#The Weavers

[oldpersonnewspaper]

“You want me to name communists? Okay well Pete Seeger for one,” says Burl Ives when asked for his lunch order.

[folk-enjoyer]

Song of the day

do you want to know the history of a folk song? submit an ask or dm me and I'll cover it

"Irene (Goodnight, Irene)"

Lead Belly, 1933

this song was covered by many artists, but my favorite is the most notable cover: this one by the Weavers

The Weavers' version is incredibly important to the history of folk music, as it was their most popular song in 1948 (and the first no. charting single in the folk music genre), and helped kick them off into popularity before they were blacklisted just 2 years later.

[purplelordstudios]

This is one of weavers forms, you just have to guess what it's supposed to be

[m77113]

Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Fred Hellerman and Jean Ritchie in the WNYC studios, 1949

[vincess-princess]

The Weavers

heehoo here goes my original wip i've mentioned a couple times. i know posting original fiction on tumblr is like screaming into a well but better try and fail than not try at all, right?

Genre: dark fantasy Description: Humans and alves have been waging wars since time immemorial. Peace seems impossible, since the two species can't even communicate with each other. But things may change after a human and an alv discover they have an inexplicable connection and try to turn around their common curse.

Ch. 1

It was cold that was driving him insane most of all. Radiated by the rods of his cage that never warmed from the heat of his body, it seeped through his skin, nestled in his bones, slowed his heartbeat and froze his very thoughts, turning them slow, fragmentary, incoherent. The sunlight reaching his skin never did more than slightly warm the surface, thought there wasn’t much sunlight at all here, the sky more often than not obscured by clouds – bad sign, he would think before, but it was for naught now: it couldn’t get any worse anyway. He never thought himself much affected by cold; turned out, he just didn’t know what real cold was, protected by mighty trunks of his home forest from the vicious gusts of wind and the chilly breath of the night. The humans dragging him around wore furs and lit fires, and sometimes the wind brought a whiff of heat they emanated, and fearsome as they were, he could almost understand why they would try to tame such a destructive force. He knew humans were plenty, but to breed so much they pushed out some of their own kin into the most inhospitable lands on the very edge of Laia Serra… He would even feel sorry for them if they hadn’t put him in the cage.

It was so small he couldn’t stretch his legs and so narrow he couldn’t flex his arms, and his body was losing its agility and strength, sucked out by the cold and the ever-consuming grey of the sky. Some nights he feared he would lose his fingers and toes, and when he breathed on them to warm them up, his breath came out chilly, as if his insides had already frozen up. Relief came sometimes in the form of the humans’ repulsive broth, where soft, soggy vegetables and grey, hardened meat swam around in oily water, but it was oh so warming and filling and did a good job quenching his thirst. He even swallowed some of the disgusting vegetables occasionally – one couldn’t survive on just liquid.

But as days passed and an all-consuming apathy set in, he found it harder and harder. His body was rotting alive. The skin under his nails turned a brownish, sicklish color, the corners of his lips chipped and bled. The bruises on his chest where the humans slammed him with a heavy metal weapon throbbed with dumb pain at every breath he took as his ribs shifted underneath, bulging unnaturally under the skin. The bracelets on his wrists burned his skin at first, so bad he couldn’t hold back tears, but now the pain dulled down – or the skin on his wrists was growing senseless, any of which was fine by him. It’s not like he had much left to live anyway.

He spent the entirety of his days in a trance, barely noticing what was happening around him. Occasionally a horse’s neigh reached his ears, and he never had much empathy for animals, but the poor creatures sounded almost as pained as he felt. He tried to reach them, but where once was a pulsing presence now was nothing. Neither could he feel the lizards and rabbits hurrying past, like an invisible wall separated them; neither could he feel the blades of grass piercing the earth, flowers blooming or bugs scurrying between them. Sometimes birds flew over his cage, landed on nearby cliffs, inevitably attracted but too afraid to land. They did not answer his calls, but at least acknowledged his presence. It was reassuring, in a sense; he was inside his body still, even though he sometimes felt so detached from it he could almost see himself from the side, plastered on the bottom of his cage, weak and pathetic. The best representative of his kin there could ever be, he smiled bitterly sometimes.

