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25 May 20 - 06:09 AM (#4055023) Subject: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: GUEST,Ray Came across this song recently. Would anyone like to hazard a guess at its composer? ... and can anyone identify a tune? I assume it would be called "Browned Off". Thanks for looking. R I used to be a civvy chum as decent as could be I used to think a working lad had a man’s right to be free Until one day they made a ruddy soldier out of me And told me I have got to save democracy Chorus Oh I was browned off, browned off, browned off as I could be Browned off, browned off, an easy mark that’s me And when this war is over and again I’m free There’ll be no more ruddy soldiering for me Now every day I’m on parade long before the dawn Every day I curse the ruddy day that I was born For I am just a browned off soldier any one can see They browned me off to help to save democracy They stuck me in a battle dress and made me cut my hair They took away my civic shoes and gave me another pair Instead of grub they gave me slosh and plenty of fresh air And told me I had got to save democracy The colonel kicks the Major and the Major has a go He kicks the poor old Captain who then kicks the N.C.O. And as the kicks get harder the poor private you can see Gets kicked to ruddy hell to save democracy |
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25 May 20 - 06:26 AM (#4055029) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: Steve Gardham Ewan MacColl and John Mackenzie according to my notes, to the tune 'Sunlight' and in the US they use the tune 'Son of a Gambolier'. This just from my index. I could possibly dig deeper if need be. |
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25 May 20 - 06:44 AM (#4055035) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: GUEST,henryp Jimmie Miller/Ewan MacColl, after he was called up at Wathgill Camp, Richmond. (1940) Joan Littlewood wrote; Jimmie's updated version of "Browned Off" went the rounds of the British Army. |
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25 May 20 - 07:24 AM (#4055044) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: Jim Carroll Thanks Henry - I didn't have that information Don't suppose you have similar regarding 'The Govan Pool-room song' ? I've put this up elsewhere, but a friend oif ours, a BBC history buff now living in Sussex is researching for a book entitled, 'jimmie and Joan' on the join work done by Ewan and Joan Littlewood. He has asked us for information such as this Keep safe all Jim |
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25 May 20 - 08:51 AM (#4055065) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: GUEST,Ray Question answered, thanks . I suspected as much but my source didn't explicitly say who wrote it. For the record, the song features in a report by Lieut. Colonel J Humphrey, Commanding the 11 Bn. The Kings Regiment, dated 16 Dec 1948 [sic] - which I suspect to be 1940 - on Private 3779986 James Henry Miller. |
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25 May 20 - 08:53 AM (#4055067) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: John MacKenzie https://mudcat.org/thread.cfm?threadid=62301 |
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25 May 20 - 09:19 AM (#4055070) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: Jim Carroll Thanks John - I'd forgotten about that conversation - happens far too much nowadays Jim |
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25 May 20 - 09:20 AM (#4055072) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: GUEST,henryp Jim, it's from Joan Littlewood's Autobiography; After that, he cheered himself up, to the tune of Clementine:
There's a camp where browned-off soldiers tell a very sorry tale... Joan and Jimmy, written by Jim Woodland and directed by Mike Bettison, tells the story of Joan Littlewood and Jimmy Miller, standing amongst the rubble of 1945 post war Britain. Jimmy Miller has changed his name to Ewan McColl; both are embarking on a career in radical political theatre, performing one-night stands across the North of England - a forerunner of present rural touring! They founded Theatre Workshop in Kendal with a travelling troupe of storytellers and outlaws committed to the overthrow of the established order(!), where the rich got richer and the poor got austerity- even then! In 1952, they parted company. Joan and Theatre Workshop headed to London, and Ewan to the folk music world. In Theatre Workshop tradition, Joan and Jimmy asks the audience to reach their own conclusions and take the ending of these stories and songs beyond Village Halls and into their lives. Jim Woodland has studied this period in great detail. |
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25 May 20 - 10:09 AM (#4055083) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: Jim Carroll Thaks Henry - that's about how I remember it except Ewan said he had argued against the move to the Theatre Royal and considered it a sell-out to what T.W. stood for The Critics had been rehearsing 'The Festival of Fools' one night at Mount Pleasant and we all adjourned for a meal to the Mhoditis Greek Cypriot Restaurant in Camden Town - by coincidence, Joan walked in during the middle of the meal Ewan proudly introduced us to her one by one, explaining who we were, what we worked at and where we came from I, as the only one of the group who 'got his hands dirty' at work was given pride of place - still brings a little glow :-) Jim |
