Woody Guthrie

Born Woodrow Wilson Guthrie on July 14, 1912, Woody Guthrie‘s life was indelibly woven

into the dustbowl culture that dominated the Great Depression. Dubbed the Dust Bowl

Troubadour, he traveled with migrants from Oklahoma to California, writing songs on a guitar

with the inscription ―This Machine Kills Fascists.‖ In Los Angeles he was briefly featured on

a local radio station before heading out on the road again, a rambling lifestyle that was

romanticized by his followers—including a young Bob Dylan. Guthrie fathered eight

children in three marriages, and though he loved children and wrote songs to entertain them as

well, he was a difficult husband and too footloose to settle down. His son Arlo would develop

his own folk career, famously debuting with the talking narrative ―Alice‘s Restaurant‖ in

1969. By then, Woody had succumbed to Huntington‘s disease and died in a New York

hospital, where Dylan visited him, on October 3, 1967.

Guthrie‘s influence on folk music is incalculable. In addition to his influence on Dylan and a slew

of Greenwich Village folkies from Ramblin‘ Jack Elliott to Cisco Houston and Peter, Paul and

Mary, he was a seminal influence on Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, The Byrds, Emmy Lou

Harris, Johnny Cash, and Kris Kristofferson, among so many others. His songs were topical,

rooted in the events of his day, a style that encouraged Dylan to take the traditional folk music

of the early 60s and focus its subject matter on the civil rights and Vietnam issues of the day.

His highly unpolished recording and vocal delivery paradoxically reinforced the authenticity

of his voice, another stylistic influence on later generations of folk and rock singers.

“This Land is Your Land”

Chorus: This land is your land, this land is my land

From California, to the New York Island

From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters

This land was made for you and me

As I was walking a ribbon of highway I saw above me an endless skyway

I saw below me a golden valley This land was made for you and me

I've roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps

To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts And all around me a voice was sounding

This land was made for you and me

The sun comes shining as I was strolling The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling

The fog was lifting a voice come chanting This land was made for you and me

As I was walkin' - I saw a sign there And that sign said - no tress passin'

But on the other side ... it didn't say nothin! Now that side was made for you and me!

In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple Near the relief office - I see my

people

And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin' If this land's still made for you and me.

“All You Fascists”

I‘m gonna tell you fascists

You may be surprised

The people in this world

Are getting organized

You‘re bound to lose

You fascists bound to lose

Race hatred cannot stop us

This one thing we know

Your poll tax and Jim Crow

And greed has got to go

You‘re bound to lose

You fascists bound to lose.

All of you fascists bound to lose:

I said, all of you fascists bound to lose:

Yes sir, all of you fascists bound to lose:

You‘re bound to lose! You fascists:

Bound to lose!

People of every color

Marching side to side

Marching ‗cross these fields

Where a million fascists dies

You‘re bound to lose

You fascists bound to lose!

I‘m going into this battle

And take my union gun

We‘ll end this world of slavery

Before this battle‘s won

You‘re bound to lose

You fascists bound to lose!

“Blowin’ Down this Old Dusty Road”

I'm blowin' down this old dusty road,

I'm a-blowin' down this old dusty road,

I'm a-blowin' down this old dusty road, Lord, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this a-way.

I'm a-goin' where the water taste like wine,

I'm a-goin' where the water taste like wine,

I'm a-goin' where the water taste like wine, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

I'm a-goin' where the dust storms never blow,

I'm a-goin' where them dust storms never blow,

I'm a-goin' where them dust storms never blow, blow, blow,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

They say I'm a dust bowl refugee,

Yes, they say I'm a dust bowl refugee,

They say I'm a dust bowl refugee, Lord, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

I'm a-lookin' for a job at honest pay,

I'm a-lookin' for a job at honest pay,

I'm a-lookin' for a job at honest pay, Lord, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

My children need three square meals a day,

Now, my children need three square meals a day,

My children need three square meals a day, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

It takes a ten-dollar shoe to fit my feet,

It takes a ten-dollar shoe to fit my feet,

It takes a ten-dollar shoe to fit my feet, Lord, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

Your a-two-dollar shoe hurts my feet,

Your two-dollar shoe hurts my feet,

Yes, your two-dollar shoe hurts my feet, Lord, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way.