The Neiro was silent. Everything was silent. Except the humans, constantly chattering and gibbering in their harsh, loud voices, grating on his ears. Didn’t they want to shut up just for a second? To hear the rustling of the wind, the howling of the wolves, the flapping of birds’ wings? Was it that constant gibberish that drove them to violence? He wouldn’t be surprised much, as even what he heard from the distance of his cage was driving him insane. Humans avoided him like alves did wildfire, always approaching carefully, with blades bared; the one pushing the plate with the broth through the bars of his cage always prodded his weapon at him, scaring him away from the bars. Not that he ever tried to so much as wave his hand at them, but even him baring his teeth scared them to bits, causing another explosion of gibberish and screams.

At some point, he couldn’t keep inside solid food anymore. He attributed the constant nausea to bumpy roads before, but even now, when they became wider and more well-trodden, it refused to leave, forcing him to vomit anything not an oily liquid or yellowish water that he was given two times a day. When his vomit dripped through the bars of the cage, humans gathered around it, talking in hushed voices. Their overnight stays became shorter and their movement faster.

Sometimes they stopped in human settlements. The size of the first one shook him to the core – houses upon houses upon houses, big and small, and there must have been several hundred humans just gathered at the center of it; how did they coexist in such narrowness and overcrowding? He didn’t get to see much of them, thankfully: his cage was rolled into some sort of tent, and people were allowed inside just a few at a time, to stare at him and blabber their nonsense at each other. He didn’t care much, leaning on the bars of his cage with his eyes closed, his head aching from the stuffy air and the constant buzz. Sometimes little humans tried touching him, and only then did he react; baring his teeth or jerking his hand was usually enough for them to back off, though. A few settlements later, he realized that any idea he had of how big they could be was wrong, because that one was so full of people as a marsh was full of gnat, and the roads were covered with stone, as were some houses – didn’t living inside a rock get cold in winter? The routine was the same, though, and soon the amazement and surprise flattened out, as did any other emotion. He didn’t have enough energy to feel anymore. Everything he had his body used to breathe and digest.

How much time had passed – days, moons, years? He could no longer reliably tell. Sun rose and set, over and over again, and every day he struggled to notice the change. At some point, he realized he couldn’t move his legs anymore. That was not surprising. They looked like sticks, with bones bulging underneath the skin. He thought indifferently about what would it be like when the same happened to his arms. Damn this body, damn its hardiness. He should have died long ago. Why hadn’t he died already? Why was he forced to live still, through all this pain and silence? Was it for repentance? Revenge? Punishment?

One day, not particularly any different than any other day, they arrived at the biggest settlement he’d ever seen, and the shouting, rumbling of cart wheels and neighing of horses jolted him awake from his daze. He didn’t get to see much – he was rolled into his usual tent, but this time the stuffiness and the darkness didn’t lull him back into his slumber, as he hoped. Against his will, he stayed alert. Something was stirring inside him, an anxiety of sorts, something he never expected to feel again. He didn’t like it.

Humans started entering the tent, staring at him, talking in amazed whispers. He looked at them with narrowed eyes, forcing everyone whose eyes met his to avert their gaze. Something was going to happen. That anxiety never lied. Which one of them would be to blame?

Then there was an uproar of voices outside of the tent, and shouting, and clatter of numerous hooves against the paved road, and the clanging typical for humans who wore steel clothes. Humans were talking in hushed, scrumptious voices. Then he heard an ingratiating voice of one of his jailers, and he never even imagined this voice could sound so oily, almost like the broth they were feeding to him. Then another human entered – the jailer tried to follow them, but backed off at the single irritated wave of their hand.

