By Benjamin Leatherman
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Troy Farah
By Roger Calamaio
By Mark Deming
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Brian Palmer
This is a historic moment. We have before us the opportunity to forge for ourselves and for future generations a new world order, a world where the rule of law, not the law of the jungle, governs the conduct of nations.
This time the bullet cold rocked ya/A yellow ribbon instead of a swastika/Fools follow rules when the set commands ya/They load the clip in omnicolor/They pack the 9, they fire at the prime time . . . /Just victims of the in-house drive-by/They say jump you say how high.
It's 1/16/91. Early afternoon. I'm shooting hoops in the sunshine when a guy on a mountain bike suddenly pops over a nearby berm and scrabbles down a steep dirt hill to the blacktop, riding his brakes and wheezing. He is excited. His eyes are wide. He has big news. "The bombs are falling," he says between gasps. "Spread the word. Gather in the quarry. No blood for oil!" As he speeds off, I notice he has a peace sign shaved into the back of his head. Poser.
The score's 15-13 in a game of three-on-three. The six of us had wordlessly stopped playing at the curious appearance of the messenger, and now we stand around, scuffing our shoes and wondering what to do. Abe, a six-foot-five mulatto with a thunderbolt dunk, breaks the silence. "Well, shit," he says, checking the ball. "Let's just finish the game."
A few points later, we start hearing sirens and bullhorn announcements. "Come to the quarry, people," a voice blares a few hundred yards away. "Bush has pushed the button." Come gather 'round, children, wherever you roam. I see students moving in clusters toward the quarry, a massive limestone amphitheatre carved out by miners decades ago. The rest of the game is halfhearted at best, and when it's mercifully over (21-15, we lost), I sprint for the quarry a half-mile away, arriving at the makeshift rally just in time to hear a woman with a brother on the front lines tearfully lashing the crowd over a shoddy PA.
"Now you all want to have your little march," she sobs. "Now you all want to do something. But you should have been marching two months ago, because my brother shouldn't have to die in any fucking war!" Her final words devolve into barely intelligible shrieks, and a friend gently leads her away from the mike stand. Some self-appointed protest leader starts to step up, but a small dude decked out in a ratty tie-dye with a guitar slung over his shoulder jumps up from the front of the crowd, steps in front of him and starts furiously strumming away.
Of course, no one can hear what he's playing because there's no mike for his guitar, yet he keeps on, undaunted. The organizer stands behind him, looking like his pacifist ideals are being sorely tested. Then the hippie starts to sing, but the PA starts shorting out, and his vocals come through in garbled spurts: ". . . Uncle Sam (fizz, pop) . . . little problem down in Vietnam . . . (static)"
No, I think, this can't be true. Then the scraggly bearded balladeer takes a breath and earnestly belts out the chorus, and I realized it is: "And it's one, two, three, what are we fightin' for? Don't ask me, I don't give a . . . (buzz) . . . next stop is Vietnam (hiss, crackle)."
So as I stand there, listening to this little gimp play a half-assed cover of Country Joe McDonald's "Feel-Like-I'm-Fixin'-to-Die Rag" as F-15s are strafing Baghdad, I realize three things: 1. This dude has watched Woodstock a few times too many; 2. About the same time "Operation Desert Shield" tee shirts hit the streets, he started practicing this number in his dorm room, dreaming of this pathetic moment in the sun; and 3. My generation is in bad need of some protest rock to call its own.
Hell, we could barely come up with our own chants. Once the march got under way, "Hell no, we won't go, we won't die for Texaco" (as if anyone was in danger of being drafted to fight the mighty Iraqis) quickly yielded to "One, two, three, four, we don't want your fuckin' war."
Ah, if only we'd had some Rage Against the Machine and a decent sound system. A little "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me" cranked through some boss speakers would have gone a long way that day.
Rage Against the Machine is a lot like the Smiths--just bear with me here--in that people tend to form and hold strong opinions of both bands. Me, I think Morrissey should have just stuck his head in an oven and spared us all the misery, and I come down solidly in the pro-Rage camp (I'll bet there's a correlation there. I'm hard put to picture a Smiths fan screaming along to any of Rage singer Zack de la Rocha's vitriolic mantras, unless someone fed him some seriously bad acid--which makes for quite an enjoyable picture indeed).