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Tales of Walt Robertson
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Other 'Walt Robertsons'??? (7)
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Tales of Walt Robertson Related thread: Other 'Walt Robertsons'??? (7) |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: katlaughing Date: 03 Feb 01 - 10:35 PM Keep this going you phoaks! This is great stuff!! |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: Deckman Date: 03 Feb 01 - 08:39 PM Sandy! Do you remember this one? When the downtrodden masses arise, When the downtrodden masses arise, When the downtrodden masses get up of their asses, Then the downtrodden masses arise. And don't forget: Harry Polick. CHEERS, Bob |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: Sandy Paton Date: 03 Feb 01 - 08:34 PM That beautiful 12-string was built by Pietro Carbone who had a very tiny little shop called "The Village String Shop" (I think) in the Village (New York, that is). I used to drop in and chat with Pietro regularly. He always invited mt wo stay for dinner, often some of his wife's great lasagna. Walt told me about getting that guitar. He said Pietro made him play it and sing over it, to be sure he had enough voice to be heard over the voice of the instrument, before he agreed to sell it to him. Knowing Pietro, I have no doubt that he would have told a lesser talent, "No, my friend, that guitar is not for you!" My memory tells me that Walt paid $400 for it, a HUGE sum in those dark ages, and then strapped it on his back and drove across country with it on a motorcycle. The thought of such a risk being taken with that instrument sent chills along my spine! We all were learning songs from Walt at that time -- good, basic folksongs of America. And Walt had some good old radical songs, too. The kind that worked when we played at the Longshoremen's Union hall for Harry Bridges' boys. I've no idea where Walt had picked them up, but I learned them eagerly. What a lasting influence that man had on many of us! Sandy |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: Don Firth Date: 03 Feb 01 - 03:27 PM Walt Robertson had a profound effect on the entire course of my life. In 1952 I was attending the University of Washington, majoring in English Literature with vague notions of becoming a writer; but not doing much writing except for class assignments and sometimes not even then. I was keeping steady company with a young woman named Claire. I had never heard of Walt Robertson, but just a week or two before I met her, Claire had heard him play guitar and sing at a party. She became so enthusiastic about folk songs that she took the old George Washburn "Ladies Model" guitar her grandmother had given her and set about learning to play it, so she could accompany the folk songs she was eagerly learning. I heard that Walt Robertson would be singing an informal concert at The Chalet, a restaurant in the University District where aspiring artists, writers, and musicians gathered. Jazz musicians often got together there on Friday or Saturday nights to jam (since they didn't have a cabaret license, The Chalet would officially close, but the door was left unlocked) . I was an avid opera fan at the time (even took a few voice lessons), but I enjoyed the songs that Claire sang -- especially listening to her sing them. I told her of Walt Robertson's concert and asked her to go with me. Although I was looking forward to hearing the folksinger who had impressed Claire so much, my main purpose was to ingratiate myself with her. I had no idea that this particular evening was going to be a major turning point in my life. I am currently writing a "memoir" or series of reminiscences about the folk music "scene" in the Fifties and Sixties as I saw it and remember it. I would like to post what I have written about the first time I saw and heard Walt Robertson. It's fairly lengthy, about 800 words. But with your kind indulgence. . . . ------------------------------------------------------ When Claire and I arrived at The Chalet, the CLOSED sign was on the door. We pushed it open and walked in. A crowd was beginning to gather. In the kitchen and up by the door the lights were still on, but those in the long, main room had been turned out. The area was illuminated by candlelight. Some of the tables and chairs had been shifted from their accustomed locations. In one corner, a table had been placed diagonally, with a chair facing it. Immediately in front stood a smaller table with a row of four lighted candles on it. It had been reserved as a sort of improvised stage. Claire and I managed to find a table fairly close. Lucky, because the tables were quickly filling up. After some minutes, a hush fell over the place. Then, a