I'm a-goin' down this old dusty road,

I'm blowin' down this old dusty road,

I'm a-blowin' down this old dusty road, Lord, Lord,

An' I ain't a-gonna be treated this way

“Tom Joad”

Tom Joad got out of the old McAlester Pen

There he got his parole

After four long years on a man killing charge

Tom Joad come a walking down the road, poor boy

Tom Joad come a walking down the road

Tom Joad he met a truck driving man

There he caught him a ride He said: "I just got loose from

McAlester's Pen On a charge called Homicide, A charge called Homicide."

That truck rolled away in a cloud of dust,

Tommy turned his face toward home,

He met Preacher Casey and they had a little drink,

But they found that his family they was gone,

He found that his family they was gone.

He found his mother's old fashion shoe

Found his daddy's hat.

And he found little Muley and Muley said:

"They've been tractored out by the cats,

They've been tractored out by the cats."

Tom Joad walked down to the neighbors farm Found his family.

They took Preacher Casey and loaded in a car

And his mother said "We got to git away."

His mother said 'We got to get away."

Now the twelve of the Joads made a mighty heavy load

But Grandpa Joad did cry.

He picked up a handful of land in his hand

Said: "I'm stayin' with the farm till I die.

Yes, I'm stayin' with my farm till I die."

They fed him short ribs and coffee and soothing syrup

And Grandpa Joad did die.

They buried Grandpa Joad by the side of the road,

Buried Grandma on the California side,

They buried Grandma on the California side.

They stood on a Mountain and they looked to the West And it

looked like the promised land. That bright green valley with a

river running through, There was work for every single hand, they

thought, There was work for every single hand.

The Joads rolled away to Jungle Camp, There they cooked a stew.

And the hungry little kids of the Jungle Camp Said: "We'd like to

have some too." Said: "We'd like to have some too."

Now a Deputy Sheriff fired loose at a man

Shot a woman in the back.

Before he could take his aim again

Preacher Casey dropped him in his track.

Preacher Casey dropped him in his track.

They handcuffed Casey and they took him to Jail

And then he got away.

And he met Tom Joad on the old river bridge,

And these few words he did say, poor boy,

These few words he did say.

"I preached for the Lord a mighty long time

Preached about the rich and the poor.

Us workin' folks got to all get together,

Cause we ain't got a chance anymore.

We ain't got a chance anymore."

The Deputies come and Tom and Casey run

To the bridge where the water run down.

But the vigilante they hit Casey with a club,

They laid Preacher Casey on the ground.

They laid Preacher Casey on the ground.

Tom Joad he grabbed that Deputy's club

Hit him over the head.

Tom Joad took flight in the dark rainy night

A Deputy and a Preacher lying dead, two men,

A Deputy and a Preacher lying dead.

Tom run back where his mother was asleep

He woke her up out of bed.

Then he kissed goodbye to the mother that he loved

Said what Preacher Casey said, Tom Joad,

He said what Preacher Casey said.

"Ever'body might be just one big soul

Well it looks that a way to me.

Everywhere that you look in the day or night

That's where I'm gonna be, Ma,

That's where I'm gonna be.

Wherever little children are hungry and cry

Wherever people ain't free.

Wherever men are fightin' for their rights

That's where I'm gonna be, Ma.

That's where I'm a gonna be.

“So Long, Its Been Good To Know Yuh”

I've sung this song, but I'll sing it again,

Of the place that I lived on the wild windy plains,

In the month called April, county called Gray,

And here's what all of the people there say:

So long, it's been good to know yuh;

So long, it's been good to know yuh;

So long, it's been good to know yuh.

This dusty old dust is a-gettin' my home,

And I got to be driftin' along.

A dust storm hit, an' it hit like thunder;

It dusted us over, an' it covered us under;

Blocked out the traffic an' blocked out the sun,

Straight for home all the people did run, Singin':

We talked of the end of the world, and then

We'd sing a song an' then sing it again.

We'd sit for an hour an' not say a word,

And then these words would be heard:

Sweethearts sat in the dark and sparked,

They hugged and kissed in that dusty old dark.

They sighed and cried, hugged and kissed,

Instead of marriage, they talked like this: "Honey..."

Now, the telephone rang, an' it jumped off the wall,

That was the preacher, a-makin' his call.

He said, "Kind friend, this may the end;

An' you got your last chance of salvation of sin!"

The churches was jammed, and the churches was

packed,

An' that dusty old dust storm blowed so black.

Preacher could not read a word of his text,

An' he folded his specs, an' he took up collection,

Said:

“Talking Dust Bowl Blues”

Back in Nineteen Twenty-Seven,

I had a little farm and I called that heaven.

Well, the prices up and the rain come down,

And I hauled my crops all into town –

I got the money, bought clothes and groceries,

Fed the kids, and raised a family.