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25 May 20 - 05:05 PM (#4055155) Subject: RE: Who Wrote This song? - 'Browned Off'? From: Charmion I've known this song my whole damn life. The version I learned, the last line of the refrain was, "There'll be no more trips around the world for me." Scans better. Also, in verse 4, it's "civvy" shoes, not civic. |
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25 May 20 - 06:03 PM (#4055158) Subject: ADD:: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: Joe Offer BROWNED OFF (Ewan MacColl) I used to be a civvie, chum, as decent as can be; I used to think a working lad had a man’s right to be free. And then one day they made a lousy soldier out of me And told me I had got to save democracy. Chorus: O, I was browned off, browned off, browned off as can be; Browned off, browned off, an easy mark, that’s me. But when this war is over and again I’m free, There’ll be no more trips around the world for me. They stuck me in a convict suit, they made me cut my hair, They took my civvie shoes away, they gave me another pair. Instead of grub they gave me slush and plenty of fresh air And that was all to help to save democracy. Chorus Now, every day I’m on parade long before the dawn, And every day I curse the ruddy day that I was born. For I am just a browned-off soldier, anyone can see— They browned me off to help to save democracy. Chorus The medical inspection, boys, is just a bleedin’ farce— He gropes around your penis and he noses up your arse. For even a private’s privates, boys, enjoy no privacy— You sacrifice all that to save democracy. Chorus The colonel kicks the major, then the major has a go, He kicks the poor old captain who then kicks the N.C.O. And as the kicks get harder, the poor private you can see Gets kicked to bloody hell to save democracy. Chorus Notes: BROWNED OFF (1940—1945) When Ewan was in the army he wrote quite a number of what were, at that time, incendiary pieces. Joan Littlewood writes: “. . the Medical Officer resented the entertainment. ‘Write another song about me, Miller, and I’ll give you an injection in a place you will never forget.’” (Joan’s Book, Joan Littlewood’s Peculiar History as She Tells It, Methuen, 1994) Source: The Essential Ewan MacColl Songbook Oak Publications, 2001, page 298 |
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25 May 20 - 07:40 PM (#4055168) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: GUEST,Gerry To the tune of Stung Right, attributed to Joe Hill? |
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25 May 20 - 08:41 PM (#4055173) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: Charmion's brother Andrew Charmion and I learned this song at our mother's knee. MacColl published it on vinyl on "Songs of the British Army." I literally sang it as an infant in my high chair, along with "When This Bluggy War Is Over." |
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26 May 20 - 03:23 AM (#4055204) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: GUEST,henryp Joe Hill set Stung Right to the tune of the evangelical hymn, Sunlight, Sunlight. Published in 64 hymnals, so presumably it was well known at the time. Stung Right - Joe Hill, 1913 I was stung right, stung right, S-T-U-N-G, Stung right, stung right, E. Z. Mark, that's me When my term is over, and again I'm free, There'll be no more trips around the world for me. Sunlight, Sunlight Sunlight, sunlight in my soul today, Sunlight, sunlight all along the way; Since the Savior found me, took away my sin, I have had the sunlight of His love within. Words; Judson W. Van DeVenter (1855–1939) Songs of Sovereign Grace (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: Hall-Mack, 1897) Tune; Winfield S. Weeden (1847–1908) Winfield S. Weeden was born in 1847 in Middleport, OH. In his early life he was active in teaching singing schools throughout that area in Ohio. As singer and associate to Judson Van deVenter in his evangelistic campaigns, Weeden assisted in meetings at East Palestine and Sebring. hymnary.org |
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26 May 20 - 03:32 AM (#4055206) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: Jim Carroll "Charmion and I learned this song at our mother's knee." Wonder how you mother reacted to the 'medical inspection' verse :-) You don't hear too many people singing that one, even today Jim Carroll |
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26 May 20 - 04:12 AM (#4055214) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: GUEST,henryp From Joan Littlewood's Autobiography; 1940 Then Jimmie's call-up papers arrived. I'd never been out of Salford town, the place where I was born Until one day I joined the ranks and wore a uniform But I'd rather never travel if the only way to see The world is through the rifle sights of a Mark 4 303. [See Trafford Road Ballad, Tune adapted from Eppie Morris. From the WMA Topic Songbook, 1951] Soon he was turning out a song a day and it was obvious that the CO had no intention of letting him be transferred to a regiment which would offer some activity more fascinating than square bashing. Jimmie wrote me every day, mostly jokes and nostalgia. It must have been disappointing for the police who were opening them all. |
