geoLibro.org

If you spend any time in The Statlers’ canon you’ll quickly see their predominant sense of geography and place. It’s so adorably simple it almost hurts: cities are corruptive dens of iniquity and anything not urban is fertile, fecund, almost sacred ground where upright and proper values are sewn and reaped — you know, stuff like “do unto others,” “honor they mother and father,” “hate gays and foreigners.” Good, American fabric stuff. To The Statlers’, cities are Sodoms to the Gomorrahs that are any rural area yet untouched by the march of progress and modernity. Done. Except scratch “almost hurts” and replace it with “hurts.” Because this is the kind of reflexive, old-timey junk that oozes out of our dark, scared hearts in times of hyper xenophobia and jingoism (that just happened to coincide with the last eight years and just happened to cameo at Sarah Palin rallies last year). It’s just so obviously bullshit, is my problem. To think that rural America is somehow more American, or more pure, or more moral is egregiously ludicrous (a phrase I keep trying to insert into my personal conversations but seems too strong every time I think of it). Rural living isn’t more anything. Well, “anything” positive, I mean. It’s probably more on-its-way-out. It’s certainly more meth-addled.

But not according to The Statler Brothers. They’ve harmonized to tale after tale of big city livin’ gone wrong, and this week’s track is a doozy. It’s “Streets of San Francisco,” and unlike about ten other songs is not in any way related to “Streets of Laredo.” No, this one isn’t about insane asylums or cowboys. It’s about an upstanding young Tampa High student who goes out west, changes her “Christian name,” and all hell breaks loose. To wit:

She thumbed her way for seven days
And way too many nights
And hit the Streets of San Francisco
Runnin’ for her life

Okay, so no real explanation as to why she had to leave Tampa. There’s something later about her “mama’s disgrace,” but it’s unclear to me if this is the protagonist’s mother or if the disgrace belongs to her as the protagonist. Nonetheless, here she is in San Francisco “runnin’ for her life,” and already there’s a problem. Do The Statlers not realize there are thousands and thousands of prostitutes who practice in small communities across this great land? Granted, most of those “communities” are truck stops and filling stations on frontage roads outside of late-shift factories, but still. You can be a whore anywhere there are dirtbag johns who will pay. It’s not a function of concrete and infrastructure, is my point. But I digress already.

A week in cosmetology two weeks in airline school
Seven days of shorthand in a secretarial pool
But now desk clerks and bell hops all know her by her face
And the folks of Tampa know her by her mama’s disgrace

All through the day she sits alone and dreams of Tampa High
Wonders what the other kids are doin’ then she cries.
Then with the California sun she goes down every night
And hits the Streets of San Francisco walkin’ for her life

And there you have your options for women in Statler land. Never mind how ribald and dirty that “California sun” line really is, let me just tell you what the other kids are “doin’” fresh out of Tampa High.

It gets worse.

In her mind she plays a make believe game of her own
She pretends she’s window shopping, furnishing a home
For a husband who will come along and take her from this life
For now a John will come along and take her for the night
(repeat chorus)

Ours is a sexist, patriarchal world. No question. Just recently I was privy to a particularly gut-twisting tale in real life, in fact, which I am not at liberty to tell. And it’s very possible that a San Franciscan prostitute might very well wish for a less chaotic, less damaged life that features — even centers around — a loving husband. But in art (well, lyrics), having your protagonist wander the streets yearning for a man to rescue her from her prostitutin’ (I’m tryin’ to drop all of my Gs to siphon some gravel street cred) means more, means in this case that the woman is clearly helpless, talentless, listless, and passive. Like all women are, right? (Never mind that I’m sure we all know some kick-ass lady bitches and some of us might be lucky enough to have married them.)

Still, I guess I’ll still excuse The Statler Brothers here because they’re telling prostitute stories pretty far in advance of the time it became a putrid and dishonest cliché. At least they were ahead of the curve, you know? (I’m talking to you, Garry Marshall). I mean, I excuse a lot of Statler Brothers sins already (and if I keep up with more and more Statler tracks you’ll see — there’s no end to their sinnin’ ways). What’s one more when you have a CD — a compact disc! — of Lester “Roadhog” Moran and The Cadillac Cowboys laying around?

This one goes down in the Union Square/Tenderloin area of San Francisco, a likely candidate for where our poor Tampa High dropout may have done her window shopping.

“Streets of San Francisco,” from 1973′s Carry Me Back.

And the geoRSS for all mp3s of the week.