Rain quit and the wind got high,

And the black ol' dust storm filled the sky.

And I swapped my farm for a Ford machine,

And I poured it full of this gas-i-line –

And I started, rockin' an' a-rollin',

Over the mountains, out towards the old Peach Bowl.

Way up yonder on a mountain road,

I had a hot motor and a heavy load,

I's a-goin' pretty fast, there wasn't even stoppin',

A-bouncin' up and down, like popcorn poppin' –

Had a breakdown, sort of a nervous bustdown of some kind,

There was a feller there, a mechanic feller,

Said it was en-gine trouble.

Way up yonder on a mountain curve,

It's way up yonder in the piney wood,

An' I give that rollin' Ford a shove,

An' I's a-gonna coast as far as I could –

Commence coastin', pickin' up speed,

Was a hairpin turn, I didn't make it.

Man alive, I'm a-tellin' you,

The fiddles and the guitars really flew.

That Ford took off like a flying squirrel

An' it flew halfway around the world –

Scattered wives and childrens

All over the side of that mountain.

We got out to the West Coast broke,

So dad-gum hungry I thought I'd croak,

An' I bummed up a spud or two,

An' my wife fixed up a tater stew –

We poured the kids full of it,

Mighty thin stew, though,

You could read a magazine right through it.

Always have figured

That if it'd been just a little bit thinner,

Some of these here politicians

Coulda seen through it.

“Do-Re-Mi”

Lots of folks back East, they say, is leavin' home every day,

Beatin' the hot old dusty way to the California line.

'Cross the desert sands they roll, gettin' out of that old dust bowl,

They think they're goin' to a sugar bowl, but here's what they find

Now, the police at the port of entry say,

"You're number fourteen thousand for today."

Oh, if you ain't got the do re mi, folks, you ain't got the do re mi,

Why, you better go back to beautiful Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Georgia, Tennessee.

California is a garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or see;

But believe it or not, you won't find it so hot

If you ain't got the do re mi.

You want to buy you a home or a farm, that can't deal nobody harm,

Or take your vacation by the mountains or sea.

Don't swap your old cow for a car, you better stay right where you are,

Better take this little tip from me.

'Cause I look through the want ads every day

But the headlines on the papers always say:

If you ain't got the do re mi, boys, you ain't got the do re mi,

Why, you better go back to beautiful Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Georgia, Tennessee.

California is a garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or see;

But believe it or not, you won't find it so hot

If you ain't got the do re mi.

“Deportee”

(sung by Arlo Guthrie, Woody‘s son)

The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning,

The oranges piled in their creosote dumps;

They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border

To pay all their money to wade back again

My father's own father, he waded that river,

They took all the money he made in his life;

My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees,

And they rode the truck till they took down and died.

Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,

Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;

You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,

All they will call you will be ―deportees‖

Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted,

Our work contract's out and we have to move on;

Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,

They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.

We died in your hills, we died in your deserts,

We died in your valleys and died on your plains.

We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes,

Both sides of the river, we died just the same.

The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,

A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills,

Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?

The radio says, "They ajust deportees"

Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?

Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?

To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil

And be called by no name except "deportees"?

“The Ghost of Old Tom Joad”

by Bruce Springsteen

Men walking along the railroad tracks

Going someplace there's no going back

Highway patrol choppers coming up over the ridge

Hot soup on a campfire under the bridge

Shelter line stretching round the corner

Welcome to the new world order

Families sleeping in their cars in the southwest

No home no job no peace no rest

The highway is alive tonight

But nobody's kiddin' nobody about where it goes

I'm sittin' down here in the campfire light

Searching for the ghost of Tom Joad

He pulls prayer book out of his sleeping bag

Preacher lights up a butt and takes a drag

Waiting for when the last shall be first and the first shall be last

In a cardboard box neath the underpass

Got a one-way ticket to the promised land

You got a hole in your belly and gun in your hand

Sleeping on a pillow of solid rock

Bathing in the city aqueduct The highway is alive

tonight

But where it's headed everybody knows

I'm sitting down here in the campfire light

Waiting on the ghost of Tom Joad

Tom said "Mom, wherever there's a cop beating a guy

Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries

Where there's a fight against the blood and hatred in

the air

Look for me Mom I'll be there

Wherever there's somebody fighting for a place to

stand

Or decent job or a helping hand

Wherever somebody's struggling to be free

Look in their eyes Mom you'll see me."

The highway is alive tonight

But nobody's kidding nobody about where it goes

I‘m sitting down here in the campfire light

With the ghost of old Tom Joad