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26 May 20 - 05:41 AM (#4055220) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: Jim Carroll Peggy calculated that Ewan had forgotten nearly as many of the songs he never wrote down than he left behind One he did that doesn't get sung nowadays E9 THE GRAVEDIGGER'S SONG (1965) 'About a hundred gravediggers at Mount Jerome's and two other Dublin graveyards are to go on strike from finishing time today. Pickets will be placed on Monday. The dispute has arisen from a claim for another week's holiday a year.' (The Guardian, June 12, 1965: Jim tune: traditional Irish ('The Kerry Recruit) new words and trad arr.: Ewan Maccoll O, come all you gravediggers in Erin's green isle, Put down your owld spades, boys, and rest for awhile; Sit down on a headstone and listen to me, While I sing of the wrongs done in this cemetery. Chorus: With me toorin an ya, With me toorin an ya, With me toorin an yoorin and yoorin an ya. For forty-five years now I've wielded the spade, A craftsman I am in the gravedigger's trade; The stiffs of owld Dublin all the year round, I plant nice and decent in this holy ground. (chorus) The cut's seven feet long and almost as deep, Two feet wide at the shoulders and less at the feet; You may travel this country around and around, But a finer bone-orchard will never be found. (chorus) I've seen the fine funerals, people in droves, Dressed up in their mourning just like bloody crows, All full of Jamieson's, boiled ham and cake - But not once have I ever been asked to the wake. (chorus) Back in the twenties, sure that was the time, When the Tans were around and we worked overtime; His Majesty's guns knocked down Dubliner's homes - But he gave 'em free lodgings in old Mount Jerome. (chorus) I once buried a gent, he was thirty-two stone, I dug for two days, I was worked to the bone; I flung from the shoulder and flicked with the wrist - And his widow stuck one lousy bob in me fist. (chorus) We've buried the poor and we've buried the rich, The hardworking man and the son of a bitch, The old and the young, sure they all end up here - Six thousand we plant in an average year. (chorus) Yes, an average year and by no means the peak, One-hundred-and-twenty-five stiffs every week; By my calculations that's eighteen a day - Sure, they give us no peace with their passing away. (chorus) The customers come here by day and by night; I sometimes think Dubliners die out of spite. But we're organised now and the union is here, And we've struck for an extra week out every year. (chorus) The relatives come here with shovel and pick, And the mourners have gone on a do-it-yourself kick; They're cursing' and swearin' and flingin' up clay - Bejasus, you'd swear all their wits were away (chorus) Then stand fast, all diggers that in Dublin dwell; From Deans Grange, Mount Jerome and Glasrevin as well. They're parking their corpses all over the place - But we'll fight until Dublin has run out of space. (chorus) The Gravedigger's Song |
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26 May 20 - 05:57 AM (#4055222) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: Jim Carroll For those who didn’t know Ewan as a poet (Sean O’Casey, commenting on Ewan’s play-writing, ended with the words “a poet, I think”) – this is a long, poetic monologue he wrote for The Festival of Fools when the Vietnam War was at its height – I nevr say it performed, but I’m pretty sure he spoke it (he spent all the Festival of Fools performances I saw hunched behind a directors desk) I still find it very moving, just reading it Jim Let us, for a moment, suspend Our Parliariment of Fools For the space of time that lies between The impulse and the act Of lifting glass to mouth, Or holding lighted match to cigarette, Briefly, that is, in the hope our ears Will catch the dry weeping of the dead Each year there are many dead. The annual harvest of lives Which have passed from seedling state Through growth to flowering, From thence to the bearing of fruit And then to dry, narcessant autumn – The natural dead, And there are the others, those Who are prematurely trampled down, Or withered before flowers spring From the bud. It is they who weep; The awful silent weeping of the dead. That they had names is obvious, And it can be presumed that someone, Father, mother, husband, sweetheart, lover, Their closest kin, know them well And habitually addressed them by affectionate diminutives. To us, their names were strange And lay awkwardly on the tongue, So they remain anonymous – “Those people who were killed on August 9th When bombs fell on that town in Viet Nam What do they call it ?" Or the ones who died at Stanleyville In March, or was it April ? They died as ants die under the gardeners foot, Unnoticed. They screamed, moaned, shrieked, implored, Raved in delirium, wailed like infants, Wept or cursed………and died. Those nameless, prostrate men of The agency photographs, Anticipating with fierce, rolling eyes The lethal boots of Congo mercenaries; Or standing, garlanded with ropes, In pre-execution photos for men Skilled in the use of delicate equipment. From the newsprint they appear To look through us as if we don't exist, Knowing they are beyond succour, Expecting no manumission Of the sentence our silence has decreed. Do they see anything beyond the grass and trees ? Do they hear sounds other than those Made by the crickets and low-flying beetles ? All of which will still be there When they, the men, are gone. Do you ever wonder if their need for justice, Their beliefs in the ultimate decency of human relationships Survived those last few moments When the casual cruelty of their enemies Appeared to be the sole reality ? Anthropologically speaking they were one, two halves Which made a whole. Both sides belonged to homo sapiens; They walked upright, Had fashioned tools to work with, Developed