Thick brown foot casings, wide leg wraps typical for short-haired humans, red and black tunic with long sleeves and a girdle, a metal weapon with the hilt instructed with silver. Fine, well-groomed hands. Sharp cheekbones. Straight, pitch-black hair. Pale skin. Slanted light gray eyes.

A flash as bright as the sun, and he was no longer alone in his Neiro. There was something else. Someone else.

The stranger gasped and staggered back, their hand grappling at the hilt of their weapon, their boots hammering heavily across the floor. The presence faded away as fast as it invaded, but it was there. It was not an illusion. Even if for a moment, it was there.

He looked at the human, and the human looked him right in the eyes, wide-eyed, mouth half-opened.

[hit-song-showdown]

Year-End Poll #1: 1950

Kicking this project off with the first poll in the series by ranking the Billboard Top 10 Year-End singles from 1950. It will be another 8 years before the creation of Billboard's Hot 100 metric for charting popular music. The top songs were chosen based off of jukebox popularity, retail sales (both records and sheet music) and calculated via a survey Billboard Magazine would send out nationwide.

More information about this blog here

[rastronomicals]

3:25 AM EDT September 1, 2024:

The Weavers - "Train Time" From the album Reunion at Carnegie Hall (1963)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

[this-is-not-a-place-of-honour]

finally finished the cover for my original story The Weavers

the human's name is Stormwell, the alv's (the green one) - Astari <3

[oldshowbiz]

The American Legion versus the left-wing affiliations of The Weavers.

[livs-cooke]

ALIEN (1979) dir. Ridley Scott

[rzc11]

[folk-enjoyer]

Song of The Day

"If I Had a Hammer" Aretha Franklin, 1965

"If I Had a Hammer" was first written in 1949 by Lee Hays and Pete Seeger, and featured on the 1950 cover of Sing Out! magazine vol 1 iss. 1. It was written in support of the progressive party. It was first recorded by the Weavers in 1949 and was performed that same year in New York at a dinner for the communist party.

Daily Worker 1949-06-01: Vol 26 Iss 108

This performance of the song and this Newspaper would be used against Pete Seeger in his HUAC Testimony. He was sentenced to a year in prison for 'Contempt of Congress'. Here is an excerpt of the interrogation.

Mr. TAVENNER: My question was whether or not you sang at these functions of the Communist Party. You have answered it inferentially, and if I understand your answer, you are saying you did. Mr. SEEGER: Except for that answer, I decline to answer further. . . . Mr. SCHERER: Do you understand it is the feeling of the Committee that you are in contempt as a result of the position you take? Mr. SEEGER: I can’t say. Mr. SCHERER: I am telling you that that is the position of the Committee. . . . Mr. SEEGER: I decline to discuss, under compulsion, where I have sung, and who has sung my songs, and who else has sung with me, and the people I have known. I love my country very dearly, and I greatly resent this implication that some of the places that I have sung and some of the people that I have known, and some of my opinions, whether they are religious or philosophical, or I might be a vegetarian, make me any less of an American. I will tell you about my songs, but I am not interested in telling you who wrote them, and I will tell you about my songs, and I am not interested in who listened to them. . . .

Unfortunately, Pete Seeger and the rest of the weavers were blacklisted during the Red Scare, meaning that they were not able to publicly perform "If I Had A Hammer", and they were forced to disband in the early 50s.

In the Biography How Can I Keep From Singing, Pete Seeger remarks on this.

"Why was it controversial? In 1949 only ‘Commies' used words like ‘peace' and ‘freedom.'… The message was that we have got tools and we are going to succeed. This is what a lot of spirituals say. We will overcome. I have a hammer. The last verse didn't say ‘But there ain't no hammer, there ain't no bell, there ain't no song, but honey, I got you.' We could have said that! The last verse says ‘I have a hammer, I have a bell, I have a song.' Here it is. ‘It's the hammer of justice, it's the bell of freedom, the song of love."

With few exceptions, the song was dead for 12 years...

