Outside the Law. 1920 film

Al Capone in his own words: part 1 / and the Outlaw Tour 2025 part 1

Outside the Law. 1920 American pre-Code crime film produced, directed and co-written by Tod Browning. Starring Priscilla Dean, Lon Chaney and Wheeler Oakman.

Outside the Law features Lon Chaney in dual supporting roles and his second pairing with director Tod Browning.

Set to play here as a broadcast (4 PM, UK time)

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Unrelated, Al Capone in his own words: Part 1 of 3. Originally posted by Bob Dylan on 28th April, 2025 (on Instagram).

They call me Scarface, but that was never how I saw myself. To me, I was just Al, a kid from Brooklyn, born in 1899, to poor Italian immigrants. My old man cut hair, my ma kept house, and I learned early that respect don't come easy in this world, especially not if you got a name like Capone and dirt on your shoes.

The Capone story don't start with me. It starts way back, across the Atlantic, in the shadow of Mount Vesuvius. My family came from a little town called Angri, in the province of Salerno, down in southern Italy. That's old country. Poor country. Life was hard there. Land was scarce. Jobs scarcer. And if you didn't have connections or land, you worked yourself into the grave just to eat.

My father, Gabriele Capone, was a barber. He wasn't a criminal, not by a long shot. He played the mandolin, too. Kind man. Strict but fair. My mother, Teresa Raiola, she was tough as nails, ran the household with fire in her eyes and God on her lips. They married in Italy and had two kids before packing up and heading to America in 1893. Like millions of others, they came chasing the dream, not for themselves. but for their children.

They landed in Brooklyn, New York, and that's where I was born, January 17th, 1899. I was the fourth of nine kids. We were a tight bunch, living in a cramped flat, just trying to get by. My folks raised us the best they could—honest, Catholic, hardworking. But the streets raised us too. That's where I got my education.

The Capone name didn't mean much back then. Just another immigrant family trying to climb out of the gutter. But I made it mean something. I took that name and made it known from coast to coast. Feared, respected, infamous. But the roots? The roots were humble—Farmers, barbers, mothers, sons, just trying to survive.

Funny thing is, my old man died believing I was still just a saloon manager. Never saw the empire I built. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe he didn't need to know what the Capone name became. But if you want to know where the Capones begin, they begin with dirt under their nails and fire in their hearts. Just like any other family who came to this country with nothing but hope.

When I was real young, I'd hang around the shop. It wasn't anything fancy, just a little place in Brooklyn where my old man cut hair and shaved faces. Gabriele Capone was steady with his hands, always took pride in his work. He'd hum old Italian tunes while he worked, talk with the customers in a mix of English and Neapolitan. Regular folks came through, immigrants, laborers, old-timers with stories. And I'd sit there—watching, listening.

That shop was where I first saw how a man earned respect—not through fear, but through consistency. My father didn't have much, but people trusted him. They came back week after week, not just for the cut, for the talk, the advice, the comfort. He knew how to hold a room, how to make people feel seen. I learned something from that, but I also saw the other side.

How no matter how good he was, how hard he worked, we still struggled. Rent was tight. Mouths to feed were many. Respect alone don't pay the bills. That stuck with me too. That's what lit the fire in me. The hunger to rise above it. To make sure I never lived check to check like him. Not because I didn't love him. I did. But I wanted more.

My father, Gabriele, cut hair for the working man, the kind of folks who carried the weight of the city on their backs. Dock workers, bricklayers, bakers, cobblers. Men who wore the same coat every day, who smelled of sweat and tobacco, who came into the shop with aching feet and stories to tell. Immigrants mostly—Italians, Irish, Jews, all packed together in Brooklyn. Trying to carve out a life in a city that barely noticed them. Some of his clients couldn't even afford the shave, but he'd still take care of them.

Sometimes they paid in bread, in favors, or just with thanks. That was the kind of man he was. Quiet, honest, proud. He didn't chase money, didn't chase power. He just did his work with dignity. Once in a while, someone with a little more flash would come in. A neighborhood tough, maybe, or a guy with a gold chain who walked like he owned the block. My father treated them no different. Everyone sat in that same chair, under that same mirror. He wasn't impressed by swagger. He saw right through it.

