You know that guy Charlie? The one who’s been riding the Boston subway since 1949 because he’s short a nickel? Honestly, most people just hum along to the catchy banjo riff and think it’s a goofy song about a guy who should’ve just jumped the turnstile. But M.T.A. the Kingston Trio classic is actually a piece of radical political history that almost got the band blacklisted.
It’s weird. We sing about a man trapped in a subterranean purgatory like it’s a campfire lullaby.
The Socialist Roots of a Pop Hit
Back in 1949, Boston was a mess. The Metropolitan Transit Authority—the MTA—decided to hike fares. They didn't just raise the price; they made it complicated. You’d pay ten cents to get on, but then you’d have to cough up another five cents as an "exit fare" at certain stations. It was basically transit kidnapping.
Enter Walter A. O'Brien. He was running for mayor on the Progressive Party ticket. He didn’t have a massive budget for TV ads, so he did what any scrappy underdog would do: he hired folk singers. Jacqueline Steiner and Bess Lomax Hawes (sister of the legendary Alan Lomax) whipped up a campaign song. They based it on an old melody called "The Ship That Never Returned."
The goal? Get people to vote for Walter to stop the fare hike.
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The original lyrics didn't just mention "George O'Brien." They screamed "Vote for Walter A. O'Brien!" from the back of a flatbed truck with a loudspeaker. Walter lost the election—badly—but the song survived.
Why the Kingston Trio Changed the Name
When the Kingston Trio decided to record the track in 1959, the Red Scare was in full swing. McCarthyism had left everyone a little jumpy. The band’s manager, Frank Werber, knew that keeping the name "Walter O'Brien" was a one-way ticket to being banned from the radio. Walter had been accused of being a communist.
So, they made a tiny, cowardly, but commercially brilliant tweak. They changed "Walter" to "George."
George O’Brien didn't exist. He was a ghost. A safe, non-threatening placeholder. This move allowed M.T.A. the Kingston Trio version to rocket up the Billboard charts, peaking at number 15. It turned a protest song into a novelty hit.
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The Logistics of Charlie’s Infinite Ride
If you actually look at the route mentioned in the song, Charlie is a bit of a transit nightmare. He starts at Kendall Square. He’s trying to get to Jamaica Plain.
- The Route: He takes the Red Line to Park Street.
- The Transfer: He switches to the streetcar (now the Green Line).
- The Trap: When he arrives in Jamaica Plain, the conductor asks for the nickel. Charlie doesn’t have it.
The song says he rides forever, but Bostonians have spent decades debunking the logic. Why does his wife, who meets him at Scollay Square (now Government Center) every day at 2:15 PM, give him a sandwich instead of a nickel?
Some folks joke she had another man and wanted Charlie out of the house. Others point out that if he could reach through the window for a ham and cheese, he could definitely reach for five cents. But that would ruin the drama, wouldn't it?
The Legacy of the CharlieCard
It’s not often a protest song becomes the literal branding for a government agency. In 2004, the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority (MBTA) finally leaned into the joke. They named their electronic fare system the CharlieCard.
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They even invited the Kingston Trio to perform at the launch. It was a surreal moment: a government agency celebrating a song written to protest its own price gouging.
What You Can Learn from Charlie
The song isn't just about a guy on a train. It’s about how "burdensome taxes" and "scandals" in public transit have been bothering us for nearly a century. If you’re looking to dive deeper into the folk revival or just want to understand the "T" better, here is how to engage with the history:
- Listen to the original: Find the version by the Boston Peoples Artists to hear the "Walter" version. It’s rawer and less polished.
- Visit Government Center: Go to the station formerly known as Scollay Square. Stand there at 2:15 PM and imagine the sandwich hand-off.
- Study the Melodies: Check out "Wreck of the Old 97." You’ll hear the exact same DNA in the music.
Charlie’s fate might be "unlearn’d," but the impact of the song is pretty clear. It transformed a local political squabble into a permanent piece of American folklore. Next time you tap your phone at a subway turnstile, just be glad you aren't stuck behind a conductor demanding an extra nickel you don't have.
To truly understand the folk era, you should compare the Trio's polished Capitol Records sound with the grittier protest music coming out of Greenwich Village at the same time. The difference in "intent" tells the whole story of the 1950s transition into the 1960s.