Words fail to describe my disappointment that the members of the Cleveland Orchestra ended their strike yesterday morning after a mere thirty hours and agreed to a new three-year contract. My Wobbly sensibilities are deeply offended. Yes, this Bob Dylan fanatic is well aware that the Cleveland Orchestra is one of the world's finest, and that is precisely one of the reasons why I'm so mad at them for not walking that picket line for at least thirty days, if not months. Hell, these are world-class classical musicians; thirty hours isn't long enough for them to locate all the strike essentials--wooden stakes, posterboards, magic markers, and a large trash can in which to start a fire--let alone make management quiver, local copy editors spellcheck the word scab, and wealthy season ticket holders instruct their maids to examine their (wealthy season ticket holders') consciences. This is January in Cleveland, what else is there for us natives to get passionate about except a nasty, prolonged labor donnybrook? Football season is long dead, basketball season better not get interesting around here until round three of the playoffs in late May, and if the Indians are playing .500 ball by the Fourth of July, maybe I'll rouse up some interest. But gee whiz, a knock-down, drag-em-out strike full of picket line skirmishes, labor-management word bombs hurled via the media, angry union members rocking a bus full of scab musicians trucked in from the Columbus backwater in the middle of the night--damn, it could have been such fun. I was really looking forward to Cleveland mayor Frank Jackson calling a news conference to call out the Pinkertons. Guess I'll just get back to my marathon viewing of the entire Knight Rider TV series.
I bet the bassoonists were in it for the long haul, prepared with longjohns and brass knuckles, just in case. The kettle drummer too, the muscle of the organization. It was those damn diva violinists, I'm sure, who copped out and started the cave in, and of course everybody knows, wherever violinists go, the cellos and double basses are sure to follow. Damn strings. "It's too cold to walk a picket line." "My chin will get bent out of shape if I have to carry a sign." "Where's the brie?" Bah.
Josh Cribbs, the Browns' all-world special teamer, has the damn-right guts to call the team's $1.4 million offer "an insult," and these fey musicians, with an example like that, fold after thirty hours and agree to a two-year wage freeze followed by a 2.5% increase on a base salary of $115,400? You're the best damned French Horn player in the universe, for God's sake, you deserve at least 800 beans. God only hopes LeBron James is as easy to re-sign come July. I thought this was Cleveland, folks! Tough. Shot and a beer town. I had visions of all the local laid-off auto and steel workers coming out in support of their fellow wronged-laborers, sporting old union patches and plenty of vitriol for the local TV cameras. I saw Pere Ubu, a re-united Raspberries, and Michael Stanley holding a benefit concert for their hurting brother and sister musicians. I saw a Cleveland populace united once again, for the first time in years, rallying around their world's greatest musicians, throwing rotten eggs at Severance Hall, having a simpatico city-wide sit-down strike in a couple weeks' time.
But no, those great oboists and harpists struck long enough so that an appearance at Indiana University had to be postponed indefinitely, but came to terms quick enough not to jeopardize a residency in Miami. Hmmm, skip Bloomington, Indiana, in January (or any time, really) but get our asses to Miami pronto? Done. Ted Kennedy's seat goes to a Republican and union members in the tough union town of Cleveland fold and pack for Miami all in the same day. Where have you gone, Samuel Gompers?
Woody Guthrie-1913 Massacre
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