I remember sitting in the corner, watching all these men come and go, listening to them talk about strikes, landlords, bosses, politics, dreams. That shop was more than a place to get a haircut. It was a corner of the old world kept alive in the new. A little kingdom of men with calloused hands and tired eyes getting cleaned up for another day of fighting life.

My mother Teresa. She wasn't just a good cook. She was a force in the kitchen. That woman could feed an army with scraps and make you feel like you were eating a feast. She cooked the old Neapolitan way—slow, with love, and with that unspoken rule that no one leaves her table hungry. The smell of garlic, tomatoes, olive oil, that was the perfume of our house.

She made pasta from scratch, kneaded the dough with strong hands—humming church hymns or muttering prayers while she worked. Her meatballs were famous in the neighborhood, tender like she put her soul into everyone. And Sundays? Sundays were sacred. Big pot of gravy on the stove all day. Sausage. Brassiole. Everything simmering till it was thick as memory.

She fed nine kids and a husband on almost nothing. She didn't waste a thing. If it could be cooked, pickled, or boiled into soup, she'd find a way. Bread stale, turn it into crumbs, vegetables wilting, into the stew they went. And always enough for a neighbor who needed it. That was her way—hard but generous.

When I started making real money I tried to give her everything. Fancier kitchen, nice clothes, servants. She took some of it, sure, but she never stopped being who she was. A mother who ruled her kitchen like a queen with a wooden spoon for a sceptre.

My best friend growing up? That'd be Johnny. Johnny Torrio. He was born in Italy, like me, but came up in New York, just a little ahead of my time. Ran a gang called the James Street Boys and later became a big part of the Five Points Gang, which was like the Ivy League of street crime back then. That's where he got his education, and where he noticed me. Now, I didn't meet him when I was a little kid, not in knee pants or schoolyards, but when I really started growing up, I mean in the world that mattered, the street world, Johnny was the one who saw something in me, pulled me close, taught me the ropes. That man was like a second father, a mentor, a strategist, and yeah, a friend.

But if you mean before all that, as a kid in Brooklyn, I'd say it was a boy named Salvatore. We called him Sally Beans, because his ma ran a little stall selling lentils and tomatoes. He was wiry, fast, had a sharp tongue, and we were always getting into trouble together. Little scams, dice games, throwing rocks at trolleys, that kind of thing. Just kids trying to carve out some space in a crowded rough neighborhood.

We looked out for each other. If I got in a scrap, he had my back. If he stole a loaf of bread, I'd split it with him in an alley. That kind of bond sticks, even if it don't last forever. But life's funny… as you get older the streets choose who they keep. Sally got caught boosting from the wrong store, and he vanished into the system. Never saw him again. Some say he died in a reform school. Others say he ended up digging graves in Jersey. Who knows?

So yeah, Sally was my first real friend. But Johnny, Johnny Toria was the one who changed my life. He took me from a punk with a temper to a man who understood power. And that's the kind of friend who don't come twice in a lifetime. Yeah, I had brothers. Lots of them. The Capone house was packed wall to wall with kids. I was the fourth of nine. And out of those, I had several brothers who stuck by me through thick and thin. But two, two really mattered when it came to the life I lived.

Frank Capone, now he was the golden boy—Quiet, smart, didn't drink much, kept his nose clean. He helped me run things in Cicero when Chicago got too hot. He handled the political side, the image. Made deals with a handshake and a calm voice. He wasn't the type to pull a trigger unless he had to, but hat didn't save him. Cops gunned him down in broad daylight in 1924 during an election racket we were working. Said he pulled a gun, but witnesses swore he never drew. Didn't matter—they made an example out of him.

Then there was Ralph Capone—older than me. We called him bottles because he handled the legal side of the booze business. He wasn't flashy, but he kept things moving. Distribution, taxes, legit fronts. He stayed in the background, did time like the rest of us, and when the dust settled, he just kept living. Ran a motel, sold hot dogs—lived out quiet years.

That was Ralph. Dependable. Never tried to steal the spotlight. The rest of my brothers went their own ways. Some wanted nothing to do with my world, and I don't blame them. But family was family. Blood came first.

We fought, sure. We were Italian. Fighting's how we talked. But there wasn't a man alive I trusted more than my brothers. Until the world taught me not to trust anybody at all.

