You who choose, to lead must follow,
But if you fall, you fall alone,
If you should stand, then whose to guide you?
If I knew the way, I would take you home
— Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter
Why, for the umpteenth time, did Jerry subcontract the lyrics out to Hunter? It’s the one question I would ask. Plainly, he had a bunch to say for himself, and magnificent melodies for the conveyance of such expression. But in terms of the verbal message, he let Hunter speak for him.
I wonder why.
I reckon, now, we’ll never know.
It’s not that Hunter wasn’t a good lyricist; he did indeed write some timeless verses, and “Ripple” certainly stands out among his finest.
And I figure that on this here holiday weekend, busting them out is about as good as anything I got.
We’re now halfway through the agonizing slog that forms the 2020 narrative, with much, absent a dramatic reversal of fortunes, to vex us in the six months that remain.
But, returning to Hunter’s “Ripple”, halfway through the year, I have the following question: Is your cup full or empty?
And at this point I ask, nay, demand, that you who choose, to lead must, if not follow, then at least show your faces. Masked or otherwise. Because I honestly can’t see them at all. Not in the White House. Not on Capitol Hill. Not in any basement in Delaware. Not on Wall Street. Not on Main Street. Not in Hollywood. Not on the coasts. Not in “flyover country”.
I’m pretty sure you’re out there you but choose to keep hidden. I suspect you have your reasons for doing so. And one of them may very well be that, contrary to Hunter’s prognoses, if you fall, you have no intention of falling alone. Nay, I have a hunch that you intend to take the rest of us down with you.
You may very well succeed.
But since you remain hidden from sight, it devolves to the rest of us (mere mortals) to determine whether our cups are full or empty.
The markets, as always, give clues. But they are, at best, ambiguous ones.
At the turn to the second half, the Gallant 500 has yielded abo is up double digits and, as of Thursday, has yet again captured new high ground. Treasury Yields reside at a little over 1/3rd of where they were when the ball dropped in Times Square. For the last time? Whose to say? In terms of this year’s Times Square festival, I’ll take The Under.
And, for what it’s worth, I’ll also still take The Under on the forward path of Treasury yields.
Lean Hogs are trading at half of what they fetched when we slaughtered them, stuck apples into their mouths, and roasted them, last Christmas.
As Othello said of an encounter with his falsely accused wife “t’was strange; t’was passing strange”.
And, one wonders, how did we get here?
Well, to begin with, the worst Public Health crisis in a century snuck up on us – I’d like to say unawares but the truth is we had a measure of warning. It idled >30 Million workers and >25% of the economy. Whole industries were crippled (c-rippled?) and some may never fully recover.
And it ain’t over yet.
The paymaster/string pullers in Washington responded, with nearly $10 Trillion in relief: fiscal, monetary and credit based. The markets (except for the Hog buyers) liked this very much.
Then, just when we thought that maybe, just maybe, we could sneak by as a nation, a heinous murder in Minneapolis sent us into full-on emotional tailspin. Call it a national nervous breakdown. Cars, buildings, entire neighborhoods went up in flames. The politicians, in perhaps justifiable fear of the angry masses, by and large looked the other way. Police forces across the country are being disrespected and, in some cases dismantled outright. What could possibly go wrong?
As July 4th comes and goes, Mount Frigging Rushmore is under attack, as is the owner of its least prominent visage (Teddy), the guy he lost to when he tried to recapture the White House in 1912 (Woodrow), and (among others) that long-maligned voyager (Christopher) who sailed in the wrong direction and stumbled on the Americas, opening them up to those evil, well-established European empires that spawned this country.
The custodians of Ohio’s capital city, now the nation’s 13th largest with a population greater than Cleveland and Cincinnati combined, is moving towards a name change. Popular consensus points towards Flavortown – in homage to the jurisdiction’s status as the pre-eminent location for consumer product testing. You know, those new creations of criminal, exploitative capitalist enterprises, which, if they pass muster in what is still Columbus, are rolled out to the greedy delight of the nationwide masses?
Back to Othello: “T’was pitiful; t’was wonderous pitiful”.
And as for Mount Rushmore, it is now a symbol of our felonious imperialism, resting, as it does, on indigenous ground. And I ask: indigenous to whom? Was it not fought over for centuries among native factions, before we even arrived? Answer: It was. So, who do we give it back to after we explode Wash, Linc, Jeff and Roos off its façade? More importantly, who gets to decide?
And, in general on this holiday weekend, the noisy consensus is that we should feel, not pride, but shame, in this country’s history and heritage. More than this, anyone who suggests otherwise risks outright ostracism (or worse) in many quarters.
Make of it what you will; the din of words, to my ears, fail to glow with the cold of sunshine, but rather resonate like those tunes played on Hunter’s harp, unstrung.
However, all things considered one would have to concede that under the circumstances, markets are holding up pretty well. Equity and credit securities are enjoying a sustained bid; companies are raising capital of all forms– in record amounts, and investors are greedily hoovering all this paper up. We’re still in a form of virus hell, but the markets seem to neither know nor care.
So, at mid-year, is the cup empty, full, or somewhere in between?
Well, in my judgment, this is one of those situations where the answer will only be visible in the rearview mirror. My highest conviction clairvoyance (such that it is) suggests that the landscape will, impossibly, alter as much in the second half of 2020 as it did in the first six months. Come New Year’s Eve, an empty Times Square may be the least of the noticeable changes with which we will have been compelled to contend.
And, given this, what in heaven’s name, is a risk manager to do about any of it?
If I knew the way, I would take you home. But I don’t, and my best advice is to view your exposures as myopically as you are able. Every month, every week, looks different than the last, and this inertia of opacity is, in my judgment, likely to sustain itself. Get ready to move your books around, and to do so in a hurry, because, more than once, more than twice, it may become necessary.
And it won’t be easy. Any more than moving houses is. Or saying a stern, final, goodbye to someone close. But we must look to the future and the promise it holds. I know you can do it. Again, and again.
I will help you any way I can. And I won’t be alone. As I’ve stated repeatedly in recent weeks, the Fed has taken ownership of this market, has plenty of dry powder, and cannot, politically or rhetorically, allow it to collapse. Their tools are vast but finite, and, while they can alleviate the symptoms, they cannot cure what ails us. But they can and will help us feel better, and maybe even capture some incremental return – for a time. We should seek to do so.
I do believe that we’re near the top of the range – in terms of equity and credit – and that the risks, for the moment, tilt to the downside. But there is so much cash waiting to pounce – even without further Fed largesse — I don’t think markets will fall far on any downdraft. For now.
It will be easy, though, to get carved up pretty good in these riptides.
So, let’s instead, though, call them ripples. The waters are not still, and while no pebbles are being tossed, there are boulders aplenty. And the wind is blowing up gales.
And, in conclusion, I encourage you, like Hunter, to reach out your hand, if your cup be empty. More than this, I hope that if your cup was full that it may be again.
But therein lies the problem. I have no idea, at this strange mid-year, what the cup holds, or, indeed, if it holds anything at all.
And with that, I take my leave, offering, as always, my heartfelt wishes for…
TIMSHEL