elaborate languages With which they could communicate The most subtle nuances of thought. The executioners were, as the phrase goes, Civilised. Shakespeare, Homer, Dante, Bach, were theirs And Newton, Democritus, Planck and Heisenberg; They had domesticated plants and animals, Tamed rivers, plundered mountains, Irrigated barren places, Learned the secrets of flight from birds And explored the primeval constituents of matter. But when it came to the point, None of these things. Was nearly so significant As the sudden, downward thrust Of field boot on a naked skull. No, we cannot say we knew them. We had a momentary knowledge of them That is all, as we munched on breakfast cereal, And glanced observerwise upon The image of a youth in Viet Nam Captured by two agents of democracy Who, at the moment when the shutter opened, Were opening his stomach with a knife - Believing, presumably, that once his guts was open, His mind would open too And joyfully embrace A different way of thinking. What did he, the prisoner, think of As the knife revealed the blood and veins And tissues of his being? And the blistered cadaver Of what was once a girl - Did she remember laughter, kisses, The racing heart, caressing hands On breasts and thighs, As the jet of flame Reduced her eyes to cinders And turned her body into One great festering burn? Strange to think this charred obscenity Once had a name. And those others, the groups, assemblies, Numbered lists of persons unidentified Whose short existence terminated in The shuddering explosion of a bomb, Conceived as a precision tool By learned men in classrooms or by Specialists who, like cooks or surgeons, in white coats, Stoop over drawing boards ten thousand miles away. These dead and 'smaller-than-average' people In their drab skirts and flapping canvas trousers Bleached by the sun like sails of yachts At Cowes Regatta are, At the moment of death, depersonalised Turned into units, the sun of which Fits neatly in a war communique. How can we comprehend them? Their life and death are equally Beyond our comprehension; As is their courage. For they rise up against the weight of centuries, They oppose their brittle flesh against The armoured hosts of men made terrible By the fact that, from the cradle, They have been conditioned to believe That everything they do is right. How can we knew then? How? The shabby corpses littering the streets Of San Domingo in the July days - Did they have names?. The 2,000, 3,000, 5,000, 7,000 dead. Did they, in the divided second Before the bullets smashed the instrument of memory Remember the music of guitars; Did their belief in the inherent rightness of their cause Survive the steel fiesta Staged by uniformed Neanderthals? And the mestizos, high in the Andes of Bolivia and Peru Those men and women of mixed Indian and Spanish Lineage - Who struck in the mines for a weekly increase Of eightpence farthing - What were their last thoughts in the moment Just before the bombs of jellied petrol and napalm Destroyed the mechanism of thought? It is not comfortable to speculate Upon such things. Nor is this the time To mention them. No? When is the time? Tomorrow? The day after? Never? It's important. But not so important As the fact the bar may close And leave you thirsty, or that Public transport may abandon you Ten miles from home, or that you forgot To post your coupon. And yet, it is a simple fact That the dead are weeping And that they weep on our account. They pity us, Because we are too weak to hear. Their deaths upon our shoulders, Too cowardly to examine the roots and causes Of these wanton deaths, Too lazy to accept responsibility. Above all, they pity us for our pride, The childish vanity which leads us To indulge in self-deceit and snug self-flattery By referring to ourselves as human beings. So ends this little All Saints Sermon. |
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09 Feb 23 - 07:53 PM (#4164733) Subject: RE: Origins: 'Browned Off' (Ewan MacColl) From: GUEST,Phil d'Conch Mentioned above & see also: Help: Dirty Old Town? Meaning??? (MacColl) Trafford Road Ballad (Words and music by Ewan MacColl.) Trafford Road runs through the heart of the dockland in Salford, on of Britain's bleakest cities. The above song was written in 1948 for Landscape with Chimneys a play dealing with life in Salford. I've never been out of Salford town The place where I was born Except when I was in the ranks And wore a uniform. But I'd sooner never travel If the only way to see The world is through the battlesights Of a Mark IV-303. I have a little baby He's the apple of me eye, When I think about his future My thoughts take wing and fly, What kind of future can there be With planes and tanks and guns, With flying high and dropping bombs On other people's sons? I'd like to see the whole wide world North, south, east, and west, I'd like to travel everywhere With the girl that I love best. But I'll stay beside the Irwell All me life before I'll stand In some foreign country With a bayonet in me hand. I work each day upon the docks And see the ships come in And no one asks to see the color Of a sailor's skin, Side by side they're working men From Norway, China*, Greece, Why can't the statesmen do the same And let us live in peace? [Liner notes: The New Briton Gazette, Ewan MacColl & Peggy Seeger, Folkways Records FW 8732, Trk A5] *Just fyi: The Chinese sailors' pinyin word for Norwegians, Greeks, Ewan MacColl & me & thee is yí. Translated variously as: barbarian, ordinary, uncivilized and/or wild; as all non-hua are regarded, then and now. |