slender young man with dark hair and glasses came out of the back hallway and walked briskly toward the table in the corner. He carried a guitar. A very big guitar. He sat on the edge of the table, propped his feet on the chair, and positioned the guitar in his right leg. Like improvised footlights, the four candles illuminated him from below, casting huge, trembling shadows on the wall behind him. He took his glasses off, put them on the table, and glanced quickly around the room. His face was thin, almost hawk-like. His eyes were piercing and intense. A half-smile crossed his face. His hands hovered over the strings of the guitar. Candlelight shimmered along the gleaming steel strings. A concave cut in the guitar's oversized tuning head gave an impression of devil's horns. Two rows of tuning keys resembled shark's teeth. I had never seen a 12-string guitar before. Nor, I think, had anyone else there. It looked downright sinister. His hands began to move. A strong, pulsing rhythm rang out from that big guitar--deep, insistent, and driving, like the rolling rhythm of a locomotive. His voice, clear and robust, pealed out through the room:
When John Henry was a little baby, I had never heard that song before. A few of the songs he sang that night, I had heard, on records by Burl Ives or Richard Dyer-Bennet; or they were songs Claire sang or was learning; songs like Lord Randal, The E-ri-e Canal, Come All You Fair and Tender Ladies, and Venezuela. But there were many, many others, like The Midnight Special, High Barbaree, Evil Hearted Man, Bile Them Cabbage Down, The Golden Vanity, Black is the Color, Blow Ye Winds . . . dozens of songs I had never heard. Nor, for that matter, had most of the people there that night. These days, almost five decades later, John Henry is considered such an old war-horse that it's been banished from the repertoire, and you never hear it sung anymore. The same is true for many of the songs Walt Robertson sang that night. I had never heard a guitar played like that, either. A few songs along, Walt mentioned that he had just got the 12-string and was still trying to get used to it, but it already seemed to do his bidding. For sea chanteys or chain gang songs, he summoned forth powerful, driving rhythms. For love songs or ballads, the sound he drew from those powerful double strings was gentle, almost like the sound of a harpsichord. He sang for nearly three hours that evening, weaving tapestries of song and story, evoking ancient images and emotions that seemed to emerge from the Unconscious or from some genetic memory trace: medieval castles looming above cold and misty moors; the suffocating claustrophobia of a coal mine; wind and salt spray on the heaving deck of a whaling ship; the sweat, dust, and boredom of the cattle trail; the roar of cannon, flame and smoke erupting from the gun ports of pirate galleons; the agony of love betrayed, and the joys, both bawdy and profound, of love shared; the gleeful nonsense and fresh wonder of children's songs and rhymes . . . dream visions and antique echoes. And somehow, shadows from within my own soul. I was enthralled. Spellbound. * * * Up to that time I had never seriously considered becoming any kind of a musician. Taking singing lessons was fun; futzing around with the guitar was fun, but . . . now, suddenly, it all took on a whole new dimension. * * * One afternoon a few days later, I ran into Walt in The Chalet. We talked for awhile. Then I asked him if he would teach me to play the guitar. He said he didn't really regard himself as a teacher, but he did give lessons once in a while and he would try to show me what he could. ------------------------------------------------------ And that's how I got started. There is much more I wish to say about Walt. But that's enough for now. Don Firth Addendum -- Walt Robertson discography:
The old vinyl records (Folkways library editions) are
Robertson, Walt
(You can hear snippets of American Northwest Ballads cuts by going to the Smithsonian Folkways website, clicking on the "Liquid Audio" link, locating Walt Robertson on the list, clicking on that, then click on the Liquid Audio icon by whichever one(s) you want to hear. Takes a few seconds to download. Article on Walt Robertson by Don Firth: https://pnwfolklore.org/wp/index.php/walt-robinson-american-folksinger-by-don-firth/ |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: GUEST,ellenpoly Date: 03 Feb 01 - 06:22 AM even though walt's "folk" days were pretty much over by the time he got to hawaii,i do remember one evening after a production of "macbeth" in which he'd played duncan.while we were having a cast party,walt started playing a guitar that was lyng around..and within a couple of minutes,the entire room had come to a stunned silence.here was