The American Spectator

This summer’s family wedding season has drawn to a close for me. The last stop found me in Duluth, Minnesota (not Duluth, Georgia; there would be no runaway brides at this ceremony) from where hails my maternal lineage. These are a hearty breed of Norwegian and Ojibwa stock. Lutheran. Hard working. Honest. Humble. And very, very liberal. Now, I’m not about talking your sanctimonious, excruciating Northeast liberals here, but rather genuine progressives with big, if bleeding, hearts.

One of my uncles is a Vietnam Vet and a genuine ex-hippie. My two other uncles share his progressive enthusiasms. For example, one asked me teasingly how I enjoyed Fahrenheit 9/11.

Fortunately, all three play guitars and sing quite well. So with a fire roaring (it was in the mid-60s this June weekend, with a steady breeze rolling in from Lake Superior), we gathered around to listen to some old-time protest songs.

Now, given my right-wing bona fides, the reader might be surprised to learn I have always had a sneaker for protest songs. Maybe it’s the inner anti-government crank in me. Or maybe it was growing up listening to Irish rebel songs (dad’s side) like Come Out Ye Black & Tans and Kevin Barry. Whatever the case, I’m a sucker for a ditty that artfully tells The Man where to stick it.

All the ghosts were there that evening. John Prine. Woody Guthrie. Pete Seeger. Gordon Lightfoot. Of course, you can’t sit around a fire and complain about the establishment without Bob Dylan, himself a loyal son of Minnesota, making an appearance.

My uncle Jesse picked up a six string and belted out The Times They Are A-Changin’. It’s one of Dylan’s angriest, most threatening songs:

p> em>Come gather ‘round people br> Wherever you roam br> And admit that the waters br> Around you have grown br> And accept it that soon br> You’ll be drenched to the bone. br> If your time to you br> Is worth savin’