My parents grew up with the folk revival, which meant that the earliest adult, non-kids’ music I was aware of was of that milieu—the Kingston Trio, Johnny Cash, Arlo Guthrie. Cash was a testament to my parent’s taste, and remains one of my favorite artists. The Kingston Trio… maybe less so.
And then, somewhere in the middle, was Arlo.
I can’t claim that Arlo Guthrie is a great artist. But I have residual affection for him, and listening again to 1972’s Hobo’s Lullaby, I can see why it was once among my favorite albums. Arlo’s work doesn’t have the urgency or originality of his dad or Dylan—his two most obvious influences. But his cheerful, easy way with a melody, and his eclectic grab bag of traditional source material, is a decent transition from Sesame Street for a seven- or eight-year-old.
The big hit on the album (and of Arlo’s career) is Steve Goodman’s “The City of New Orleans,” with its chugging groove and its lyrical evocation of Americana (“The sons of Pullman porters/And the sons of engineers/Ride their father's magic carpets made of steel”). The song cleverly name-checks everywhere from Kankakee to Memphis to ensure nationwide AM radio play.
“City of New Orleans” is a little cloying—though less so than a number of the other selections. “Somebody Turned on the Light” is a bland Christian awakening song with choral voices signaling inspirational uplift. “Anytime” is a way too ingratiating ragtime ditty. “Ukulele Lady,” with its cutesy stereotyping, has aged particularly poorly.
Not everything on the album has soured with time though. As a kid, I thought the slide guitar work on Hoyt Axton’s “Lightning Bar Blues” was one of the most amazing sounds I’d ever heard. Some 40 years later, even after being exposed to Johnsons from Blind Willie to Robert, it remains distinctive and irresistible. Arlo’s slow, aching version of his dad’s “Hobo’s Lullaby” still packs a punch too—and I understand a lot better now what Woody was talking about when he promised the homeless wanderers that when they die and go to heaven, “You’ll find no policemen there."
The one track I like better now than I did long ago when is another Woody tune, Arlo’s version of “1913 Massacre.” The song’s about the Italian Hall disaster of 1913 in Calumet, Michigan; striking miners were holding a Christmas party when a partisan or scab of the mine owners shouted “fire,” though there was no fire. Seventy-three people, including many children, were crushed to death in the ensuing stampede.
As a kid, I found the music repetitive—4:20 of the same guitar figure over and over didn’t give you much of a hook to hum. I also thought the lyrics were disturbing. Now, though, I can appreciate the song’s pared-down bleakness and stark, unflinching depiction of quiet misery (“The gun thugs they laughed at their murderous joke,/While the children were smothered on the stairs by the door”).
I’ve listened to at least some of that other music in the decades since I stopped listening much to Arlo, and have discovered a whole slew of artists—from Harry Belafonte to Alynda Segarra— who’ve done more interesting things with folk and blues material, and for that matter with political content, than Arlo managed. Not everything you listen to or love needs to be the best thing, though, especially when you’re just starting out. I probably don’t need to listen to an Arlo record ever again, given all the other options available. But those songs are still all in my head, reminding me of my parents, and of a time when I didn’t know any better. When I hear, “Good morning, America, how are you?” I see those rails rumbling back, and wince a little. I hum the tune, though.