Until Peter Paul & Mary covered it in 1962

This song became a top 10 hit song in America! Since then it has been covered over 200 times. It was one of the top 100 songs of 1962 and is still a popular song today. It transcended genre and many many popular artists including Jimmie Rodgers, johnny cash, and the 'Queen of Soul', Aretha Franklin in 1965.

and, as a happy ending, the weavers performed it again in their reunion concert in 1963.

Also, a thing I like about this song is that it seems to be inspired by the John Henry song "This Old Hammer" based on the lyrics and rhythm. The hammer may have killed John Henry, but it can Hammer the way to freedom as well.

[purplelordstudios]

Fantasy and fiction designs, fantasy has two eyes being the middle child and fiction has three being the youngest, reality has one eye because she was and is the first, she is the oldest

[vincess-princess]

The Weavers

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Ch. 3

Word count: 2127 A/N: i know, i know, i'm completely spoiling yall by posting updates more than once a month. but im kinda not in the mood for writing, so i was hoping some feedback could get me back into the flow

“Utterly disappointing,” commented Arrokah, standing over Stormwell’s convulsing body. “Were it a steel sword, you’d be cut in half.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” Stormwell managed to exhale, pushing himself up on his arms. The blow to the stomach was still sending waves of pain through his body. Two guards by the door to the inner yard diligently stared in another direction.

“Today, yes. But it won’t always be.” Arrokah impassively watched him rise from the ground on shaky legs. “You’re even more absent-minded today than usual. Not good for training, you know. You wouldn’t want Karrah to see you like this, would you?”

“What does Karrah have to do with it? He’s leagues away,” Stormwell grumbled. Why did they always have to bring his brother into this?

“Not according to what I’ve heard. A pigeon arrived this morning. You don’t know?”

Stormwell pressed his lips together tightly, trying to hide his disappointment: of course he was the last to learn about it. He didn’t really manage: a weed that had burst from beneath the gravel a couple yards away withered to rot in a matter of moments. His mentor watched it with the same indifferent expression that never seemed to leave his face, not even around Stormwell.

“I reckon you didn’t,” Arrokah said. “That was a fine plant. You wish to kill things, you should hunt mice in the cellars.”

“They never show up when I come there.”

“Very wise of them. Come on, pick up your sword. We have no time to waste.”

Stormwell shuffled over to the wooden sword that he dropped when Arrokah dealt him that humiliating blow. Oh, to kick it into the corner and run to the hall, and shake father and Sartorrah by the shoulders, demanding to know everything - when, how, why… but father would never be pleased he interrupted training for such a fickle matter. You’d learn it anyway later, he’d say. Learn to be patient.

All right. He’ll be patient.

He grabbed the sword and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. Arrokah stood there, twisting the handle of his sword carelessly, studying some bird that landed on the hedgerow. Seemingly not noticing Stormwell at all.

Stormwell abruptly stood up straight and thrust his sword at him, aiming for the crotch. A low move, yes. But he craved revenge.

He never got it, though: when the wooden blade was mere barleycorns away from Arrokah’s body, sharp pain pierced his wrist, and the sword rattled against the ground, hitting Stormwell in the foot. For a second he thought the blow broke his wrist, but he could still move it. He’d rather not, though, because it hurt immensely.

“Low move,” Arrokah said calmly, lowering his sword.

Stormwell pressed his wrist to his chest, cradling it with his other hand. “I was checking your reflexes.”

“You’re a bad liar. Don’t do that again, or I’ll get cross.” Arrokah’s face creased in a frown, and a chill ran down Stormwell’s spine. He’d never seen him cross, not even when he was doing extremely badly. For some reason, he knew he’d never want to.

“Understood.”

“Great. Now pick up your sword.”

“But my wrist-“

“Your wrist is fine, it’ll be just a bruise. Pick up your sword.”

“Petty,” Stormwell grumbled, carefully twisting his wrist to check that it still worked. It protested vehemently. “Ouch-ouch-ouch. Maybe in a couple minutes?..”

