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YOUTHS ORDERED TO CLEAN UP RUBBISH MESSLEE — Because they couldn’t find a dump open in Great Barrington, two youths threw a load of refuse down a Stockbridge hillside on Thanksgiving Day.
Saturday, Richard J. Robbins, 19, of Poughkeepsie, N. Y., and Arlo Guthrie, 18, of Howard Beach, N. Y., each paid a fine of $25 in Lee District Court after pleading guilty of illegally disposing of rubbish. Special Justice James E. Hannon ordered the youths to remove all the rubbish. They did so Saturday afternoon, following a heavy rain
Police Chief William J. Obanhein of Stockbridge said later the youths found dragging the junk up the hillside much harder than throwing it down. He said he hoped their case would be an example to others who are careless about disposal of rubbish.
The junk included a divan, plus nearly enough bottles, garbage, papers and boxes to fill their Volkswagen bus.
“The stuff would take up at least half of a goodsized pickup truck,” Chief Obanhein said.
The rubbish was thrown into the Nelson Foote Sr. property on Prospect Street, a residential section of Stockbridge consisting largely of estates on the hill across from Indian Hilil [sic] School.
Chief Obanhein told the court he spent “a very disagreeable two hours” looking through the rubbish before finding a clue to who had thrown it there. He finally found a scrap of paper bearing the name of a Great Barrington man. Subsequent investigation indicated Robbins and Guthrie had been visiting the Great Barrington man and had agreed to cart away the rubbish for him. They told the court that, when they found the Barrington dump closed, they drove around and then disposed of the junk by tossing it over the Stockbridge hillside.
Unidentified newspaper clipping, reprinted in This is the Arlo Guthrie Songbook, New York, NY, 1969, p. 39.
What happened up in Massachusetts was that Alice and Ray [Brock] lived in a church — the former Trinity Church on Division Street in Stockbridge — and were used to inviting people into their home…. Arlo and Rick [Robbins] had been traveling together, Arlo working his way up in folk singing…, and Rick tagging along. So they went up to Alice and Ray’s for Thanksgiving 1965….
A number of people, Arlo and Rick included, were members of the family, and so they were not guests in the usual sense. So when Ray woke up the next morning, he said to them, “Let’s clean up the church and get all this crap out of here, for God’s sake. This place is a mess,” and Rick said, “Sure.”
So Arlo and Rick swept up and loaded all the crap… into a VW microbus.. and went out to the dump which was closed. So they started driving around, until Arlo remembered a side road in Stockbridge up on Prospect Hill by the Indian Hill Music Camp — which he went to one summer — so they drove up there and dumped the garbage.
A little later, the phone rang, and it was Stockbridge police chief William J. Obanhein…. “I found an envelope with the name Brock on it,” Chief Obanhein said…. the truth came out, and soon the boys found themselves in Obanhein’s police car….
So they went up to Prospect Hill, and Obie took some pictures, and on the back he marked them, “PROSPECT HILL RUBBISH DUMPING FILE UNDER GUTHRIE AND ROBBINS 11/26/65.” And took the kids to jail.
Never mind what it says in the song; there was no police brutality, no mistreatment. “I didn’t put any handcuffs on them,” says Chief Obanhein emphatically, “and I didn’t take the toilet seats off, ’cause we don’t have any seats. I told the architect who designed the cells you can’t have things like that ’cause when people come in here, they’re like to rip them off.”
Well, Arlo and Rick sat down on this metal cot…, and pretty soon Alice showed up…. She called Obie every name she could think of…. “I told her if she didn’t stop, I’d arrest her,” Obanhein said, and he would have; so she did stop and handed over the bail money. Then they went over to the town of Lee to the courthouse.
Well, it was an open-and-shut case, anyway. The kids went in, pleaded, “Guilty, Your Honor,” were fined $25 each and ordered to retrieve the rubbish….
Then they went all back to the church… and they sort of started to write Alice’s Restaurant together…. “We were sitting around after dinner and wrote half the song,” Alice recalls, “and the other half, the draft part, Arlo wrote.”
Saul Braun, Alice & Ray & Yesterday’s Flowers, in Playboy’s Music Scene, Chicago, IL, 1972, pp. 122-125.
Lyrics as reprinted in This is the Arlo Guthrie Songbook, New York, NY, 1969, pp. 91-95.
Additional lyrics (chorus) from Digital Tradition (file name: ALICREST)
© 1966, 1967, 1969 Appleseed Music Inc.
You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurant
You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurant
Walk right in, it’s around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurantRECITATION:
This song is called “Alice’s Restaurant.” It’s about Alice, and the restaurant, but “Alice’s Restaurant” is not the name of the restaurant, that’s just the name of the song. That’s why I call the song “Alice’s Restaurant.”
Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago… two years ago, on Thanksgiving, when my friend and I went up to visit Alice at the restaurant.
But Alice doesn’t live in the restaurant, she lives in the church nearby the restaurant, in the bell tower with her husband Ray and Facha, the dog.
And livin’ in the bell tower like that, they got a lot of room downstairs where the pews used to be, and havin’ all that room (seein’ as how they took out all the pews), they decided that they didn’t have to take out their garbage for a long time.
