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By Max Conroy
![manilaopium[1].jpg](http://cousinsvinyl.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/manilaopium[1].jpg)
Hong Kong Blues by Hoagy (ne Hoagland) Carmichael was recorded for Decca in 1942; he penned it and recorded it in ‘39 originally. It’s a unique side recorded by one of the most highly regarded song writers of the first part of the last century. Two of his biggest hits were Georgia on My Mind and the A side of this single Stardust.
The song is a cautionary drug tale about “a very unfortunate colored man who got arrested down in old Hong Kong…for kicking Buddha’s gong.” Kicking Buddha’s gong is a dated term for smoking opium. It took me a second to realize what he was singing about when I first heard the song. It’s fairly subtle till the end of it where he actually mentions opium. He doesn’t mention any specifics about the drug or his habit, only that he cannot leave Hong Kong for his home, which he tells everyone is in San Francisco, but is actually in Tennessee. The geographic centering of the song is kind of strange in that he’s not from San Francisco but later in the song where Carmichael switches from the narrator’s third person to the first person testimonial, he keeps mentioning San Fran as his home. Also, how would an unfortunate brother end up in Hong Kong in the 1930s?
All of this gives one the impression that Hong Kong is opium addiction itself. The only specific moment where you can really put yourself in his shoes is where he sings:
“Won’t someone believe me/I have a yen to see that bay again/But when I try and leave/Sweet opium won’t let me fly away.“
He’s asking his fellow opium enthusiasts in the den to take his desire to quit drugs seriously, but he’s obviously ignored. Also, the use of the word ‘yen’ is a pun here as it comes from the Chinese words for ‘addiction’ and ’smoke’. Carmichael once described his voice “…as the way a shaggy dog looks…I have Wabash fog and sycamore twigs in my throat.” His inflection and the first person voice in the middle of the song made me assume that Carmichael was black, so I was surprised to see a picture of him, white as can be. Another strange thing about this song is that it’s difficult to discern exactly when he’s singing this in relation to his incarceration. He doesn’t lament getting arrested and still has hope that he’ll make it home, so I’m inclined to think that he’s speaking before he got arrested.
In the chorus he sings that he needs someone to love him. When I first heard this, I thought that it was such a 1930s view of drug addiction that finding a good woman could save you from yourself and drugs, but if you listen to the rest of it, he’s asking to find someone that loves him so they can take his body back home. Pretty grim stuff. There’s also a part where he begs for fifty dollars to get home with, but one is left with the impression that he’d blow it on dope.
This music is great for the depressant glow of a burgeoning alcohol buzz, alone. The white jazz comes out a bit more on Stardust, but it’s still worth a listen eighty-one years after it was written.
Hong Kong Blues:
Stardust:
Every fan of rock, rhythm and blues has entertained the notion of time travel. We’ve all thought about going back in time to see our favorite musicians play. I’m speaking in regards to contemporary music; some historical events might outshine cool music if the power actually existed: the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the crucifixion of Christ, etc. What if you could somehow transport yourself to a juke joint or a street corner in Arkansas ca. 1938 to see Robert Johnson play? Or what if you could have weaseled your way into Stax to help Otis Redding carry that band’s equipment in the day he was given a chance? We could use the power like Scott Bakula in Quantum Leap, traveling in time to correct some atrocity without affecting the space-time continuum. We could tell Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens to blow off tomorrow’s show and to go get plowed in the hotel bar until the weather clears up; we could tell Syd that acid is not a good thing when taken every day; we could pull Brian Jones out of the pool.
The era that I’d choose changes daily as my tastes run hot and cold, from record to record, and article to article. One day I am the only white dude in the juke joint buying the whole place a round in 2007 money while RJ uses his lazy eye to seduce every woman in the place (somehow I never get robbed or stabbed or robbed and stabbed in the fantasy), some other days I’m in the Grande Ballroom watching the Stooges and MC5.
Several things have influenced my current destination, London 1965. I recently picked up a Mono version of the Rolling Stones Now! album (maroon, unboxed, London label, without the FFRR ear, two bars running across it, full liner notes and no mention of hi-fi recording on the label) for $10. It’s not in perfect shape, but it’s not bad at all. It’s probably my favorite early Stones album; right up there with 12 X 5. It’s got awesome covers and one of my favorite originals, Heart of Stone. After seeing the movie Stoned, about the death of Brian Jones, their cover of Little Red Rooster represents to me exactly who they were at that time (much like the album cover to December’s Children) : a badass band, doing something with an edge better than anyone else, with the power to put a room in the palm of their hand. Stoned is not really a good movie at all, but the scene where they play Rooster at the Marquee Club makes the movie worth watching. The other thing that influenced my decision to travel back to London in 1965 is a brief article I read in this month’s Mojo about the Pretty Things. The article was somewhat of a let down, only because I wanted to keep reading more about the band. They are often compared to the Stones, now and back then, and their guitar player was the original Stones bassist. The Pretties in ‘65 were playing the same type of music as the Stones, R & B covers and a smattering of great originals, but they seem a bit more primitive and reckless. If I had my way, I’d find a weekend in 1965 where the Stones played on a Friday and the Pretty Things on Saturday and I’d have a nice weekend getaway in history and here’s what I’d be screaming like a pubescent girl for.
Little Red Rooster
The Pretty Things’ Midnight to Six Man