“Very well. Two-minute break.” Arrokah finally seemed to take pity on him, even if not without a condescending glint in his eyes.

Two minutes definitely weren’t enough, and Stormwell spent the rest of the training biting his lips and hissing at every slightly forceful movement, and those were plenty with Arrokah. Needless to say, his performance that day was even worse than usual, especially because his thoughts were revolving around Karrah alone.

He’d been away for three moons and a fortnight already, and every passing day felt longer than the previous one. Traveling around the lands gathering taxes was not the job for the heir to the crosier, but father wanted him to see the land he one day was going to rule for himself. It was probably a wise decision, Stormwell understood that, but that didn’t stop the bitterness on his part. The hall felt incredibly empty without Karrah.

“Alright,” Arrokah sighed after Stormwell dropped his sword for the seventh time, “I think we’re done for today. Go nag His High Honor or Sartorrah about Karrah. Maybe that will bring you peace.”

“I shall.” Stormwell nodded to him curtly, not willing to mince goodbyes, and rushed off to the hall. The residence of the High Judge of all the clans of Alkarrin spine – a two-storied stone house lined with black granite and with four round towers at the corners – could hardly compare with the palaces the Kjaros built for themselves, but among the stocky clay and sandstone houses of Querain it did stand out.

He rushed past servants, who hurried away from his path and shot him wary looks. At a corner leading to the courtroom he ran into Stern. The old man was the only servant who never recoiled in his presence, and his dark, wrinkly face always creased into a toothless smile upon seeing his little master.

“Stern!” Stormwell barely managed to stop himself to not knock the old man off his feet. “Where is His High Honor?”

“Master Stormwell,” Stern bent his back in a bow. No matter how hard Stormwell tried, he refused to give up the habit he learned in Akatarami, and the only thing Stormwell managed was to reduce its depth. “His High Honor is in his bedroom. He ordered not to disturb him.”

“I will have to. I have got to ask him something. Thanks, Ste-“

“He wanted me to deliver you a message, master Storm,” the servant interrupted him. “Master Karrah returns tomorrow evening.”

Stormwell couldn’t hold back a grin. Looking at him, Stern also smiled with his toothless mouth. He’d been at Stormwell’s side since he was born – practically raised him.

But then the old man’s smile disappeared. “His High Honor also told that you should prepare to show what you’ve learned to master Karrah. Sword-fighting, mathematics, geography, spelling, law…”

“Not sword-fighting,” Stormwell groaned. “I hurt my wrist just today.”

“Badly?” Stern perked up. “Shall I send for a doctor?”

“No, it’s just a bruise.” Stormwell hastily pulled the sleeve of his shirt down onto his wrist. There would be a fuss, father would question Arrokah and learn about his shameful act. No, he wouldn’t give him another proof of his opinion of him. “It’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Stern didn’t seem to believe him. “I might persuade His High Honor to postpone the exam-“

“Yes, Stern,” Stormwell tried to appear nonchalant. “Don’t worry. It will heal by tomorrow.”

But the old man still didn’t budge. “But master Storm, what if-“

He looked at him so inquisitively Stormwell couldn’t help but fear that he had seen the inner yard incident and wanted to draw a confession out of him. There was no way he was getting that – Stormwell had no desire whatsoever to listen to his preaching for several days afterwards. Anger rose inside his chest, and Stormwell had neither will nor desire to hold it back.

“I said it’s fine! Leave me alone already, old fool!” Stormwell stamped his foot, clenching his fists. A vase on the other side of the corridor flew off the table and broke into a thousand pieces. Flowers, fresh centaureas, scattered across the floor like teardrops. Seven in total.

Then Stern sighed, shuffled over to the flowers and began slowly picking them up with his trembling hands.

Stormwell fled shamefully to his room.