We got up here and found all the garbage in there and we decided that it’d be a friendly gesture for us to take the garbage down to the city dump.
So we took the half-a-ton of garbage, put it in the back of a red VW microbus, took shovels and rakes and implements of destruction, and headed on toward the city dump. Well, we got there and there was a big sign and a chain across the dump sayin’, “This dump is closed on Thanksgiving,” and we’d never heard of a dump closed on Thanksgiving before, and with tears in our eyes, we drove off into the sunset lookin’ for another place to put the garbage.
We didn’t find one till we came to a side road, and off the side of the side road was another fifteen-foot cliff, and at the bottom of the cliff was another pile of garbage. And we decided that one big pile was better than two little piles, and rather than bring that one up, we decided to throw ours down. That’s what we did.
Drove back to the church, had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat, went to sleep, and didn’t get up until the next morning, when we got a phone call from Officer Obie. He said, “Kid, we found your name on a envelope at the bottom of a half a ton of garbage and I just wanted to know if you had any information about it.”
And I said, “Yes sir, Officer Obie, I cannot tell a lie. I put that envelope under that garbage.” After speakin’ to Obie for about forty-five minutes on the telephone, we finally arrived at the truth of the matter and he said that we had to go down and pick up the garbage, and also had to go down and speak to him at the Police Officer Station. So we got in the red VW microbus with the shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed on toward the Police Officer Station.
Now, friends, there was only one of two things that Obie could’ve done at the Police Officer Station, and the first was that he could’ve given us a medal for bein’ so brave and honest on the telephone (which wasn’t very likely, and we didn’t expect it), and the other thing was that he could’ve bawled us out and told us never to be seen drivin’ garbage around in the vicinity again, which is what we expected.
But when we got to the Police Officer Station, there was a third possibility that we hadn’t even counted upon, and we was both immediately arrested, handcuffed, and I said, “Obie, I can’t pick up the garbage with these here handcuffs on.” He said: “Shut up kid, and get in the back of the patrol car.”
And that’s what we did . . . sat in the back of the patrol car, and drove to the quote scene of the crime unquote.
I wanna tell you ’bout the town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where this is happenin’. They got three stop signs, two police officers, and one police car, but when we got to the scene of the crime, there was five police officers and three police cars, bein’ the biggest crime of the last fifty years and everybody wanted to get in the newspaper story about it.
And they was usin’ up all kinds of cop equipment that they had hangin’ around the Police Officer Station. They was takin’ plaster tire tracks, footprints, dog-smellin’ prints and they took twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explainin’ what each one was, to be used as evidence against us. Took pictures of the approach, the getaway, the northwest corner, the southwest corner . . .
and that’s not to mention the aerial photography!
After the ordeal, we went back to the jail. Obie said he was gonna put us in a cell.
He said: “Kid, I’m gonna put you in a cell. I want your wallet and your belt.”
I said, “Obie, I can understand your wantin’ my wallet, so I don’t have any money to spend in the cell, but what do you want my belt for?” and he said, “Kid, we don’t want any hangin’s.” I said, “Obie, did you think I was gonna hang myself for litterin’?”
Obie said he was makin’ sure, and, friends, Obie was, ’cause he took out the toilet seat so I couldn’t hit myself over the head and drown, and he took out the toilet paper so I couldn’t bend the bars, roll the toilet paper out the window, slide down the roll and have an escape. Obie was makin’ sure.
It was about four or five hours later that Alice–(remember Alice? There’s a song about Alice.)–Alice came by and, with a few nasty words to Obie on the side, bailed us out of jail, and we went back to the church, had another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat, and didn’t get up until the next morning, when we all had to go to court. We walked in, sat down, Obie came in with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, sat down.
Man came in, said, “All rise!” We all stood up, and Obie stood up with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures, and the judge walked in, sat down, with a seein’ eye dog and he sat down. We sat down.
Obie looked at the seein’ eye dog . . . then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one . . . and looked at the seein’ eye dog . . . and then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each on and began to cry.
Because Obie came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice, and there wasn’t nothin’ he could do about it, and the judge wasn’t gonna look at the twenty-seven 8 by 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explainin’ what each one was, to be used as evidence against us.
And we was fined fifty dollars and had to pick up the garbage… in the snow.
But that’s not what I’m here to tell you about.
I’m here to talk about the draft.
They got a buildin’ down in New York City called Whitehall Street, where you walk in, you get injected, inspected, detected, infected, neglected and selected!
I went down and got my physical examination one day, and I walked in, sat down (got good and drunk the night before, so I looked and felt my best when I went in that morning, ’cause I wanted to look like the All-American Kid from New York City. I wanted to feel like . . . I wanted to be the All-American Kid from New York), and I walked in, sat down, I was hung down, brung down, hung up and all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly things.
And I walked in, I sat down, they gave me a piece of paper that said: “Kid, see the psychiatrist in room 604.”
I went up there, I said, “Shrink, I wanna kill. I wanna kill! I wanna see blood and gore and guts and veins in my teeth! Eat dead, burnt bodies! I mean: Kill. Kill!”
