thanks to Ralphie--I will never be able to appreciate Ezra Pound or his works. I will forever associate it all with a nasty, burnt out, paranoid old buzzard who hid behind the walls of his office and the words of the subject matter. Ralphie taught me nothing, but he anti-taught me Ezra Pound (and Charles Olson, and others).
Well, inevitably, I made sure that a tape of the performance made it back to Ralphie's cubby-hole in the English Department Office. I asked him a few weeks afterwards if he'd got it (I came up to him in the cafeteria, and he nearly fell dead of fear as I approached). He said that he got it, and he further told me that it all seemed "rather loud". (I could tell he meant it in more than just the literal sense.) He also reiterated a sentiment he'd made to me earlier:
"Porter," sd Ralphie, "Often, I get students like you who are different ... unusual ... unconventional ... and often these students are exceptional or somehow special. But not in your case."
Well, Ralphie, I am a product of the environment--we all are. And you led the parade of mediocrity yourself, frequently dropping the baton along the way.
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