***

Stormwell spent the rest of the day in his chamber, hunched over a book. Karrah would be disappointed if he showed to have learned nothing in his absence. But the letters refused to gather into words, and when they did, it was something completely nonsensical. He was never good at sciences. Letters were confusing, numbers – overwhelming. Maps never made much sense to him. Music instruments in his hands never survived more than half an hour, to the point when the local bard hid his instrument upon Stormwell’s approach. His non-involvement in ointment-making and healing wasn’t even in question.

Stormwell shook the book off his knees onto the floor and buried his face in his hands. He wanted to call Stern, but the shame from his recent breakdown in front of the old servant washed over him, forcing him to reject the urge. The fact that Stern was willing to endure that didn’t mean he wasn’t frightened by it. And it hadn’t happened for so long… before hitting him twice in one morning. No doubt, Stern was upset. Probably it’d be better to keep out of his sight until dinner. And maybe after that too.

Stormwell pushed the book off his knees; it fell to the floor, pages flapping in the air. Then, remembering it was purposefully ordered from Akatarami for the High Court’s use, he picked it up, smoothened the crumpled pages and shoved it at the bottom of the book shelf, hoping his act of vandalism would pass unnoticed.

No, he couldn’t study now even if he wanted to – he was too wrought-up, and the anticipation of Karrah’s return mixed with anxiety over his examination and the inner yard incident… and something else, but he didn’t have time to untangle all of it, the agitation it created so strong he could barely sit still. Yet when he began pacing across the room, his stomach tightened, nausea obstructing his throat, and he had to drop back onto the bed, shivering. Again, again his emotions had taken control over him. No matter how much he tried, they always won.

Alright, that wasn’t going to result in anything constructive. Stormwell put the book on the bed, carefully open, as if he just left for a moment, and walked across the room to the window.

It was still warm enough to keep the shutters open, although the cold autumn breeze already seeped into the room, dispersed along the stone floor – if one took off his boots, he could feel it with his bare toes. At least, that’s what Stern said – Stormwell wasn’t really sensitive to cold.

Stormwell pushed the shutters apart, wiped his palms on his shirt and hopped onto the windowsill. His fingers caressed familiar cracks of the old stones in the walls, then found the good old friend – the ledge over the window. Stormwell grasped it tight, pulled himself up and threw one foot up onto the ledge with a perfected move. The other then followed, and soon he was standing on the stone ledge of a hand’s width seven yards above ground. The wind tousled his hair, ruffled his shirt. It wasn’t scary; it was calming, even. Nobody could reach him here – well, except Karrah, but he wasn’t here now. It was a refuge.

Stormwell walked up the roof, deftly placing his feet between the ridges of shingles. On the very top there was a flat surface about one foot wide – very comfortable for sitting, and the best views in town. At least something pleasant came out of living in a huge stone box.

He reached his usual spot by the chimney and sat down, leaning on it. From up above he could see the entirety of Querain spreading below him. A dozen stone houses surrounded by flowerbeds, flowers on their windowsills, flowers hanging from the ledges – dwellings of wealthy families who could afford filling their land with beauty instead of practical but unappealing vegetables and crops. The castle was also surrounded by them and even had a greenhouse – for the southern species that couldn’t survive in the harsh climate of the Alkarrin Spine. Then came one-story wooden houses – these only had flowers on their windows, if any. And then there were mudhuts, and people there were ragged and filthy, and goats and chickens wandered the streets alongside humans. Not a very appealing sight, but no city, even as small as Querain, could do without slums. Stormwell heard slums in Akatarami spread on for leagues, ridden with poverty and diseases – yet even diseases couldn’t dwindle the growing number of the poor, as many of them were coming from villages seeking a better life.

Stormwell watched carts and carriages pass along the main road and could almost see Karrah’s party entering the city, accompanied by cheering and clapping. Karrah was loved by the people. Stormwell was glad: it helped mitigate the rumors about His High Honor’s younger son. Karrah was so kind, so brilliant, surely his brother couldn’t be that bad, right?

The sun was setting, coloring the entire city in blood red.