And I started jumpin’ up and down, yellin’ “KILL! KILL!” and he started jumpin’ up and down with me, and we was both jumpin’ up and down, yellin’, “KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!” and the sergeant came over, pinned a medal on me, sent me down the hall, said “You’re our boy”. Didn’t feel too good about it.
Proceeded down the hall, gettin’ more injections, inspections, detections, neglections, and all kinds of stuff that they was doin’ to me at the thing there, and I was there for two hours… three hours… four hours… I was there for a long time goin’ through all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly things, and I was just havin’ a tough time there, and they was inspectin’, injectin’, every single part of me, and they was leavin’ no part untouched!
Proceeded through, and I finally came to see the very last man. I walked in, sat down, after a whole big thing there. I walked up, and I said, “What do you want?” He said, “Kid, we only got one question: Have you ever been arrested?”
And I proceeded to tell him the story of Alice’s Restaurant Massacree with full orchestration and five-part harmony and stuff like that, and other phenomenon.
He stopped me right there and said, “Kid, have you ever been to court?” And I proceeded to tell him the story of the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one . . .
He stopped me right there and said, “Kid, I want you to go over and sit down on that bench that says ‘Group W’.”
And I walked over to the bench there, and there’s… Group W is where they put you if you may not be moral enough to join the army after committin’ your special crime.
There was all kinds of mean, nasty, ugly-lookin’ people on the bench there . . . there was mother-rapers . . . father-stabbers . . . father-rapers! FATHER-RAPERS sittin’ right there on the bench next to me! And they was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible and crime fightin’ guys were sittin’ there on the bench, and the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one . . . the meanest father-raper of them all . . . was comin’ over to me, and he was mean and ugly and nasty and horrible and all kinds of things, and he sat down next to me. He said, “Kid, what’d you get?”
I said, “I didn’t get nothin’. I had to pay fifty dollars and pick up the garbage.”
He said, “What were you arrested for, kid?” and I said, “Litterin'”‘ . . . . And they all moved away from me on the bench there, with the hairy eyeball and all kinds of mean, nasty things, till I said, “And creatin’ a nuisance . . . ” And they all came back, shook my hand, and we had a great time on the bench talkin’ about crime, mother-stabbin’, father-rapin’, . . . all kinds of groovy things that we was talkin’ about on the bench, and everything was fine.
We was smokin’ cigarettes and all kinds of things, until the sergeant came over, had some paper in his hand, held it up and said: “KIDSTHISPIECEOFPAPERSGOTFOURTYSVENPAGESTHIRTYSEVENSENTENCESFIFTYEIGHTWORDSWEWANTTOKNOWTHEDETAILSOFTHECRIMETHETIMEOFTHECRIMEANDANYOTHERKINDOFTHINGYOUGOTTOSAYPERTAININGTOANDABOUTTHECRIMEWEWANTTOKNOWTHEARRESTINGOFFICERSNAMEANDANYOTHERTHINGYOUGOTTOSAY . . .”
And he talked for forty-five minutes and nobody understood a word that he said.
But we had fun fillin’ out the forms and playin’ with the pencils on the bench there.
I filled out the Massacree with the four-part harmony. Wrote it down there just like it was and everything was fine. And I put down my pencil, and I turned over the piece of paper, and there . . . on the other side . . . in the middle of the other side . . . away from everything else on the other side . . . in parentheses . . . capital letters . . . quotated . . . read the following words: “Kid, have you rehabilitated yourself?”
I went over to the sergeant. Said, “Sergeant, you got a lot of god-damned gall to ask me if I’ve rehabilitated myself! I mean . . . I mean . . . I mean that you send . . . I’m sittin’ here on the bench . . . I mean I’m sittin’ here on the Group W bench, ’cause you want to know if I’m moral enough to join the army, burn women, kids, houses and villages after bein’ a litterbug.”
He looked at me and said, “Kid, we don’t like your kind! We’re gonna send your fingerprints off to Washington”!
And, friends, somewhere in Washington, enshrined in some little folder, is a study in black and white of my fingerprints.
And the only reason I’m singin’ you the song now is ’cause you may know somebody in a similar situation.
Or you may be in a similar situation, and if you’re in a situation like that, there’s only one thing you can do:
Walk into the shrink wherever you are, just walk in, say, “Shrink, . . . you can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant”, and walk out.
You know, if one person, just one person, does it, they may think he’s really sick and they won’t take him.
And if two people do it, in harmony, they may think they’re both faggots and they won’t take either of them.
And if three people do it! Can you imagine three people walkin’ in, singin’ a bar of “Alice’s Restaurant” and walkin’ out? They may think it’s an organization!
And can you imagine fifty people a day? I said FIFTY people a day . . . walkin’ in, singin’ a bar of “Alice’s Restaurant” and walkin’ out? Friends, they may think it’s a MOVEMENT, and that’s what it is: THE ALICE’S RESTAURANT ANTI-MASSACREE MOVEMENT! . . . and all you gotta do to join is to sing it the next time it comes around on the guitar.