a long-time (he's been in hawaii about 5 years by then)friend of ours,who had never before that moment shown us this amazing side of his talents!! it was a moment we would all remember. |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: Deckman Date: 02 Feb 01 - 05:56 PM Kat, thanks for your comments. I agree, this is what mudcat is all about ... folk music and related issues. I enjoy some of the other threads ... electricity costs, etc, but it's my love of traditional folk music that draws me to mudcat. And Walt was a powerful presence. Everyone who knew or met him knew him to be a force. He played with the best ... Josh White, Leadbelly, Woody, Pete, Jesse Fuller, on and on. I'll be very interested to see how far his influence drifted. CHEERS, Bob |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: katlaughing Date: 02 Feb 01 - 01:36 PM Thanks very much, Bob. I remember someone saying, hmmm your old pal, Sandy Paton? that you had some tales of your own to tell. This is a great beginning and I found it quite interesting. It's really what the Mudcat is all about! Thanks, kat |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: Deckman Date: 02 Feb 01 - 01:22 PM Walt was raised in the Seattle area. About 1953 he won "Horace Heights (sp?) Original Amateur Hour", a nationwide T.V. show. One of his prizes was an audition on Seattle KING T.V. From that he produced and performed a one year weekly live T. V. show called "THE WANDER". From there his career took off, concerts, records, various venues. He recorded at least two records for Folkways, sitting in Moses Asches house for the sessions. These recordings are now available through the Smithsonian. The one record (tape) I have is "The Smithsonian Institution #02330." It's simply titled, "Walt Robertson." I believe another album is titled, "Northwest Ballads." He was well known for his performances of traditional Northwest folk songs. Over the years, he became a successful stage actor, both in the Seattle and the Honolulu areas. He also appeared in bit parts in several motion pictures. Walt died of cancer at his home in Kingston, Washington in 1994. I hope I'm fairly accurate in all this ... if not, I'm sure that Walt will somehow cause my guitar to be out of tune for the next week. CHEERS, Bob Nelson |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: Deckman Date: 02 Feb 01 - 11:37 AM Walt was one of the most amazing controllers I've ever witnessed. It was fun watching him take over a hoot. He would arrive late, lurk in the background until he picked his spot, usually next to a beautiful girl. He would wait his moment, then slide into position next to her. He always kept his guitar tuned lower than anyone else. That way no one could play along with him. He usually prepared a new song for every hoot. These songs we called "hoot killers," because after he sang it, we usually just closed up our instruments and slunk away. No one would ever try to follow him, except the girl he chose to sit beside! Like I said, he taught me a lot! CHEERS, Bob |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: katlaughing Date: 02 Feb 01 - 10:58 AM For those os us who are not familair with him, would one of you let us know more background, please? Thanks, kat |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: GUEST,ellenpoly Date: 02 Feb 01 - 06:19 AM I knew walt in hawaii,after he had garnered his reputation in the Pacific Northwest,thereby unfortunately missing him as "the dean".He was a dear friend,and I would so appreciate any and all recollections of him during his "pre-hawaiian" days.This was a special man,and deserves to be remembered! |
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Subject: RE: Tales of Walt Robertson From: GUEST,georgeaustin@msn.com Date: 02 Feb 01 - 01:20 AM I knew Walt well; he lived at my place for months; and I performed with hime numerous times. One Hell of a singer and musician with a fabulous sense of phrasing and timing-plus a great guy. |
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Subject: Tales of Walt Robertson From: Deckman Date: 01 Feb 01 - 08:53 PM I was 17 when I first met the late Walt Robertson. In he walked, small, skinny, and in charge. He took over the hoot with his powerful voice and guitar. He had a presence like I'd never seen before, and I think he left with the prettiest woman in the house. I watched him over the next 40 years as he traveled the world, and we became friends. He had great success with records, T.V., stage and screen. He taught me many things, many songs, many tales. I know he made friends in many places. I'm curious if any mudcatters would like to share some stories or songs of "WANDERING WALT!" CHEERS, Bob Nelson, Everett, Wa. USA |
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