My sister? That'd be Mafalda. The only girl in a sea of brothers. She was the baby of the family. Born last. and believe me, we all looked out for her like she was made of gold. You grow up in a tough Brooklyn neighborhood with eight brothers, and you either get trampled or you learn to hold your ground. Mafalda? She held her ground just fine. She was sweet, but not soft, kind-hearted, full of warmth, always trying to keep the peace when tempers flared, which was often in a house like ours.

My ma leaned on her a lot. By the time the rest of us were out scraping knuckles on the streets or chasing business, Mafalda was at home, helping keep the house from falling apart. As she got older, she wanted no part of the gangster life. She married a guy named John Maratota. Johnny the Fox, they called him. So, yeah, she still ended up married to a mob guy. Hard to escape that when your last name's Capone. But she wasn't involved. She kept things close to the family, private, respectful.

To me, she was a reminder of the old country, of home, of how things might have been if I'd taken a different path. She wrote letters to me even when I was locked up, prayed for me, forgave me in ways I never quite earned. Mafalda wasn't like the rest of us. She kept her soul clean in a world that tried to stain everything. And maybe that's why I loved her so much. She was what we were before the streets claimed us.

The first illegal things I ever did, they were small, real small, petty stuff. But in a place like Brooklyn, where opportunity came with a locked door and a cop outside, a kid like me had to learn fast how to turn the key, even if that meant bending the rules. I started with running errands for local toughs. Messages, packages, no questions asked. You don't ask what's in the bag when you're 10 years old and hungry. Then came boosting, little bits here and there, apples off a cart, cigarettes off a truck. Not because I wanted to be a thief, because I didn't like feeling powerless. There's a cold shame in going home empty-handed when your siblings are crying and your ma's scraping crumbs.

By my early teens, I was dabbling in the numbers racket—illegal lottery games mostly run by Italians and Jews. It was quick money, and the community liked playing. They didn't see it as crime. It was their shot at a miracle. I'd take bets, pass envelopes, keep my cut. Easy work for a smart kid with a clean face.

Then there were the barroom brawls, the protection shakedowns, small-time stuff. Nothing personal, just business. You rough up a guy who doesn't pay what he owes. You lean on a shopkeeper to keep the peace—for a price. I never thought of it as evil. I thought of it as order. The law didn't protect us. We were the law in our own way.

Why'd I do it? Because the straight road was closed to guys like me. No money, no name, no respect. You could either work your fingers to the bone for peanuts, or you could carve your own way. I chose the carving knife.

I didn't set out to be a criminal. I set out to win—and in my world, sometimes the only path to power was the one the law tried to bury. So I dug.

You don't forget the first time, not really, no matter how many come after. But I ain't going to give you a name because that man's face is already dust and shadows and saying it out loud won't change a thing. It was back in my younger days, New York before Chicago. I was still running with Frankie Yale's crew, doing muscle work, collecting debts, protecting the joints. This guy, he stepped out of line. owed money, refused to pay, thought he could mouth off, maybe rough up one of ours. He made it personal. That's the mistake. We gave him chances, warnings, but there comes a point where words don't mean anything anymore. So I did what had to be done. Quick, clean, business-like. I didn't do it in anger. It wasn't passion. It was duty. The kind that comes with this life. The kind you don't talk about. Just carry.

Was I sorry? At the time? No. In this world, you don't survive by feeling sorry. You protect your own. You send messages. You build your reputation, not on words, but on what people believe you'll do if they cross you. Regret don't buy respect. But later, much later, when the noise dies down and you're sitting alone with ghosts, yeah, you think about it. You wonder if things could have gone different. If maybe, just once, someone could have reached for mercy instead of a gun. But that's the kind of thinking that gets a man killed. In my world, you don't last if your trigger finger hesitates.

So was I sorry? Maybe. But not enough to stop.

~

(I am looking forward to part 2… volume 2.. )

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Outlaw Tour night one:

Phoenix, Arizona. May 13, 2025 - Setlist via Boblinks

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The Unknown, with Lon Chaney, 1927.

Music: Rough and Rowdy Ways. 2020. Bob Dylan.

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Painting by Bob Dylan — East End Poker Players. 2020. 108.5 x 139 cm.

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Best wishes,

nightly moth

Silhouetted by the Sea. May, 2025. Oil paint on canvas paper.

http://www.nightlymothpaintings.space